“But then it must be proved,” said Gilroy. “I’m afraid the minister who married you is long since dead. Which normally would leave us with the witnesses, but my initial inquiries would indicate that they, too, are deceased.”
“Again our failing, I suppose, to not choose people who’d outlive us, and to lack the foresight to have filled the room with guests.”
I leaned forward slightly, taking up the space between them in the way one does when sensing friends are in a mood to fight. “With your permission, Mrs. Graeme, that is why we’re here. To seek another means of proof.”
She collected her emotions with an effort betrayed only by the slightest setting of her shoulders—something that she likely didn’t even know she did, when pressed. But it had the desired effect, for when she spoke, her voice had lost its edge.
“Pray, Sergeant Williamson, if this certificate and my own word are insufficient, then what proof will satisfy the men of your commission?”
“Have you any other documents that bear your husband’s signature and name you as his wife? A deed, or back bond, or—”
“We owned no land.”
“His final will and testament?”
“He did not leave one. If he had, I surely would have brought it with me, would I not?”
“A letter, then.” I grasped at any document I could. “You must have letters that he wrote to you, which might help to establish your relationship.”
She told me, “I have nothing of my husband’s, Sergeant Williamson.”
Others might have missed her faint frown as she turned her face toward the windows. I did not.
It had been years since I’d felt so compelled to help, protect, and care for someone else. The feeling hit me like a hammer blow, and held me silent.
Gilroy said, “In such a case, the best approach is to attempt to find people who knew you and your husband, when he lived, and who could testify your marriage was a proper one. These witnesses you list on your certificate—”
“—are dead,” she said, “as you’ve observed.”
“But were they strangers called in off the street?” he asked. “I know that’s often how it’s done, with such clandestine marriages. Or were they people known to you?”
Still looking at the street beyond the windows, she replied, “They were my friends.”
“I see,” said Gilroy. “Barbara Malcolm, your first witness named, did she have any family?”
“Barbara Malcolm had a sister, but she died.” She looked at Gilroy. “Why?”
He made a note upon his papers. “And this other, Walter Browne?”
“He had brothers, though I don’t know what became of them.”
Another note. “And were these brothers well acquainted with you and your husband?”
“We were very private people.”
“Nonetheless. If you would have us help you, this is how it must be done. We must prepare a list of those who knew you as a married couple, and seek out their testimony.”
“How long will that take?”
“It depends upon the list. Perhaps a fortnight.”
Longer than she’d hoped, apparently, to judge by her expression when she brought her face around again to look at me. Her eyes were blue and shadowed with impatience and, behind that, something deeper and unspoken that looked very much like fear.
It hit me squarely in my gut.
I could not think why such a mundane thing as proving she’d been married to this man would make her frightened, but there were already many things about this “simple” inquiry I did not understand.
And in that moment I reacted without thinking; without caring what the others in the room might think. I hitched my chair around so that it faced hers more directly, and I told her, “Mrs. Graeme, I realize this is an uncomfortable position for you, sitting here with strangers, being judged. But I can promise, if you’ll trust me, I will help you find your way through all of this.” I met her eyes and asked her, “Will you trust me?”
It might well have been the longest moment I had ever spent.
And then, at last, it ended.
“Yes,” she said.
If I hadn’t already known I was in trouble, I would have been sure of it then, when she spoke that one word and attempted a smile and it seemed, for that heartbeat of time, there were only the two of us there in the drawing room, and all the rest of the world fell away.
But we were not alone. There, at my right hand, was Gilroy, his pen in hand, waiting. Across from me, Helen, observing the scene with her clever and curious gaze. And MacDougall, a dark presence who might be standing behind any door, wishing me gone.