don’t say anything disparaging of the Wilsons in his presence. Not that you would, of course,” she added hastily, seeing the glint of annoyance in my eyes.
“I will disparage no one tonight,” I assured Elizabeth. “Morganton, which consists solely of strangers and kinfolk, taught me that lesson a long time ago. Still, it surprises me to find such a tangle of pedigrees in the court. It will be old home week in the courtroom, won’t it, my dear? All the attorneys kin to one another in varying degrees. No outsiders except the defendants and perhaps a witness or two.”
“That is hardly unusual,” she said, unimpressed by my wit. “Good families socialize with one another. It is only natural that they should intermarry.”
“And the judge? Have we managed to get him into the family yet?”
“Really, Burgess! You are quite dreadful. And I implore you not to adopt this teasing tone with Mr. Justice Donnell. The poor man is quite recently widowed, and I am sure he has no heart for levity. His late wife was only thirty when she passed away, poor thing. She was the former Margaret Spaight, the governor’s daughter.”
“Richard Dobbs Spaight,” I murmured to show willing. “Anything else?”
“You will notice a Scots brogue in Mr. Donnell’s voice, by the way. He is a native of that country, but he has spent most of his life on this side of the ocean. He is a graduate of the University of North Carolina, as is Cousin William. The judge is a quiet man, most serene and serious. An altogether superior person, I feel. His home is in New Bern, so we do what we can to make him feel at home and welcome when he is at this end of the state. He has a son and a daughter—”
I took my wife’s arm. “No more, please!” I said, laughing. “My memory has reached its limit. Let this poor Christian go down into the den of social lions before I forget every word you have said to me about their pedigrees.”
I think I acquitted myself well at the Erwin dinner party. I was solemn and respectful in the presence of the gravely taciturn Judge Donnell, and I chatted amiably about the weather and horses, and the activities of mutual acquaintances with William Alexander, who was closer to me in age but equally distant in interests and temperament. It was not I who brought up the subject of Frankie Silver.
We did manage to get through most of the meal without a mention of court business by anyone present, but by the time the dessert wine was being poured into small crystal glasses, we had exhausted the exchange of news and gossip about absent friends, and we had settled the mysteries of weather, politics,
and the fate of President Andrew Jackson to our mutual satisfaction. In the slight lull that comes with an over-warm room and a sated appetite, Miss Mary Erwin’s voice rang out from the other end of the long mahogany table.
“Have you heard about our local cause célèbre, Mr. Alexander?”
William Alexander withdrew the wineglass from his lips and set it down with only a suggestion of a sigh. “What cause célèbre would that be, Cousin Mary?” he inquired with grave courtesy.
“Why, that there is a woman on trial for her life in Superior Court next week! Surely you have been briefed about the case?”
Mr. Alexander looked around the table for guidance from his fellow attorneys—the table was rife with them—but we were all careful to maintain perfectly neutral expressions. After an awkward silence during which no one leaped to his rescue, he said, “Oh, yes. The murderess. I hope you are not learning the domestic art of wifely behavior from that unfortunate example, Miss Mary.”
His quick thinking was rewarded with a brace of chuckles from the gentlemen present, and a clinking of glasses indicated that the tension had eased, but my spinster sister-in-law refused to let the matter drop.
“So you have made up your mind that she is guilty, have you?” she demanded.
“So I must. If she is brought to trial, it is my duty as district solicitor to prosecute her,” he replied. “If you are worried about her guilt, you had better speak to those who are defending her.” His gaze sought out his wife’s uncle, a few chairs down the mahogany table.
Thomas Wilson glanced nervously at the judge, who remained impassive, apparently in deep contemplation of his wineglass; then he met the imperious gaze of Mary Erwin. A classical