Mrs. Graney, the loathsome housekeeper for their London townhouse, was next. “He never said a harsh word to her, gave her everything she wanted.” She pierced Marigold with a scowl.
“And what about the children?” Archie asked, the same question he’d asked the previous two witnesses, and received a similar response.
Mrs. Graney paused. “I never saw much of the children.”
“Thank you,” Archie said, looking pleased with the brusque reply. “Your lordship, I’d like to request a private meeting,” he said, “and Mr. Stansbury,” he corrected.
Stansbury gaped at him while the judge sighed. “Granted.” He stood and Archie bent towards her.
“You wait here,” he said. “Rest, try to stay calm.”
Something about the way he said this grated across her nerves. “What are you d-doing? Is this about my t-t-testimony?”
He hesitated. “It is. We won’t be long.”
And he was gone, disappeared into some inner sanctum where the men would discuss her future. She glanced towards her husband’s table, where he was deep in conversation with the second barrister, and her lungs constricted, the bands around her ribs and throat tightening. Whatever control and confidence she’d felt haddrained away, and being left with no one between her and her husband, she was overwhelmed.
A walk would serve her well, and she stood, smoothed her skirts as she slipped through the gathered spectators and reporters. Inquiring eyes tracked her every movement, and shame climbed over her, coated her like a slimy second skin. She hated the notoriety, hated the attention, but needed it all the same. These peoplewantedto hear from her, needed her story. And she needed to tell it.
If only she’d get the chance.
She sucked in a breath as soon as she escaped the courtroom into the corridor outside, but stilled as she saw a group of people walking her way. Nanny Emerson and—
“Matthew!” The boy collided with her midsection in a bruising hug. “Reggie, what are you doing here?”
Their nanny nodded towards a large gentleman at her side, a man Marigold recognized as the one Archie had spoken to earlier. “He came to the hotel with a note from Mr. Grant, milady. Asked us to come right away.”
The gentleman bowed. “Lady Croydon, a pleasure. I’m Mr. Nathan Landon, a former colleague of Mr. Grant, well, a future colleague as well, at Chapin and Baines.”
Her brow furrowed. “Why are my children here?”
Did he wince? If so, he masked it so quickly she questioned if she’d seen anything at all. “There’s nothing to worry about, my lady. Mr. Grant has everything in order.”
He gestured towards the courtroom door, and her boys led the way, Matthew at a run with Nanny Emerson in his wake, andReggie more resigned, his chin lifted high as he walked. Marigold stilled, held out a hand to stop Mr. Landon’s advance. “I d-don’t want the children t-to see this. Their father—”
“As I said,” he interrupted, and Marigold bristled. “Mr. Grant knows what he’s doing, and everything will be fine.” His brow furrowed. “Has he told you what this case could mean to him?”
Her breath caught. “T-tohim? No.”
“If he wins this case, he’ll have a position at Chapin and Baines again. It would provide financial security for his mother and sisters.” He glanced around, then lowered his voice. “And if anyone were to learn of yourpersonalinvolvement, he’d lose his reputation and face the wrath of London’s high society, the very clientele we serve. It’s in everyone’s best interest for him to succeed today.”
Bile climbed her throat, so swiftly she pressed her fingers to her lips. Suddenly her testimony seemed more significant, the weight of what was required of her too heavy to bear.
But Archie believed in her, and that would give her enough strength to persevere. As he’d said on that night months ago, she was a tamer of bees, a thief of caramels, and now a defender of her children, of herself. Forhim, she could do anything.
With one last look, Mr. Landon gestured again towards the courthouse door, more pointed this time, and Marigold’s shoulders tensed as she crossed the threshold, feeling adrift, a passenger on this rough voyage straining for the helm. Familiar unease clawed at her, heightened as she reached the petitioner’s table, her children and their nanny seated behind her, to see Archie and Mr. Stansbury emerge with the judge from their meeting.
The room fell silent as Judge Huntington took his seat. “Mr. Grant, your final witness?”
Marigold took a deep breath and lifted her chin. Now was her time, her opportunity to be heard, as difficult as it would be. She’d been silenced for too long, forced to step aside, hold her tongue too often. Surely the judge would understand her plight, understandher.
“My final witness,” Archie said, “is Lord Reginald Torcross.” He met her eyes for one horrifying second as her stomach plummeted. “Lady Croydon’s son.”
Archie Grant may be a halfway decent divorce barrister, but he was a terrible human being.
He’d done his best to ignore Marigold’s gasp, because the sound scraped across his chest like a rusty scythe, culling any hope he may have possessed with it. Instead, he leaned over, took advantage of the rumbling in the room as the boy approached the bench to whisper in her ear. “Do not say a word. They’re looking for you to show hysteria.”
She’d frozen when he’d called Reggie’s name, her cheeks blanching and shoulders curling inward, and hehatedhimself for snuffing out her light and stripping away everything that made her bold and powerful.
