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Authors: Highland Fling
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that anyone would come to such a place merely to draw pictures of the wretches sentenced by the court made her feel ill, but she could not take her eyes from him. At last, determined to recover her dignity, she lifted her chin and forced herself to look away, only to encounter the magistrate’s flintlike gaze.
“Next case,” he declared in a cold, unfeeling voice.
Maggie glanced over her shoulder at her captor, but he shook his head. “Jest find yerself a seat on that front pew, wench. There be others ahead o’ ye, fer which ye should be grateful.”
She could not bring herself to ask anyone to make room for her, and stood by the front pew until the watchman snapped at the two women sitting nearest her to cozy up a bit. As Maggie moved to sit down, she encountered the gaze of the man with the drawing board. Glaring at him, she looked swiftly away again and sat down, hating the thought that he might dare to draw her likeness.
Time crawled by, and each case that preceded hers added to her fears, for the magistrate sitting that day was clearly not a man well-acquainted with mercy. Time and time again, he ordered his poor victim thrown into prison until such time as he might expeditiously be hanged, and in more than one case, he ordered a public whipping to take place the day before the hanging. So far, the only encouraging sign was that he had not ordered anyone’s punishment to take place immediately, in the courtroom.
Maggie kept her eyes firmly fixed on the point where the high bench met the floor, but she was constantly aware of noises behind her. Feet shuffled, people coughed or sneezed, and there was incessant murmuring and muttering. Several times, above the rest, she heard the sound of paper being shifted.
At last, when the call came for the next case, the watchman touched her arm, urging her to stand. Maggie obeyed, quaking, her knees weak, wondering how on earth she could save herself.
The formidable magistrate said icily, “What is the crime in this case, watchman?”
“Theft, your worship, more than five pounds taken.”
The cold gray eyes shifted to Maggie. “Have you anything to say for yourself, young woman?”
“Yes, I do,” she said, forcing herself to speak calmly. “If it please your worship, I can explain what happened.”
His eyebrows lifted slightly. “You speak like a person of some quality.”
“Yes, sir, I am—”
“The more pity that you should have fallen so low,” he said, shifting his gaze again. “Above five pounds, you say, watchman?”
“Aye, your worship.”
“The law is clear. Your sentence, young woman, is that—”
“Wait!” Maggie cried. “You cannot treat me like this. Please,’ sir, there are people who will speak for me. You simply must let me tell you who I am and explain how it all came to—”
The magistrate glared. “I need do nothing of the sort, but I own, your manner intrigues me. Who will speak for you?”
She had meant to invoke the name of Lady Primrose, but even as the words leapt to her tongue, she realized that if her ladyship were suspected to be a Jacobite—as indeed, certain of her hosts had suggested might prove to be the case—naming her now might do no good, and might well do the cause they both served much harm. Without thinking more than that, Maggie blurted the only other name she knew in London. “The Earl of Rothwell, your worship! I am kin to the Earl of Rothwell!”
To her utter dismay, the magistrate began to laugh.
IV
M AGGIE STARED AT THE magistrate in astonishment. The rest of the courtroom fell silent until he stopped laughing, but then, behind her, she heard the unmistakable sound of a chuckle. She kept her eyes riveted on the magistrate. Her head ached.
“Rothwell, eh?” His voice still rang with amusement, but he was looking past her now. “You are related to him, you say?”
Swallowing, she said, “Well, not precisely related, your worship, but—”
“I thought not. What, precisely , did you mean
“Next case,” he declared in a cold, unfeeling voice.
Maggie glanced over her shoulder at her captor, but he shook his head. “Jest find yerself a seat on that front pew, wench. There be others ahead o’ ye, fer which ye should be grateful.”
She could not bring herself to ask anyone to make room for her, and stood by the front pew until the watchman snapped at the two women sitting nearest her to cozy up a bit. As Maggie moved to sit down, she encountered the gaze of the man with the drawing board. Glaring at him, she looked swiftly away again and sat down, hating the thought that he might dare to draw her likeness.
Time crawled by, and each case that preceded hers added to her fears, for the magistrate sitting that day was clearly not a man well-acquainted with mercy. Time and time again, he ordered his poor victim thrown into prison until such time as he might expeditiously be hanged, and in more than one case, he ordered a public whipping to take place the day before the hanging. So far, the only encouraging sign was that he had not ordered anyone’s punishment to take place immediately, in the courtroom.
Maggie kept her eyes firmly fixed on the point where the high bench met the floor, but she was constantly aware of noises behind her. Feet shuffled, people coughed or sneezed, and there was incessant murmuring and muttering. Several times, above the rest, she heard the sound of paper being shifted.
At last, when the call came for the next case, the watchman touched her arm, urging her to stand. Maggie obeyed, quaking, her knees weak, wondering how on earth she could save herself.
The formidable magistrate said icily, “What is the crime in this case, watchman?”
“Theft, your worship, more than five pounds taken.”
The cold gray eyes shifted to Maggie. “Have you anything to say for yourself, young woman?”
“Yes, I do,” she said, forcing herself to speak calmly. “If it please your worship, I can explain what happened.”
His eyebrows lifted slightly. “You speak like a person of some quality.”
“Yes, sir, I am—”
“The more pity that you should have fallen so low,” he said, shifting his gaze again. “Above five pounds, you say, watchman?”
“Aye, your worship.”
“The law is clear. Your sentence, young woman, is that—”
“Wait!” Maggie cried. “You cannot treat me like this. Please,’ sir, there are people who will speak for me. You simply must let me tell you who I am and explain how it all came to—”
The magistrate glared. “I need do nothing of the sort, but I own, your manner intrigues me. Who will speak for you?”
She had meant to invoke the name of Lady Primrose, but even as the words leapt to her tongue, she realized that if her ladyship were suspected to be a Jacobite—as indeed, certain of her hosts had suggested might prove to be the case—naming her now might do no good, and might well do the cause they both served much harm. Without thinking more than that, Maggie blurted the only other name she knew in London. “The Earl of Rothwell, your worship! I am kin to the Earl of Rothwell!”
To her utter dismay, the magistrate began to laugh.
IV
M AGGIE STARED AT THE magistrate in astonishment. The rest of the courtroom fell silent until he stopped laughing, but then, behind her, she heard the unmistakable sound of a chuckle. She kept her eyes riveted on the magistrate. Her head ached.
“Rothwell, eh?” His voice still rang with amusement, but he was looking past her now. “You are related to him, you say?”
Swallowing, she said, “Well, not precisely related, your worship, but—”
“I thought not. What, precisely , did you mean
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