Week 1 (continued)
My sister was already in bed when Pamela and I got home from the Darnfords. Mrs. Jewkes, however, wanted to tell us all about my sister’s behavior after Pamela got away. She followed us up to Pamela’s chamber where I was beginning to keep clothes and papers.
“She called me to the parlor,” Mrs. Jewkes said while I was stripping off my frock coat and Pamela was unbuckling her damask shoes, “after the young lady escaped. She said she had a question to ask me, and I was only to answer yes if I dared. I said I’d go ahead and answer no before she asked.”
I laughed. Pamela looked troubled.
“She asked me, Will the young harlot lie with my brother tonight?”
I didn’t laugh at that, and Pamela stared at the floor.
“She wanted to sleep in here,” Mrs. Jewkes continued, “but I wouldn’t let her since you have the key, sir.”
“Quite right,” I said.
Mrs. Jewkes left us with cheery encouragement to Pamela, and I dropped onto the bed. Pamela stripped to her shift and sat beside me, wrapping her arms around my neck and settling her cheek against mine.
“I’m sorry about your friend. Did he die?”
“Yes,” I said, sliding my arms around her. “What a tiresome world this is, Pamela. Everything was going so well.”
“It still will,” she said, brushing back my hair and smiling when her fingers got tangled. “I am already very happy.”
I crawled under the covers, she settled beside me, and I fell into a haven of pure contented sleep.
I was woken by repetitive thudding and piercing shrieks. Pamela clutched me, saying, “Don’t let her in.”
It was my sister at the chamber door, and she was shrieking loud enough to waken the household. Based on the light outside the sash window, it was not much past six. I cursed and got out of bed, groping for my dressing gown.
“Don’t,” Pamela said.
“If she wants proof we’re married, she might as well get it,” I said and stomped to the door.
My sister, Barbara, barreled in. “Witness this,” she cried to her nephew, Jackey, and her waiting woman, Beck, who stood in the corridor. “The creature is in his bed.”
“Get out of here,” I roared at Jackey before he could witness anything, and he slinked away. I stomped back to the bed and put my arm around Pamela. “Come closer, Beck,” I said, “if you wish to see my dear wife.”
Beck intelligently remained in the corridor.
Barbara chortled. “Look at him,” she said. “The master of the house with his personal strumpet.”
I got up, grabbing her arm to force her out of the room. She clung to the curtains like a little girl rather than a woman in her thirties. And suddenly, Pamela was between me and Barbara, which was not wise.
“Don’t,” she said, “don’t be unkind to your own sister.”
“That’s enough, Pamela,” I said. I let my sister go and marched Pamela into her closet/study. She was crying, and if I’d been less angry, I would have comforted her. But I couldn’t bear her to take my sister’s part against me.
Barbara called after me, “Suppose I’d married father’s groom: what do you say to that?”
I turned back, folding my arms. “Does your pride see no difference? A man ennobles the woman he takes, whoever she is. He adopts her into his rank, whatever that is. But a woman, though nobly born, debases herself by a mean marriage, descending to the rank of the man.”
I suppose the members of this democratic hearing will find that appalling. But it is the reality of my existence. And my sister’s. And Pamela’s. The man is the head of his household, the wife a member of that household.
“Excuses,” Barbara said but half-heartedly. “Should all young men marry their serving wenches?”
“If they are all like Pamela,” I said, “why not? She’s better than either of us.”
“Oh, you make a wonderful idolater.” She was back to sneering. She strode into the closet. I didn’t stop her but followed closely.
“Well, Pamela,” she said to my wife, “you have made my rake brother a preacher. But don’t you dare call me sister.”
Pamela didn’t answer. She was no longer crying, and her chin was set, but I saw how her hands gripped her writing desk. If I had been less angry, I would have sent my sister out and spent time reassuring Pamela, but I wasn’t thinking entirely rationally.
And then my sister said, “Poor Sally Godfrey never got him as far as this.”
I had not wanted Pamela to hear about my ex-lover this way—thrown at her head in the middle of an argument.
It wasn’t a charge that could stand unanswered whatever the circumstances. I told Pamela about my ex-lover and my daughter, ending, “That’s all the bad my sister can tell you. I planned to tell you at the appropriate time.”
Both Barbara and Pamela were silent. I looked straight at Pamela who met my eyes and gave me a small half-smile; ordinarily, I would have relaxed from her support, but I was still fuming over Barbara’s indiscretion.
Barbara knew she’d gone too far. “Oh, brother,” she said in a pleading voice, her hand on my sleeve. “Stay to hear me beg your pardon.”
It was always the same—she would rage and destroy and then act the innocent. I broke away and fumed downstairs to the stable yard.
“Get my carriage ready,” I said to Colbrand. I needed to get away, to be somewhere other than that house. I stomped from the stable yard to the terrace. I saw Barbara and Pamela come out and turned away from them. I didn’t want to speak to anyone. I didn’t want Pamela to see me so angry.
Cross-Examination
 |
| The judge makes a number of references |
| to Golden Age mysteries. These include |
| not only Dorothy Sayers but |
| Agatha Christie, Ngaoi Marsh, |
| and Margery Allingham, among others. |
Judge Hardcastle interrupted: “Is all this necessary? I have to tell you, Mr. B, I don’t care for domestic quarrels.”
Mr. B’s face shuttered.
Bewildered, Dr. Matchel said, “But the entire novel is a domestic quarrel.”
“It’s been rather action-oriented up to now,” the judge said. “This is—” The Twisted Tales of Bleak Expectations “—rather modern,” he concluded grumpily.
“The sibling quarrel is there in the original text.”
Lonquist said, “I don’t think Mr. B can leave this part out, Judge.”
“Hmm.” The judge was beginning to appreciate the restraint and good taste of Golden Age murder mysteries. He’d take a clean murder—or clean kidnapping—any day over screeching siblings. He flapped a hand. “Go on.”
Week 1 (continued)
Barbara and Pamela cornered me near the pond.
“Stop,” Barbara called, rushing towards me, “I have asked Pamela to be my advocate. That should pacify you.”
It didn’t. She had co-opted Pamela like she tried to co-opt everything in my life. And Pamela had agreed. Pamela was urging her on.
“If you’ll forgive me, I’ll forgive you,” Barbara said.
Typical. Typical of my sister to cause an upheaval and then try to pass around the blame.
“We should no longer associate,” I said. “I’m going to Bedfordshire.”
“Without me?” Pamela said uncertainly, and there were tears in her eyes.
“You’ll break her spirit,” Barbara said, shaking her head.
She was ranging herself on Pamela’s side—as she would do when I quarreled with anyone other than herself. I wish I could say I pushed her towards Pamela on purpose. I didn’t. I was furious with both of them, more so since I knew my anger at Pamela was irrational.
Barbara threw up her hands. “I only said what I did because I love you.”
“It was spite,” I told her.
“Very well. I own it. And now I will go.” She turned to Pamela. “God bless you,” she said and kissed her.
She’d gone from “creaturing” to “God blessing” Pamela in less than twenty-four hours. I groaned.
“Women are the devil,” I said. I looked at Pamela’s white, stunned face. I thought: Welcome to the family, Pamela.
I went and put my arms around her and Barbara’s waists.
“You see how he behaves when offended,” Barbara said to Pamela. “Though I’ve never known him make up so soon.”
“I’ll take care how I behave in the future,” Pamela said shakily.
Cross-Examination
Judge Hardcastle had abandoned grumpiness for outrage. He hunched across the desk and scowled at Mr. B. “Poor family history does not excuse unkindness towards one’s wife.” He glanced towards the CLF table. “This behavior doesn’t bother you?”
The CLF team looked surprised. “Of course, of course,” Dr. Matchel said quickly.
Leslie Quinn started to say, “Physical and verbal abuse were more common in the eighteenth—” but stopped when Mr. B jerked his head in a negative.
Mr. Hatch broke the silence. “In all honesty, Judge, the release of emotion between estranged parties is necessary to the healing process. Mr. B obviously comes from a dysfunctional background.”
Mr. Shorter snorted, “Doesn’t everybody?” and Mr. B grinned, releasing a careful breath.
Mr. Hatch continued, “I am concerned about Mr. B’s temper and would recommend anger management. I would recommend it for his sister as well.”
Mr. B strangled a snort that turned into a cough.
“However, to be frank, few spouses in my experience are as upfront as Mr. B about their pasts.”
Gary said, “He talks a good talk.”
“Yes, yes.” Mr. Hatch remembered whose side he was supposed to be taking. “I am not opposed to Mr. B seeing his wife under supervision, but I would not suggest cohabitation. Not yet anyway.”
Mr. B said, “We did make up. We fixed the problem.”
After a long pause, the judge motioned him to continue.
