Chapter 5: The Case of Forbidden Fruits
They were all giving her odd looks the next day.
Malia felt like an exhibit of sorts, where people observed her every move as though the next thing she would do would answer everything for them. Of course, she didn't feed such beliefs; she had no intentions of making a spectacle. If anything, she made light of the situation, and acted as if everything was perfectly normal.
That morning, she cleaned up the torn shreds of paper from behind her cot, and didn't think twice when she tossed it all away. The more she acted as if her life wasn't spiraling down hill, the better she felt about whatever she had to do to keep up that façade.
Still, Malia often thought of the note, and she wondered if she acted too rashly in tearing it up. There was the smallest possibility that the Magistrate had written it but, after such a falling out with his wife, could Malia even entertain that idea? And how could he have known the words that were exchanged in that room and then go on to say that he did not think the same things as his wife? Unless she had told him? No... No, he did not write that note, she was right to tear it apart.
And even if he had, she was still right to do it.
He was a married man, a Magistrate! She often heard of men being unfaithful to their wives, and such stories were rare at that, but she had never thought a man of the law like the Magistrate would stoop so low as well. That was why the idea that he had written the note was beyond comprehension to her. He was a man who enforced the law and punished anyone who broke it. Why would he himself break it?
But was it against the law for a man to be unfaithful to his wife? It was a sin, to be sure, Malia knew that much, but what of the law of the land? Were they one and the same, the law in the holy book of these people and the law set forth by the justice? Did it matter?
It was not her faith, but Malia was not going to take part in a sin. If the Magistrate had written the note-doubtful as it was-she would ignore it. Perhaps it would vanish, as all fleeting feelings did. She had only met the man twice, how could he feel so strongly about her? Had they had such time to fester? It was impossible, so she would treat it as so, and move on.
Mrs. Boatwright did not summon her for the whole day, something that caused Malia to worry. Was she angry with her? Had she done or said something wrong? Perhaps she blamed Malia for the near-scandal that Abigail Quincy would have set on the house. Malia did not blame her, but still she oped that that was not the case. She had never intended for scandal, surely Mrs. Boatwright knew that!
All of those thoughts vanished when Melinda came to Malia an hour after she had finished clearing up the rest of the dead flowers from the vases on the windowsills.
"Mrs. Boatwright wants you to head down to the market," Melinda handed Malia a list of items to purchase, and a small coin purse. "You're to go with Jane, and return before noonday meal. Little James wants strawberries; bring twenty, if you can. Basil too, and..."
On and on Melinda listed every item that was clearly written down on the paper. But Malia patiently listened with a smiling face. And when Melinda was done, Malia moved quickly to join Jane at the main doors. The young woman looked excited to go on the outing. The fact that it was a chore didn't faze her, nor did the time constraint. They had four hours until noonday meal, and the cook still had to prepare the strawberries the way James liked them: sliced, no leaves, with cream.
"What a beautiful day, isn't it?" Jane sighed as the two women strode down the steps and made for the main gates. "Going to the market is awfully exciting."
"It is?" Malia frowned. "I've always found it a bore. Lumbering from vendor to vendor and store to store in the heat..."
"Speak for yourself, Mrs. Boatwright always wants you to go with her to the market. Of course you would find it boring after a thousand trips. I, however, am never asked to go!"
"That is because they all fear that you will find some handsome footman or butcher and never return."
"Me? Leave Dawn-Bridge for a footman or a butcher?" Jane scoffed, straightening out her plain bonnet. "It's as if you don't know me at all."
"Well, it's not as if you or I could be bothered with the idea of leaving with a man of better means," Malia reminded her friend, side stepping a pothole in the road. "We're servants, remember?"
"I like to think that these boundaries are only meant to trap hope and imagination," Jane mused. "And in any case, though I know all that to be true, sometimes imagining otherwise helps."
"How?" Malia asked, frowning. "I only thought it could hurt."
"Malia," Jane smiled at her. "Sometimes imagining the impossible is the only way we find ourselves capable of facing reality."
With that, her friend skipped ahead, giddily humming to herself, leaving Malia standing there, a slight crisp breeze blowing at her face. Was her friend right? Was imagining the impossible the only way Malia could face her bleak reality? Could she dare hope for such a thing? Her form of impossible was more than that, it was beyond the scope of entertaining.
But what if... What if he had written the note?
"Malia!" Jane called from far ahead. "Come on!"
Pulled from her thoughts, Malia shook her head and murmured something around the lines of 'stop thinking about it' to herself. Gathering her skirts, she rushed ahead to catch up with her friend and, when she did, Jane took her wrist and practically dragged her the rest of the way to the market.
XXX
Magistrate John Quincy poured over the trial ledgers of the Denning case, from investigations to witness accounts. He was hoping to discover something that he had missed that would have enticed an otherwise innocent man to run.
Perhaps he was not so innocent... Perhaps there is some degree of truth behind the accusations of his theft.
Still, he read over a written account of a witness interview of Bertha Denning, Arthur Denning's sister and only living family.
'Bertha Denning did mention then that the family was struggling as it was. Sustainable wage was hard to acquire, and being an unmarried sister to a butcher did not offer much for marriage. Bertha, 15, even stated, and I quote, 'I told my brother in jest that perhaps we should take Old Mrs. Catherine's jewels and run off to Scotland. I did not for a minute think that he would actually do it. It shocked me to no end, make no mistake, but then I realized something: I know my brother is no thief. He's a hard worker, why would man who works so hard resort to theft, sir? It makes no sense! Someone else must have heard the joke and thought it would be funny to... I do not know! My brother is no thief!'
John realized that halfway through the account his mind had drifted off. Now, he kept looking out the window of his study, towards the rose gardens that his wife adored so much. That was where he had seen Malia for the first time, among the colorful flowers, walking towards the gates of his home to leave. She had stunned him the moment his eyes fell on her, for she was a beauty he had never seen before. Her skin, so soft... It reminded him of pure silk tinged with the lightest brush of tan. Her eyes were sparkling pools of deep brown, and he lips... Those beautiful lips...
Shaking his head, John ran a hand over his hair and chuckled bitterly. There were so many things that were wrong with what went through his mind when he looked at or thought about Malia. He was much older than her, first of all, and he was the bloody Magistrate! He was supposed to uphold the law, not spit on and take advantage of it. His power didn't mean that he was above the very code he tried to enforce.
But then why wasn't that enough to convince him to leave this girl alone?
God, just seeing her laughing with that footman angered him to no end. He didn't know why, the girl had every right to have her own friends, male or otherwise. He had no place in questioning her about it, and surely now she thought him a fool for approaching her about it. He had to convince himself not to do it that night, and clearly he had failed.
And when he heard what his wife had said to Malia... His anger almost overwhelmed him.
'What in the name of our Lord were you thinking?' John fumed. 'Insulting our hosts, Abigail? Have you gone mad?'
'I was merely making sure that trollop knew her place,' Abigail sniffed. 'As is your trade!'
'Yes, my trade, Abigail, mine!' John growled. 'One you clearly have a low opinion of if you think that I put people in their place by insulting them without cause!'
'Without cause?' Abigail placed a hand on her chest and looked truly offended. 'I have every cause when it comes to that girl! Since she arrived in Lanfore, all people seem to talk about is how well she is adapting and how polite she is acting, they fail to see her agenda!'
'Abigail, not everyone you do not agree with or want around has an agenda, and I will not have you approaching that girl or the Boatwights until this is all sorted out.'
'Sorted out?!'
'Yes, Abigail, you have forced my hand! For once, I am afraid, it is the man cleaning up his wife's messes, not the other way around!'
After that altercation, John had to find a way to get word to Malia. He had to see her, console her. He didn't know why, but something in his heart told him that he would never rest easy until he did.
He wondered if she received the note. He wondered if she would come.
Can I blame her if she doesn't?
The idea of Malia hating him made him sick to the stomach, and he hadn't the slightest idea why.
A small knock came from the door of his study, and John looked up from his papers in time to see his youngest daughter, Lydia, shuffle in, thumb in her mouth.
"Lydia?" John frowned and sat up in his chair. "What are you doing here? Where is your governess?"
"Mama left," the young girl said.
She clearly meant that Abigail had gone to the market, but the woman had a knack for leaving without word. John had to deal with that their first few years of marriage, and it irritated him to this day. He was used to it now, but his girls certainly weren't. Lucy took it in stride and seemed like she couldn't care less what her mother did, but Lydia was still so young.
"Come here, poppet," John beckoned his daughter over and picked her up, placing her on his knee. "She'll be home soon, she always does."
"I want mama," Lydia moped, pouting at her father.
"How about we go find your sister, hm?" John stroked his daughter's hair gently. "Where is Lucy?"
"With Mrs. Evers," Lydia spoke of their governess. "I want mama!"
"Alright, poppet, alright," John held his daughter close and sighed. "She'll be home soon."
"I want her now!"
John closed his eyes and nodded. Denying his daughter was the one thing he could not do. "Very well," he stood and took his daughter's hand. "Come, we will go find her together."
Lydia's face brightened at that and she let him lead her to the main doors, and then outside. When they were out there, he picked her up and placed her on his shoulders, the way she liked.
Perhaps a walk to the market would clear his mind of Malia, and allow him to focus on the Denning case.
XXX
Abigail Quincy returned home later that day to find her husband gone, and their youngest daughter with him. Where they had gone off to was beyond her, but she was far too tired and flushed from the heat to find out.
"See all of the cherries to the kitchen," Abigail instructed the servant she had taken with her. "Be quick about it, I don't want anything to go to waste."
As the servant rushed off to carry her orders out, Abigail sighed and turned back to the door, frowning when she saw it slightly ajar. She was sure it had been shut behind her the moment she had walked in. Perhaps the breeze had caused it to open again.
"Close that door, would you?" She snapped at a passing footman. "Quickly, before the heat gets in."
She turned back to the foyer and ran a hand through her hair as she hurried up the stairs. Wherever John had sauntered off to mope away his wounded pride, he would be home soon. The man never stayed out too late without pressing business of sorts keeping his busy, even if it was to avoid her. She regretted nothing of what she had told that harlot the other night, and she was going to make sure her husband knew that.
"Mrs. Evers!" She called into the home when she reached the large hall on the upper floor. "Mrs. Evers, prepare Lucy for dinner!"
"Always on the move, aren't you?"
Gasping, Abigail whirled around to see the grinning, mischievous face of Arthur Denning, watching her with his usual amusement.
"Arthur!" Abigail rushed up to him and seized his arm, dragging him away from the view of any of the servants. "I thought you'd fled from Lanfore!"
"Fled? Me?" Arthur looked genuinely confused. "Is that what they're saying? I merely kept low so I could keep seeing you, Abigail," he stroked her face gently, smiling. "I've missed you."
"Stop that," she hissed, slapping his hand away. "You cannot be here, my husband is ready to arrest you as it is!"
"Does he know?" Arthur cocked an eyebrow. "How did he find out?"
"No, he doesn't know, he thinks you stole the jewels and fled."
"What?!" Arthur nearly shouted. "I didn't steal anything from that old bat, Abigail, you have to believe me!"
"Lower your voice!" Abigail snapped, turning to look behind her to make sure there was no one in the hall. "Arthur, I am truly happy that you didn't run," she turned back to him. "But my husband is going to be home with our daughter any minute, and if he sees you here, he will hang you himself. You need to leave!"
"I do not fear the Magistrate," Arthur said, his youthful face twisting to an expression of pure defiance. "I love you, Abigail, and if I have to shout it from the rooftops, I will!"
"You will do nothing of the sort!" Abigail swatted his arm. "I will come find you later, Arthur, but you can never come back here. You're a wanted man."
"I'll clear my name, then!" He said with confidence. "It won't be hard, I'm innocent."
"Do you plan on doing that here, right now?" Abigail challenged him. "In my home, Arthur? My husband will have you in chains for having the gall to come here at all. If you want to prove your innocence, do so in court, not here. You need to leave!"
Arthur sighed and shook his head. "Very well, Abigail, I will do as you say," but then he leaned in to kiss her deeply before leaning against the window. "But when I've proven my innocence to your husband, I will find a way to have you once and for all."
With that, he backed away into the shadows of the curtains. Abigail heard the doors to the windows creak and, the next thing she knew, Arthur was swinging his legs over the ledge, and when she rushed over to look down, he was running off into the woods on the other side of the gates. She watched him go before closing her eyes and cursing softly.
Closing the windows, Abigail turned and placed a hand on her heart, shaking her head to remove the thought of Arthur Denning in her house. She had to find a way to be rid of that boy once and for all, before he ruined her.
But did she want to be rid of him?
XXX
"Strawberries, ribbons, perfumes... This market has everything!"
"Hence the reason for it being a market..."
"Oh, wipe that sour expression off your face, Malia!" Jane beamed swinging the basket of strawberries about and smiling at everyone that passed. "It's a beautiful day! The sun is shining, and everyone is happy!"
"From what you can tell, at least," Malia smiled at her friend. "I wish I was more like you, Jane, finding happiness in the little things."
"It's easy if you forget about everything else going wrong," Jane paused and frowned at Malia. "Speaking of which, you never told me about what happened the other night. Why you were crying and who wrote the note."
Malia winced and quickly tried to think up a lie to deflect the question. "I was tired, and the note was from... A friend."
"A friend?" Jane raised an eyebrow. "Who?"
"No one, they were leaving Lanfore and they wanted me to know."
"Is it a lover?" Jane asked, lowering her voice. "Because you can tell me if it is, you know. I am very good at keeping secrets."
Malia almost laughed at that but kept her composure well. "Not a lover, just a friend."
Jane opened her mouth to press on more, but suddenly her face went pale at something behind Malia. Frowning, Malia turned to look at what had scared her friend, and then found herself frozen to the spot as well, as though time itself had stopped and everything was suddenly dark and desolate.
"Malia," the Magistrate frowned down at her, as though he hadn't expected her to be there. "Fancy seeing you here."
"M-Magistrate..." Malia gulped, finding it a wonder that she could speak at all.
For the longest time, they just stared at one another, and time continued to stand still.
_________
Author's note: Thanks so much for reading! We hope you enjoyed, leave a vote and comment, let us know how you liked it. We hope you enjoy the rest! :)