“I’m not likely to forget him,” I assured her. “As to Mr. Alexander, I have met him briefly, I think. He is the attorney for the state in this week’s trials.”
“Yes, but you mustn’t talk about the court docket at dinner. It has always been Father’s custom never to discuss cases pending before the court. There are outsiders present, you see, and privileged information must not be divulged in general company.”
“Of course I knew that,” I said with some asperity. Anyone would think thatshe was the lawyer in the family and not I. I forbore to mention that since I was clerk of the court at the forthcoming proceedings, I had no particular need to charm our visiting legal dignitaries. To such a protest of disinterest my wife would no doubt reply that every social connection will prove useful sooner or later, and that one should never lose an opportunity to impress a person of influence. No doubt she is right. The success of the Erwins, socially and otherwise, brooks no argument.
“Besides,” said Elizabeth, “all that sort of legal talk is very boring for the rest of us. But even if we stick to general conversation, there are some things you must keep in mind.”
“What, for instance?”
“William Alexander is not only our cousin; he is also the nephew by marriage of Thomas Wilson, so be careful that you 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 image from my Latin studies at Hull’s School leaped to my mind: Ulysses caught between a deadly pair of monsters, Scylla the rock and Charybdis the whirlpool. Although it seemed particularly apt, I decided against sharing this Homeric inspiration with the rest of the party.
“We shall do our best, Miss Mary. Indeed we shall.” Wilson tried to strike a note of geniality but his voice rang hollow. “Still, you must see that the evidence against Mrs. Silver is very strong.” He glanced warily at the judge, as if he expected that worthy gentleman to rap upon the table with a carving knife and call him to order.
At that point Squire Erwin came to the aid of his struggling dinner guest. “Mary, my dear, you mustn’t badger poor Mr. Wilson about his unfortunate client, particularly when his own involvement in the case is indirect. Mrs. Silver will be defended in court by a splendid young lawyer from Asheville, a Mr. Nicholas Woodfin.”
Since Nicholas Woodfin was not present at the dinner party, Squire Erwin had succeeded in rescuing Thomas Wilson without throwing his colleague to the wolves. Before Mary could pursue the matter, another guest changed the subject, and we all fell upon a discussion of some trivial matter with more relief than interest.
As we left the table, though, I heard Colonel James Erwin murmur, “Has anyone warned young Woodfin about our Miss Mary, do you think? She is far more menacing than his rustic client.”
“Old home week, indeed!” said my wife Elizabeth.
It was Saturday, March 17, the day after my twenty-fifth birthday. I was preparing to leave for the courthouse, where this morning the grand jury was meeting to decide which of the possible cases should go on to trial when the Superior Court met the following Monday.
“Whatever do you mean, my dear?” I murmured, but my attention was on the mirror.
“The grand jury is meeting today, is it not?” I nodded. “And as clerk of court, you selected the jurors?”
“Well…”
“And who did you choose to be foreman of the grand jury?”
I sighed. Sometimes I think people in Morganton know thingsbefore they happen, so quickly does gossip spread through the community. “Samuel Tate.”