“Come to the point, Mawl!” came the command from the bench.
“The suspect was seen by several witnesses to take an item of fruit, to wit, a ripe red apple from a pile of the selfsame fruit which sat innocently atop the apple cart of the equally innocent fruit seller, one Adam Dombie by name. The guilty—I mean the allegedly guilty—party was immediately apprehended by yours truly, to wit, myself—a former Robin Redbreast of some renown, I may add—and taken posthaste to the prison, where she was placed in the custody of the jailer, one Jack Clapham by appellation.”
“Your Worship, might I be permitted counsel?” C.J. piped up. The entire courtroom erupted in spontaneous titters. She tried to appear as unemotional and composed as possible under the circumstances, but every fiber of her being comprehended the gravity of her predicament. If someone did not speak for her, not a doubt lingered in her mind that she’d be a dead woman for stealing an apple.
C.J. continued her plea, striving to keep the desperation out of her voice. “Is not every defendant, no matter how low or mean, no matter how poor, entitled to representation from qualified counsel? A serjeant-at-law? A barrister?”
Magistrate Baldwin was highly entertained by the request. In fact, the young woman’s naïveté was providing the most entertainment he’d had in all his thirty years on the bench.
“I was hungry, Your Worship. I had just arrived in Bath the day before I was apprehended, and found myself with not so much as a farthing to my name.”
The magistrate banged his gavel on the table, the sound reverberating throughout the room. “Silence!”
C.J. looked utterly bewildered. “Your Worship?” she said meekly.
“I said ‘silence,’ ” repeated the judge. “The prisoner is not permitted to speak for herself.”
“But if it is not the custom to afford me counsel, then who shall take my part if I am not allowed to appear pro se?”
Her proper use of the legal term for self-representation was the charm, taking the officers of the court completely by surprise. “Where in Beelzebub’s bollocks did you come from?” asked the stunned judge.
C.J. took a moment to gather her wits. “Very far from here, Your Worship. And to tell the truth, I cannot say exactly how I arrived . . . I mean, I know not. It is not an attempt at impertinence, sir, I assure you.”
“I did not expect you to be familiar with all of the post roads, young lady. However, ignorance of the law is no defense.” C.J. prayed that he would pursue his line of questioning no further. “You are a most remarkable young person,” the magistrate continued, wringing his fleshy hands as if the act would better enable him to arrive at a verdict. “And I would ask Constable Mawl why he wasted the assizes’ time with such a trifling matter. Theft of a single apple is precisely the sort of transgression that a country constable himself is charged with hearing. He is perfectly within the scope of his duties to determine the merits of the case and to mete out punishment where appropriate. I am excessively disappointed in your judgment, Mawl.”
The policeman look duly chastened. “Yes, Your Worship.”
“Yet a theft, no matter how minor, is still a criminal offense. If the defendant is an indigent, then she must seek gainful employment or be remanded to a workhouse. Your communicative faculties have astonished this court. Perhaps you can find a suitable position as a governess or lady’s companion. What skills do you possess, Miss Welles?”
Somehow, C.J. had the presence of mind not to say that she could act, which she knew in this era would be considered another blot on her already damaged character. She racked her brain to think of appropriate pursuits for a young lady of the time, activities that she might actually be able to accomplish if called upon to do so.
A matron clad in an outmoded ensemble of black taffeta rose to her feet with the aid of a silver-handled ebony walking stick. Her reedy voice pierced the air. “Lady Eloisa Wickham, Your Honor.”
“The court is well acquainted with you, Lady Wickham.”
“I find myself in need of a lady’s companion to read to me and to handle my correspondence. My eyes are not what they once were. If it please the court, I will accept responsibility for the young woman and offer her a position in my establishment in Laura Place.”
“Miss Welles, do you admit to the crime of stealing an apple?”
There had been witnesses to her actions. “I do, Your Worship, and I plead my hunger and my penury as the cause, for I have never before taken anything at all—ever—in my entire life.” It was the truth.
“Do you repent your criminal action?”
“I do indeed repent that it was necessary to resort to criminal activity in order to feed myself. I am heartily sorry to have deprived Adam Dombie of his hard-won wares, and hope to have the means in future to repay him tenfold.”
“Right, then. So be it. The defendant is released into the custody of Lady Eloisa Wickham, where she is guaranteed gainful employment as a lady’s companion.” The gavel descended with a bang. “Case dismissed.”
Constable Mawl unlocked the shackles incarcerating C.J.’s ankles. She was free to go. Lady Wickham, hobbled by a club foot, led the way out of the Banqueting Room, motioning for a trembling C.J. to follow her. Under ordinary circumstances, it would have been an easy stroll from the Guildhall to Laura Place, but Lady Wickham’s infirmity precluded walking there. When they reached the street, C.J. was astonished to learn that the noblewoman didn’t possess her own carriage. Instead, her ladyship begrudged a young boy a farthing to fetch a hackney for the short distance to Laura
