Chapter 9 - The Family Coming from the East
Percival did not come alone.
Two days before the hearing, three more Harringtons arrived.
An aunt.
A cousin.
A family physician who had not treated the girls in eighteen months but had apparently developed powerful opinions about their well-being.
Oak Haven’s finest hotel filled with Boston money.
The town loved it.
Evelyn did not.
She entered the courtroom wearing the blue dress she had chosen despite Mrs. Lovell’s advice.
It fit beautifully.
Not because it hid her.
Because it fit her.
Mrs. Lovell had done good work once she stopped insulting the customer.
Evelyn’s red hair was pinned simply.
No jewels except her wedding ring.
The girls walked beside her.
Both held her hands.
Josiah followed.
The courtroom went quiet.
Percival watched.
His expression remained pleasant.
But his eyes went straight to the tin case Samuel carried.
Good.
Let him worry.
The hearing began with politeness.
It did not remain polite.
Percival’s attorney described Josiah as reckless.
Work-obsessed.
Emotionally unavailable.
A man who placed wealth before domestic stability.
Some of it hurt because some of it was true.
Josiah did spend too much time at the mines.
He had hidden inside work after Clara died.
He had allowed governesses to become substitutes for parenting.
Evelyn watched him absorb every accusation without defending himself emotionally.
Then they attacked her.
The hotel manager testified.
“She appeared exhausted.”
“You refused her work?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I did not believe she possessed sufficient stamina.”
Evelyn almost smiled.
The attorney asked about her desperation.
Her homelessness.
Her willingness to work for food.
Then the restaurant owner.
Then a shopkeeper.
Each described a poor woman wandering town looking for employment.
As though poverty were a crime.
Then Mrs. Lovell testified.
Percival’s attorney asked:
“Did Mrs. Whitmore appear socially prepared to become mistress of a household such as Whitmore House?”
The seamstress hesitated.
Evelyn expected humiliation.
Instead Mrs. Lovell said:
“No.”
Percival smiled.
Then she continued.
“Neither would I be.”
The attorney frowned.
“Excuse me?”
“Neither would most women in Oak Haven.”
She adjusted her gloves.
“Mrs. Whitmore was wearing a torn dress when I first met her. I said something cruel.”
Evelyn stared.
Mrs. Lovell’s cheeks reddened.
“She did not scream. She did not insult me. She simply looked hurt.”
“Mrs. Lovell—”
“And when Mr. Whitmore corrected me, Mrs. Whitmore later returned and ordered a blue dress.”
A few people laughed.
The attorney looked irritated.
“What relevance does that have?”
Mrs. Lovell shrugged.
“You asked whether she could manage being Mrs. Whitmore. She managed me.”
Even the judge smiled.
Percival did not.
Then Mrs. Crowley testified.
Evelyn expected neutrality.
She got war.
“Mrs. Whitmore entered the household without training,” Crowley said.
Percival’s attorney looked pleased.
“She was unfamiliar with our routines.”
“Yes.”
“Improperly dressed?”
“Extremely.”
“Uneducated in household management?”
“No.”
He paused.
Mrs. Crowley continued.
“She reorganized the children’s meals, restored their lessons, convinced them to enter the kitchen, returned them to outdoor activity, and somehow persuaded my cook that children spreading flour across imported tile is healthy.”
The judge looked amused.
“And the children’s condition?”
Mrs. Crowley’s voice changed.
“They speak.”
A murmur filled the courtroom.
Percival stiffened.
Mrs. Crowley looked toward Evelyn.
“They had not spoken for fourteen months.”
The attorney approached carefully.
“Are you suggesting Mrs. Whitmore medically cured them?”
“No.”
“Then—”
“I am saying they feel safe with her.”
That landed harder.
Percival requested the girls be examined by the family physician.
Josiah objected.
The judge permitted only a private conversation with a neutral child specialist.
Abigail and Margaret went willingly if Evelyn remained nearby.
Two hours later, the specialist testified.
“The girls show severe grief and anxiety associated with their mother’s death.”
Percival’s attorney nodded.
“And their father?”
“They love their father.”
“And Mrs. Whitmore?”
The specialist glanced at Evelyn.
“They appear deeply attached to her.”
“Could that attachment be manipulated?”
“Any attachment can be.”
Percival smiled.
Then the specialist continued.
“But theirs does not appear forced.”
“What does it appear to be?”
“Maternal.”
Evelyn lowered her head.
Margaret leaned against her.
The first day ended without decision.
Outside, reporters crowded.
Josiah shielded the children.
Percival approached Evelyn near the courthouse steps.
“You’re better at this than I expected.”
“At what?”
“Playing respectable.”
She smiled.
“I don’t play it.”
His eyes cooled.
“You believe those girls love you.”
“They do.”
“That makes you useful.”
“To them?”
“To Josiah.”
Evelyn’s smile disappeared.
Percival stepped closer.
“He married you because he needed a mother-shaped object beside his children.”
Evelyn knew he was trying to hurt her.
It worked anyway.
“You really think this ends happily?”
He lowered his voice.
“Men like Whitmore do not fall in love with women like you.”
She hated that the sentence reached old wounds.
The hotel manager.
The seamstress.
Every cruel look.
Percival saw it.
His smile returned.
Then Josiah’s voice came behind him.
“You’ve mistaken restraint for permission.”
Percival turned.
Josiah stood five feet away.
“Stay away from my wife.”
“Your temporary wife?”
Josiah’s eyes went cold.
“My wife.”
Percival left.
Evelyn walked toward the carriage.
Josiah followed.
“Don’t listen to him.”
She laughed bitterly.
“Which part?”
“All of it.”
“He’s right about why you married me.”
Josiah stopped.
“You needed a wife.”
“Yes.”
“Any acceptable woman would have done.”
“No.”
Evelyn turned.
“You knew me forty-seven minutes.”
“I knew what you did when those girls were in danger.”
“That isn’t love.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
The words hurt.
He saw.
“Evelyn—”
She climbed into the carriage.
That night they barely spoke.
At midnight, Abigail woke Evelyn.
The child had remembered something else.
“Mama had a box.”
“What kind?”
“Music.”
“A music box?”
Abigail nodded.
“She put paper inside.”
“Where is it?”
The girl’s face tightened.
“Uncle Percy took it.”
Evelyn’s blood turned cold.
“When?”
“After funeral.”
There it was.
The connection.
Percival had not simply come to comfort his nieces after Clara’s death.
He had searched Clara’s belongings.
And he had removed something.
But Percival had made one mistake.
He apparently did not know that before Clara died, she had taught Abigail exactly where to look if that music box ever returned.
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And Abigail knew something was hidden inside it.
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