Parker lunged.
His cane clattered to the tiles as he seized Clara’s wrist and twisted sharply.
She shrieked, the sound feral. Her elbow snapped back, catching Parker in the ribs.
The gun flew—a shot cracking on the air.
Time splintered. Juliet screamed. Or perhaps Charity. Hard to say.
Parker grunted, stumbling back, barely catching himself against the wall as blood bloomed on his waistcoat.
Henry surged forwards, locking both arms around Clara, crushing her flailing limbs against his chest. She bucked like a wild animal, shrieking, her nails raking at his forearm, her heels kicking his shins. “Let me go!” she howled, twisting, her breath hot and ragged against his collar.
But he held fast, every muscle straining as she fought him.
The nurse rushed to Parker’s side, pressing her hands to the wound to staunch the bleeding.
Juliet flew to Charity, gathering her into her arms, stroking damp hair from her face. Charity whimpered, eyes glassy with confusion and lingering fear.
Then came the pounding of feet.
The room swarmed with movement—orderlies storming through the doorway, Mrs. Bellamy gasping at the chaos, Henry’s father stepping inside, sharp-eyed and unreadable.
“It’s over, Clara,” Henry rumbled into her ear, tightening his hold as he wrenched her arms behind her back.
She sagged in his grip. “Nooo,” she wailed, her head snapping back against his shoulder. “I only ever wanted you to love me!”
His jaw clenched, his voice hard as iron. “I doubt very much if you even know what love is.”
Her breath came in shattered gasps. But there was no fight left in her.
The orderlies stepped forwards, their hands closing over her arms.
And Henry let go.
Chapter 31
Juliet sat stiffly between Henry and Aunt Margaret, her gloved fingers entwined tightly in her lap. This was it. The culmination of twenty-seven days of depositions, enquiries, and fending off gossip ever since Clara’s arrest. Though it had barely been a month, the ordeal seemed like a lifetime ago now.
Thankfully Charity and Parker had recovered well enough. He’d suffered a rather nasty wound on his rib cage, but the shot miraculously missed anything critical. Charity had regained her vitality, though her nightmares yet lingered. Henry and his father spent alternate evenings calming her when they hit hardest.
Juliet had returned to Aunt Margaret’s cottage, which was so different from when she’d lived there before. A cozier little home could not be found in all of Bedford, with its picket fence, scalloped white soffits, and neat brick walkway … all thanks to Henry’s thoughtfulness.
And then there was Henry.
She peered at him, studying the unyielding set of his jaw as they waited for the judge’s sentence. The betrayal of his childhood friend had taken a toll. New creases lined his brow, and those shadows beneath his eyes might be permanent smudges. Not that she minded. They were a testament to the compassionate soul that lived inside.
Sensing her perusal, he reached for her hand without so much as a glance. It was like that, now. Unspoken gestures.Endearments that need not be whispered for her to hear them. To feel them. Theirs was a love forged in trial, steady and certain, needing no words to make it known.
The gavel rapped, and she faced forwards. Ahead, a white-wigged judge sat ensconced on his elevated platform, his faded blue eyes surveying the prisoners below him. Woodley stood in the dock, wrists clapped in darbies. Clara sat to the side of the wooden enclosure, eyes usually vacant but sometimes sparking with cognition—and it was for those moments that a strapping guard stood next to her. At times she understood the gravity of the crime she’d committed, but more often than not, Clara Whitmore had retreated to some faraway land in her mind. Not only had she lost Henry, she’d also lost herself.
“William Woodley,” the judge began, “after hearing the evidence brought before this court, I find you guilty of abduction and conspiracy to cause harm. You aided in the unlawful detainment of Miss Charity Russell. Furthermore, you concealed information in the act of poisoning, causing the unjust incarceration of Miss Juliet Finch. For committing such crimes, I hereby sentence you to transportation for seven years of hard labour at His Majesty’s penal colony in Van Diemen’s Land.”
Murmurs rumbled through the courtroom. To his credit, Woodley stood straight-backed and impassive. A pang of sympathy twinged in Juliet’s chest. He was a strong man, though. There was every likelihood he’d endure. And at least he’d be out of reach of the vicious smuggling band that’d tried to drag him back to Cornwall.
“May God have mercy on your soul.” The judge banged his gavel once more, a signal for the two guards flanking Woodley to lead him away.
“Now, for the decision on Miss Whitmore.” He adjusted his wig as he leaned forwards. “Are you able to stand, miss?”
