Mrs. Silver stopped staring at the window and blinked. I saw her slender form stiffen within the shapeless mass of that faded gown. Her blue eyes met mine; I was first to look away.
Dr. Tate cleared his throat. “Well, not to expect a thing isn’t to say it can’t happen.”
Nicholas Woodfin shook his head. “Again, Doctor:Would you have expected such a thing? ”
The physician glanced at the prosecutor and shrugged before responding to Mr. Woodfin’s question. “No,” he said at last.
A few moments later Mr. Donnell dismissed the buzzing court for the noon recess. I was generally the last person to leave, for I had to gather up my notes and tidy my desk. Beside, I didn’t care to be jostled by the rabble in their haste to reach the taverns. Nicholas Woodfin rose, murmured a few words of encouragement to Mrs. Silver, and then took his leave of her. I hoped that he was spending the noon recess in study and contemplation, because things did not look well for his young client. Then I saw Thomas Wilson lingering in the doorway, obviously waiting for his colleague so that they could confer about the events of the morning.
At last the prisoner stood up, preparing to be led back to her cell by Mr. Presnell, but I could see that she, too, was loath to go. She kept looking back at the departing mob, and once she whispered something to the constable, who looked annoyed but gave a grudging assent.
Finally, two men, moving against the tide of humanity, emerged at the rail within arm’s length of Mrs. Silver. They did not reach out to her, though. Her father and brother, for it was they, stood together grim-faced and almost shy before this young girl who had suddenly become a presence. They fingered the brims of their hats and shifted uneasily from one foot to another. The constable took a step back from the family gathering, eyeing them warily, his hand on his weapon. I lingered over my papers, straining to overhear what was said.
“Well, Frankie,” said Isaiah Stewart.
“How are they treating you?” her brother Jackson asked.
“I get enough to eat,” she said. Her frown was directed at the floor. She had appeared anxious enough to see her family, but now that they had appeared, the meeting seemed to afford her no pleasure. They made no move to embrace the girl or to clasp her hand. The three of them stood in awkward silence until finally Frankie Silver asked, “Did Mama send any word?”
“Only that she is praying that God will spare you,” said her father.
The sullen look returned. “I see,” she said softly. “She didn’t come.”
“No. We thought it best.” Her father would not meet her eyes as he said this, and I strained to hear her reply, but there was none, until after some more leaden silence, she said, “And my baby?”
“She’s over to the Silvers’ place,” said Jackson. “We ain’t seen her, but I reckon she’s doing all right. Miz Silver just had a new baby boy herself last month, so likely it’s as easy for her to do for two as for one.”
Frankie Silver’s eyes sought those of her older brother. “When you get home, Jack, I want you to ride over there and see she’s taken care of good,” she said, and as he replied with a shamefaced nod, another thought struck her. “Where’s Blackston?”
“We left him home to look after your mama. It’s still cold yet up the mountain, and she wanted him to tend the fire and see to the livestock.”
I thought that the Stewarts had been wise to keep the other two suspects well out of Morganton, since tempers are apt to run high on court days, but Frankie Silver’s eyes filled with tears. Perhaps she wishes to see her dear mother and brother one last time, I thought.
“Alone, then,” she murmured.
“We’re right here, Frankie,” her father said.
“We’ll do what we can.” The voice of Jackson Stewart carried more conviction. “We’ll doall we can.”
Brother and sister looked at each other and nodded as though an understanding had passed between them. “I’ll say no more then,” she said, and she turned to Mr. Presnell. “We can go now, mister.”
As the constable led her away, I heard her say, “Can we stand off by ourselves on the lawn for a little bit?”
“It’s time to eat, ma’am.”
“I want to look at the mountains. Can you see them from here?”
I made my way out into the now deserted hall, intending to fortify myself at one of the taverns if space and congenial company could be found, when a shrill voice halted me in my tracks.
“Mr. Gaither!Brother! ”
I froze. My wife’s sisters generally employed the term “brother” only when prefacing a favor, and since I recognized this sister’s voice as that of the redoubtable Miss Mary Erwin, I turned slowly toward her with a smile of greeting and a soul of dread.
“Miss Mary,” I said. “How are you enjoying the trial? May I take you home to dinner?”
“The trial is a travesty,” she informed me, ignoring my pleasantries. “And I do not see how anyone of good conscience could eat after having witnessed it.”
I determined not to take this slur personally, even though it was in a sense my court and my trial. I wonder if she would have said such a thing had her dear father continued in the position of clerk of court. “Are things not proceeding to your liking?” I asked politely.
She did not quite reach my shoulder, but she stood there glaring at me, with her parasol perched musket-like on her shoulder, looking for all the world like an Amazon maiden. At my question, the warrior’s scowl gave way to a look of womanly pity. “Oh, Mr. Gaither,” she sighed. “That poor lost girl. I cannot make sense of it at all.”
“We think she must have killed her husband because she lied and said that he had not come home, and of course… he had.”
“Not that!” she said, frowning impatiently. “Of course I have followed the trial procedure. I understand perfectly what the witnesses have sworn to. But what we want here is some plainspeaking.”
“How so?” I murmured. I looked about for her cousin James, but he seemed to have made good his escape while she waylaid me.
“The girl is the only living soul who knows what happened in that cabin, Mr. Gaither. Put her up in front of the court andask her.”
“That we cannot do, Miss Mary,” I said.
“Why not?”
“Because defendants may not testify in felony cases. Surely you know that. It is the law of the land, handed down to us from English common law. A venerable tradition that goes back centuries.”
“To the Dark Ages, no doubt, where it belongs,” she replied. Her gloved hand touched my arm. “Can you not waive the rule in this case? I feel sure there is something we ought to hear. Let the girl speak.”
I smiled gently at the flattery implicit in her request. Could I, as clerk of court, set aside codified trial law and age-old tradition because an Erwin wished it so? I shook my head. “Even if I were to attempt such a thing, Miss Mary, neither Judge Donnell nor the prosecutor would allow it. You might even find that the lady’s own attorney would wish to keep her silent for fear that with her testimony she might inadvertently condemn herself. She will not speak.”
“Then how can we get at the truth?”
Although I had questioned that very stricture in my own mind often enough, I found myself defending the no-testimony rule to my sister-in-law. “There are those who say that hearing a felon’s sworn statement would not avail the listeners of the truth. Such a custom would merely give the accused an opportunity to perjure himself, and to put his soul in further peril by breaking his oath before God.”