The lord chancellor calls witnesses to testify concerning my condition including Sabine St. Laurent’s barrister, Dr. Cartel, who came to haul me away after my wedding, and finally Dr. Bartlett, who seems uncomfortable in his somber gray frock coat and starched collar.
“Doctor, what is your professional assessment of Miss Forsythe’s condition?”
“Physically she’s quite healthy, of course.”
“And her mental state?”
He sighs. “She’s cognitively capable, but her memory is impaired to great degree. A form of hysteria I’ve seldom witnessed.”
Whispers ripple through the gallery, thesof hysteria sounding clearly.
“Do you believe her fit to manage a sizable estate in her current condition?”
He wipes sweat from his brow. “I cannot speak to the veracity of her fiscal acumen, sir.”
The lord chancellor sighs, pressing his fingers into the buttoned wig. “Is her mind fully functional, Doctor? Yes or no?”
Dr. Bartlett stares down at his hands as he wrings them. “No, my lord. Not completely.”
“And has her condition, in your opinion, improved in the time you’ve attended her?”
Another pause. “No.”
I rise from my seat. I stare down from the gallery, burning the top of Henry Gould’s head with my stare.
“Which is how long?”
“Three years, my lord.”
I wave my gloved hand. Gould catches sight of me and his face goes white. He frowns and whispers to the barrister beside him.
“Very good, sir. You may step down. If there are no further witnesses, and seeing as how the proposed trustee is absent from these proceedings, I’m afraid I shall have to nullify the final will and testament of Lady Elvira St. Laurent and grant oversight of her heir and estate to—”
“If it pleases your lordship, there’s one more witness.” The barrister’s voice echoes over the courtroom, and murmurs sound.
Me? Do they mean me?
Henry Gould is waving.Come here,he mouths.
My heels click down the steps and I enter the large assembly hall. “Please, my lord. Might I speak on my own behalf?”
The chancellor blinks at me over his pince-nez. “And you are?”
The barrister steps in front of me. “Merryn Winthrop, your lordship. The potential trustee in question.”
The judge scowls but jerks his head, indicating I should approach and be sworn in. Once that is completed, he looks me up and down, scowl deepening. It isn’t merely the amnesia working against me. A female inheriting anything, placed as trustee over even a small amount, isn’t seemly—especially a female bold enough to speak in his courtroom. “It would have been convenient if you had made your presence known to your barrister earlier. And where have you been during the previous proceedings?”
“On my wedding trip. I was recently married, my lord.” In a manner of speaking.
One eyebrow pops up. “How recently?”
“Earlier this month.”
He blinks. “Veryrecently. And a judge signed off on your banns? Your license? Deemed you fit to make such a decision?”
My chin tips up. “I am of sound mind and disposition, my lord.”
He pivots in his seat. “Miss St. Laurent, you have failed to disclose to this court that the trustee in question has married.”
