Wallace was once more standing the small antechamber in front of the wide courtroom, struggling with the wig that seemed to have gotten a mind of its own, trying to find a new hairstyle that would make it absolutely embarrassing. He hated wearing a wig, he wasn’t bald yet, why bother with it? But then again, that was a part of the proceedings, part of the rich history of the law and court, so he’d just have to abide it when it came along, he wouldn’t be worrying about the wig anymore in a moment. Today’s case would be a complete pain up his backside and the worst part of it all, was that it could have easily been solved by all parties involved if they had just taken a small step backwards, cooled down and talked things over like adults.

He looked up to the mirror again and cursed softly, the blasted thing was lopsided again, it just wouldn’t stay where it had to. He pulled and wrestled with it and forced it into some semblance of order with a grunt, then took a comb and quickly ran that through the waves of white curliness. Luckily it wasn’t too warm today, he always hated being all sweaty when he stopped presiding, it just felt wrong to sweat while you were just sitting around doing nothing more than just slamming with a gavel and asking questions. He breathed in deeply once, and pushed open the door, took his position behind the high-raised desk of the courtroom and picked up the small oak gavel. He looked at the people present today in his court.

To his right there was John Doyle, a well-known man as the Lord of Wothersham. He had indicted an elderly lady, who was more to the left side of the room, of damaging his property under the form of a curricle or something. Wallace had seen the pictures that the law had made of the curricle, and he had to admit it had been a pretty insulting act, not to mention costly to have the thing repainted, but Wallace had formed no opinion on what happened yet. Cases like these that seemed so simple always proved to be more complex than just saying who paid what. He didn’t look forward to this. He slammed his gavel down a few times, more out of gesture than necessity, since almost everyone in the room had already seen him enter and had already fallen silent.

”Order, order in the court!”

There was a quiet after that, just the breathing of maybe twenty people and the scribbling of the clerk’s pen, busy noting what little had already aspired. Wallace looked at the bunch of papers in front of him once more and spoke again, his voice loud but well-controlled.

”Calling forward the claimant, Sir Doyle, Lord of Wothersham.”

He looked at the Lord of Wothersham without a change in his face or demeanor. He had been thinking about asking permission to have an inscription carved on the front of his lectern, and though he had not yet asked permission for it, the words or a feeling akin to them already permeated his judgments and previous cases. “To all who enter here, know that as men in front of justice you will appear.” Outside this hall, Sir Doyle might be his superior, but today in this moment, he was but a man in front of judgment. He waited for suitable time so that Sir Doyle could come forward and spoke again.

”Claimant John Doyle, you have indicted the defendant, Miss Tirzah Grant-Freeman, present at this trial, of feloniously damaging your property under the form of a curricle, is this correct?”

(OOC: Wallace’s mun told me what his charry said. :) )

John walked forward when Judge Vandenberg called him up. Assuming the appropriate place, he responded, “Yes, my lord.”

He glanced around briefly as he waited for the next part of the formal proceedings. There were not that many people here, only the sort that were perpetual fixtures at the court. The spectator seats were nearly empty. That was to be expected—and preferred, to his mind—as this was not a very dramatic case. There was one person in the courtroom, however, that he would rather was not there. His sister, Helen Hardacre, was sitting right in the front row of the spectator seating, and she looked very ill-pleased with him indeed.

He knew why. She thought he ought not to be here at all. She thought he was ruining an old woman over a point of stubborn pride. After considering the matter for a number of hours and concluding that it was true, Miss Grant-Freeman did not deserve to be ruined over his curricle, he had devised a way to carry through on his promise, yet allow her to retain her freedom. He simply could not just back down on the matter, after all, yet he did not want to fall in his sister’s esteem and he did not really want to send Miss Grant-Freeman to debtor’s prison, hence it had been necessary to think up a scheme that satisfied both his objectives. He had not told Helen about it though, so that she could not argue with him about it.

Sir Wallace proceeded to the next part of the trial, asking for John’s testimony. “I would like you to tell me the exact circumstances of this action and the way you found them, as well recounted as memory permits, my lord Wothersham.”

John began at once:

“Certainly, my lord. On the afternoon of Wednesday the —th of April, I was driving my curricle along Kirk-street. I lost control of my horses. I was unable to bring them to rein, and they proceeded too fast down the street. Miss Grant-Freeman’s daughter walked out of a shop directly into my path, and I could not avoid her because two hansom cabs blocked the rest of the street. I shouted a warning, and she managed to get out of the way of my curricle. I then continued up the street, and managed to get my horses under control a short time later down the cross-street Tarleton-court. I stopped at the George, and entered that building for a few minutes. Upon leaving, I returned to my curricle to find that Miss Grant-Freeman had written obscenities upon it.”

At this point, John was interrupted by a shout from the accused. Tirzah burst forth vehemently, “‘Cause he deserve’ tha’! He dinn’ even come back ta see if mah daughter wuz still ‘live! She coul’a dahed fo’ all he cared!”

Her diatribe was cut off by a single sharp tap from Vandenberg’s gavel. Silence returned immediately with the authoritative sound. “Miss Grant-Freeman, I would request you to remain silent and wait your turn, we will listen to your side of the events in but a moment.”

Tirzah made no reply, and Vandenberg nodded for John to continue.

“I came out to find Miss Grant-Freeman writing on my curricle with an iron key. She had already produced several obscenities via scratching them into the paint. I confronted her, and she hit me and demanded that I apologise. I declined to do so. There was an argument, and Miss Grant-Freeman refused to pay for the damage to my curricle without the intervention of the court. I returned to my house and paid for the repairs myself, which came out to £32.”

Since reimbursement for those thirty-two pounds was what John was in court today for, it was superfluous to restate that. He lapsed into silence, waiting for anything more from Vandenberg. Nothing showed on his face, but John had just perjured himself for the first time ever.

He felt confident in doing so; there was no way that he could be caught in the lie. The curricle repairs had actually come out to be quite a bit more than £32, but he was aware of the approximate weekly wage of one such as Tirzah Grant-Freeman being only a little over a pound, and had gone to the trouble of finding out that the minimum that a person could get by on (in any semblance of health and rudimentary comfort, anyway) in Lindebo was a half-pound a week. Thus, he quoted a figure that, with a great deal of effort, could be repaid in slightly less than a year. This would spare Miss Grant-Freeman from debtor’s prison, if it turned out that John’s first scheme to keep her out of it failed. He would have lowered the stated repair price even further, but he had to keep it at a realistic level.

He had gotten a receipt from the man who had repaired the curricle to back up his claim of £32 for all repairs. It was a carefully itemised receipt, and everything added up just so, as if it had really cost that much. John had given the rest of the payment to the man under the table, which meant that the government would have no way of knowing if the man reported it on his taxes—and having worked with the gentleman before on a number of other similar repairs, John was sure that he would not do so. Thus, John could hold the threat of exposure for tax fraud over the repairer’s head if it became necessary for the man to testify as to the cost of the repairs. The repairer would swear on his oath that he had charged John only £32.

John’s perjury would go undetected.

Wallace sat there and hoped that Doyle would just drop the charge and go for a more diplomatic solution. It was a stupid trial to say the least, Miss Grant-Freeman had already confessed guilt and the only dispute was who would pay and how much. Or so it seemed, both parties were just examples of stupid stubbornness, like a pair of mules pulling at each other.

“Yes, my lord.”

Wallace really wanted to shake his head, but controlled himself, he wasn’t here to judge the trial or participants, that wasn’t his job. He was here to be a judge about how to remediate the situation, and though he’d like to take them both by the reins and but their heads together, but that would be socially unacceptable. Damn social decorum sometimes. He took a breath in as he watched the room, almost empty aside from the usual bored ladies and men and a woman who was busy carving up Lord Wothersham with her eyes. Probably a relative of his who didn’t agree with it all. He just went on with the entire formality.

“I would like you to tell me the exact circumstances of this action and the way you found them, as well recounted as memory permits, my lord Wothersham.”

The man was quick to reply, he was used to the entire procedure, being a barrister himself. It was only natural that men like him knew the court and its ways, and in a way that was an unfair part of the system. Often those who came here first, the commoners didn’t know what to say and how to say it. But Wallace always tried to take that into account.

“Certainly, my lord. On the afternoon of Wednesday the —th of April, I was driving my curricle along Kirk-street. I lost control of my horses. I was unable to bring them to rein, and they proceeded too fast down the street. Miss Grant-Freeman’s daughter walked out of a shop directly into my path, and I could not avoid her because two hansom cabs blocked the rest of the street. I shouted a warning, and she managed to get out of the way of my curricle. I then continued up the street, and managed to get my horses under control a short time later down the cross-street Tarleton-court. I stopped at the George, and entered that building for a few minutes. Upon leaving, I returned to my curricle to find that Miss Grant-Freeman had written obscenities upon it.”

Up until now, all things followed the written testimonies, that was good, he always hated it when people changed their stories in mid-procedure and left him guessing as to why and how much was true. That was really irritating and finding the truth was like pulling teeth. Tirzah Grant-Freeman thought it was time to intervene and with that loud voice of her snapped into the calm story of John Doyle.

“‘Cause he deserve’ tha’! He dinn’ even come back ta see if mah daughter wuz still ‘live! She coul’a dahed fo’ all he cared!”

Wallace put a stop to that very quickly, his court was a place of law and order, not the market where fishwives screamed and yelled at each other. In this place, all had its own place and time. He lifted the gavel and brought it down swiftly, sending a loud clap through the echoing room.

“Miss Grant-Freeman, I would request you to remain silent and wait your turn, we will listen to your side of the events in but a moment.”
She shut her mouth and he nodded towards the claimant to continue his story.

“I came out to find Miss Grant-Freeman writing on my curricle with an iron key. She had already produced several obscenities via scratching them into the paint. I confronted her, and she hit me and demanded that I apologise. I declined to do so. There was an argument, and Miss Grant-Freeman refused to pay for the damage to my curricle without the intervention of the court. I returned to my house and paid for the repairs myself, which came out to £32.”

Wallace’s internal alarm went off. He was bad at mathematics, but that got his attention. He flipped open his file and looked at the photographs made of the curricle, that was some serious damage. Repainting, polishing and fixing that would’ve cost a lot. He still remembered the time he had tried to guide a coach himself when he had been younger and the thing had upturned in a bend. His father hadn’t been too angry, knowing it was the way of youngsters to try stupid things, but he had made his son understand how much the reparations would cost…that had been more than 32 pounds. Quite a bit. Wallace had a bad head for figures, but he had a strong memory and he remembered that little escapade and the effect of it on his expenses for the next weeks and months. Mister Doyle was either lying, or had found a cheaper repairman than Wallace. He tucked that one away, it was all for the better really. John saved face, Tirzah had a lower minimal fine and Wallace could keep this entire trial short. He waited for a moment if John had anything else to add and then nodded calmly.

”Thank you, milord, that will be all for now.”

He waited until the claimant had returned to his seat and softly tapped the gavel to the table again.

”Calling forward the defendant Miss Grant-Freeman.”

He waited until she was standing at the appropriate place and asked the same questions.

”Miss Grant-Freeman, you have been indicted of destroying the property of the claimant Lord Wothersham, how do you plead? I would like you to tell me your side of the happenings too…”

Tirzah steamed and stewed as the f•cking bastard who had almost killed her baby went on about his curricle. She could not wait until it was her turn, so that she could make the judge understand exactly how it was. Which was not at all like that lying bugger over there said it was. She drummed her fingers, waiting impatiently, but silently after the judge had told her too, and then finally, her impatience was rewarded: “Calling forward the defendant, Miss Grant-Freeman.”

She marched very determinedly to the place where the rat-bastard had just been and parked herself there in a manner that suggested she would not be removed until justice had been served to her satisfaction or the world ended, whichever came first. The judge said, “Miss Grant-Freeman, you have been indicted of destroying the property of the claimant Lord Wothersham, how do you plead? I would like you to tell me your side of the happenings too.
Tirzah said at once, “Ah dunnit, yer Honer.”
The judge said calmly, “You plead guilty, no remorse?”
Tirzah snorted. What kind of damnfool question was that? “O' course Ah ain't got no remorse! He coul'a smashed up mah baby good! He dinn' even look back ta see if she wus 'live!”
The judge nodded, to Tirzah’s eyes a little bit more disinterested than she would have liked, and gestured for her to continue.
Immediately, Tirzah began to testify.

“On Wennsday, Ah wus goin’ shoppin’ wi’ mah daughter, ‘cause Ah needed good needles an’ thread an’ she wus goin’ wi’ me. Ah wen’ ta bah her some cannies, ya know them litt’e ones, peppomin’ humbugs, ‘cause those is her fav’rite. An’ so Ah pays for them an’ then she wus goin’ ou’ o’ tha shop an’ then all o’ tha sudden there’s this great ruckus ta tha side an’ then a curr’cle goes bah so fas’ ya blinke’ an’ i’ wus gone. An’ mah daughter is on tha groun’, an’ Ah near fain’s fo’ fea’ she’s dahed. So Ah goes ta ma’e sure she’s all righ’ an’ tha’ man ovah there—” Tirzah pointed at Doyle, just to make sure the judge didn’t miss who the guilty party was “—he jus’ drahves off like tha evil sod he is. Ah pulls mah daughter up an’ dus’s her down, an’ she’s got a huge rip in her bloomers an’ her gloves is all a-tatty an’ her hands is scra’ch up. So Ah’m glad she’s not hur’ too bad bu’ Ah’m mad ‘cause she coul’a been kilt. Bu’ then Ah sees tha’ damn fool ovah there drahvin’ roun’ a corner an’ he’s slowin’ down so Ah ge’s an ahdea an’ Ah goes affer him. An’ Ah fin’ tha’ fukkin barstud’s—”

At this point, the judge interrupted her with a tap of his gavel. “Ma'am, I would advise you to keep your language civil.”
Tirzah blinked at him. “Civil? Ah nevah spoke nuthin' bu' tha truth!”
The judge said, “I respect your truthfulness ma'am, but I would prefer a more euphemistic form of speech, thank you.”
Tirzah frowned. What was that? “You femmi-stick? Wha's tha' mean?”
“Polite, ma'am.”
“Fahn, fahn, bu' only 'cause ya sez i'. He don' deserve i' none.” Tirzah’s eyebrows beetled together and she looked at the judge fiercely, daring him to deny it.
He just gestured for her to continue, and so she went back to her part of the story.

“An’ Ah fin’s tha’ man’s hosses an’ veehikule parked on tha’ stree’ wi’ tha snob bar on i’, an’ then Ah writes on i’. He deserve’ i’, ‘cause he almos’ ran mah baby ovah an’ he dinn’ even know if she wus ‘live an’ she coul’a dahed, ya Honer, bu’ he woul’n’ ha’ cared. So then he comes ou’ an’ Ah hits him an’ sez he oughta apolergise an’ he sez he ain’t gonna cause he’s gonna see me in cour’. So then mah daughter sez tha’s a bad ahdea, ‘cause she can ge’ him too, an’ he smiles an’ sez tha’ he’s gonna see her in cour’ too if she doesnn do i’ righ’, an’ then he sez he woulda apolergised if Ah dinn’ write on his curr’cle, bu’ ya know tha’ wus a lie, ya Honer, ‘cause he dinn’ care sh•t abou’ mah daughter. Oh sorry, you femmi-sticks, righ’. He dinn’ care hosses’ dung abou’ mah daughter.”

Tirzah continued right on, without pausing, telling the judge exactly how things had been. “An’ then he goes on like he farts perfume ‘cause he dinn’ hit me even though Ah hit him an’ then he sez if mah daughter writes some libels then he’ll ge’ her job taken away. So Ah tries to hit him in the balls but mah daughter stops me an’ then he sez Ah gotta apolergise an’ pay fo’ them litt’e scra’ches Ah ma’e on his curr’cle an’ Ah sez Ah’ll nevah do i’ while Ah’m still ‘live an’ mah daughter gives him her name an’ place o’ livin’ an’ then he goes away an’ then he drags me inta cour’. Ah ain’t payin’ him no thirry-two poun’s, ya Honer, no’t when he done behave’ like he did. I’ ain’t righ’.”

The judge listened to her story, but couldn’t help but wonder who had been the most honest of the two. It seemed that Mister Doyle had hidden certain things from his statement, such as the threat to force the newspaper to fire Miss Grant-Freeman’s daughter. That kind of thing was just childish, and Wallace couldn’t stand for childishness destroying lives. The peerage was just as much a subject to the law as the commons, and they shouldn’t dare to use that kind of threats against their perceived inferiors. It went in against his sense of justice if a man, respected as Lord Wothersham was, succumbed to this kind of threats to get his way. Of course, it was her word against his on this question, since nothing had happened. Still, he’d like to know some more about that…

an’ then he goes away an’ then he drags me inta cour’. Ah ain’t payin’ him no thirry-two poun’s, ya Honer, no’t when he done behave’ like he did. I’ ain’t righ’.”

Wallace couldn’t help but think how this would seem to the outside-observer, standing inside the court was a man dressed in fine clothes and with clear noble heritage, indicting an elderly woman who was clearly of lower status over damaging a curricle. It wasn’t as if he didn’t have enough pounds to pay the bloody thing himself, the observer would say, and be highly insulted if Wallace gave the order to pay. Following the law, Tirzah was clearly the one who made the mistake and pay the price, crime and punishment. But to demand a seamstress of a blessed age to repay 32 pounds? That was too much, even if mister Doyle had downed the demand, it’d take years for her to pay that back. Years she wouldn’t have if he asked that amount of money. Wallace let peace last for another moment, seeing if she had nothing to add to the entire thing and then nodded.

”Thank you ma’am,”

He looked at both the defendant and the claimant for moment, thinking calmly on how to proceed with the case. Rachel Grant-Freeman was still here as a witness, but since both sided had stories that matched so closely, he doubted he needed another account of what had come to pass. So, Lord Wothersham had lost control of his horses and nearly hit Miss Rachel, hadn’t stopped to check on her, making him seem more aloof and uncaring. This had incensed the culprit, who was clearly guilty, to damage his property using an iron key. All these problems could’ve been mended if either side had just taken the time to stop and paused as they were dragged along by horses of doom, the first real and the second meant metaphorically. He sighed and spoke, his voice calm and certain.

”I think both sides, combined with the written statements and evidence have given me a solid enough base for judgment on this case.”

He paused momentarily to rearrange all the gears in his head and started again calmly.

”Miss Grant-Freeman has freely admitted her guilt in this matter and is therefore found guilty as charged of the damage caused to said curricle. The law therefore states that she is also responsible for the reparations and the costs thereof.”

He heard that Miss Grant-Freeman began objecting, quite vocally and filled with dysphemisms. He struck his gavel for a moment and looked straight at her.

”Ma’am, I gave you time to speak, I would appreciate the same courtesy. Thank you.”

Even through the patient and polite wording however, the tone was quite clear. Wallace wasn’t too pleased and he wouldn’t stand for another interruption. He continued, his voice returning to calm once more.

”There is however, the fact that her actions were not completely unjustified, which leads me to bear in mind a suitable recommendation to mercy. Any objections or propositions to this course of thought?”

Maybe, if these people were sensible, he’d have this done soon and he could return to more pressing matters…

Helen thought the trial had gone remarkably calmly for one that involved two people with such immense levels of pride as her brother and Miss Tirzah Grant-Freeman. There had been an outburst from Tirzah, but the judge had quelled it, and John was behaving himself on the stand. He had presented his side very clearly and very calmly, without elaboration, and Helen had remorselessly stared at him, so that he would know how very much she disapproved of this entire affair. However, at the very end of his testimony, he gave a figure that was much lower that she would have thought. £32? Of course it was possible, but she would have thought John was going to eke every shilling he could out of Miss Grant-Freeman, and would have thus chosen a more expensive repairer.

Then Tirzah took the stand, and Helen transferred her harsh stare to that good woman as the seamstress called Helen’s brother, in succession, an evil sod, a damn fool, and a f•cking bastard. Helen well understood the woman’s wrath, but John was none of those things except possibly a damn fool, and Tirzah ought to keep a more respectful tongue in her head. Fortunately, Sir Wallace also thought so, and ordered it to be, and the woman modified her baleful wording. Then she said that John had gone on like he farted perfume, and Helen felt disloyal for the sudden urge to laugh that bubbled up in her. It was a coarse but very accurate description; sometimes John was insufferably self-righteous.

However, the urge was checked by the unfair representation Tirzah gave of events. Helen did not think her brother had behaved admirably, but she also knew him to have more of a human heart in him than Tirzah was making out, plus she had it on his authority, which she trusted, that he had looked back and seen Rachel Grant-Freeman stand up, which knowledge had prompted him not to go back. It wasn’t as if he had left her for dead, like Tirzah was saying. Too, he had not threatened Rachel’s job until Rachel had threatened to splash his name over the newspaper. It was not right that John should be painted as such a villainous man, even if he was not behaving correctly.

Thus, when the judge asked, “Any objections or propositions to this course of thought?” Helen nearly stood up to object. Nearly, until she saw John’s head was turned so that he could fix a fierce eye on her and then give a tiny shake to his head. Helen at once understood that he did not want any kind of objection made, but was at a loss to explain why. She did abide by his wish, however, and said nothing. What did he have in mind?


John offered no resistance to the idea of a swift judgement, and neither did anyone else after he stopped his sister from objecting. The outcome of this trial did not matter to him. He was rich enough to afford ten new curricles to replace the one Tirzah had marked. The purpose of this trial was simply to carry through on his threat to see her in court, so that no one could say that Lord Wothersham made empty threats. Sir Wallace, seeing no objections, proceeded to make his ruling.

“Well then, I think that Lord Wothersham will agree that he too has made a mistake, losing control of his horses and such, thereby causing grief to miss Grant-Freeman. Miss Grant-Freeman in turn admits that she damaged the curricle. Both have behaved in a fashion I doubt can be called gentlemanly or ladylike respectively. However the fact remains that the monetary value of the damage done by Miss Grant-Freeman outweighs that done by Lord Wothersham. The court shall therefore repay Lord Wothersham two-thirds of the cost of reparation in short order, and Miss Grant-Freeman will repay the court one-third over the course of the year as to spread the payment. Is this satisfactory to both parties?”

The court would pay. What an odd turn of phrase. The court could pay nothing, it didn’t have the funds for that sort of thing. Obviously, Vandenberg meant something else; it struck John that the man must be planning to pay out of his own pocket. Maybe it would be easier than he thought to keep Miss Grant-Freeman out of debtor’s prison. John immediately stood up, respecting the court, and asked politely, “Your Honour, if the court receives payment on behalf of Miss Grant-Freeman, is her debt to the court discharged?”

Vandenberg grinned, a wide and shark-like, predatory grin. “Payment is payment, my lord.”

Miss Grant-Freeman, of course, burst up that she didn’t think it was fair that she should have to pay anyone anything for scratching up a curricle when her baby was scratched up and worth more than any damn carriage, and continued for a small time. However, she lost steam, perhaps realising that this was the best turn of fate she could expect, and she trailed off, not contesting the judgement.

John said, “The ruling is satisfactory to me. I request permission to approach the bench.”
Vandenberg replied, “Permission granted.”
Under the hawkish stare of Miss Grant-Freeman, who was clearly stretching her ears to hear everything, John approached Sir Wallace, his great height making him not that much shorter than the judge, even though the man was seated on a raised part of the room. Very quietly, so that Tirzah would not overhear, but distinctly, so that Sir Wallace would, he asked, “Where should the cheque be directed?”
He could see that Vandenberg caught on at once. The man said, “Courthouse, my office... oh, and my lord, would you mind telling me where you got your curricle fixed? It seems way cheaper than it was for me.” The predatory smile returned, but there was a twinkle in his eye.
John knew better than to admit he had spoken anything but the truth. His voice its usual calm and with a rock-steady gaze, he looked Vandenberg square in the eye and pretended total obliviousness to the insinuation in the man’s words. “I had it repaired by Nestor Halloway, of 36 Oriole-street. He has a repair-business and does good work. I will have the cheque to your office by this afternoon. Would you be so good as to inform Miss Grant-Freeman that her debt has been discharged when she wishes to make her first payment?”
Vandenberg’s smile and the glint in his eye faded into a soberly serious expression, and he said, “Of course, my lord, and thank you.”

John had no further business. His objective had been achieved with little fuss. He had carried through on his threat to see Tirzah in court, yet she would not be broken by it. Overall quite a successful save to a situation that had been turned awry by impassioned tempers and wilful personalities from the start. He nodded courteously to acknowledge Sir Vandenberg’s words, bid him a good afternoon, and bowed himself away from the bench. He collected Helen, offering her his arm, which she took, as he left the courtroom, and was rewarded by a piercing stare and a pinch on his arm as soon as they were through the doors and out of sight and hearing of the people still within the courtroom.
“You paid it, didn’t you?” she asked without preamble.
“I did.”
“Why couldn’t you have just done that from the start, without bothering to bring everything here? It would have been so much easier.”
“Because I said I would take her to court if she did not apologise.”
“Bold, brave John, always delivering on his threats.”
“Indeed.”
“Even to old ladies.”
“If you want to argue, I can of course neglect to send the cheque, instead letting the old lady pay her own debt.”
“See, and this is the problem. You can’t admit to being wrong.”
“No, that is not the problem. I was wrong in my handling of the situation.”
“Now why didn’t you see that sooner?”
“I did.”
“Then why—are you purposefully vexing to me?”
“I never go back on my word.”
“Lets argue about it later, all right? Lets go home.”
“As you wish.”

And they exited the courthouse together, walking up the street in the direction of the Waverley-street house.

As soon as the rich bugger bowed and left, Tirzah advanced on the bench without asking permission. She trotted straight up to stand right in front of the wooden barrier in front of Sir Vandenberg, and because she was so short, her head barely poked over the top of the barrier. Sir Vandenberg would only be able to see two fierce eyes surmounted by a heavy crown of braided hair. She at once addressed the concern that bothered her, as Lord Wothersham, curse him to slavery, left the room. “Hello, ya Honer. Whut di' tha' bugger wan’?”

Sir Vandenberg smiled at her and said, “Oh, just a little chat about the fine and such.”
Tirzah’s eyes narrowed. What the hell had that bastard been doing? Had he been trying to make the amount go up? That would be just like him, to try and use his station to bully the judge into increasing the fine, which already Tirzah would not be able to pay off easily. Perhaps he had tried to increase it to the full thirty-two pound repair fee? That would be hell on earth to try and pay. Ten pounds would be months of hard living—well, harder living, since it was already pretty hard—as it was. She inquired, “Whut abou' tha fahn? An' ya knows Ah can' ge' ya ten poun' in lessn' six months, donn' ya?”
Sir Vandenberg was still half-smiling. “Strange... but it seems that I already received payment for said fine, ma'am... very strange... I shall look into this.”
Tirzah looked at him with increasing suspicion. “Whut's tha' ya sez? Ah ain't gave ya nuthin' yet!”

Already received payment? And then she thought what he must mean. Oh no. Oh no, oh no! Rachel! Her baby had given him the money before hand, knowing that some sort of fine was going to be in order. No! Tirzah would not allow her hard-working baby to sacrifice her money on Tirzah’s account. She sent a furious glare at her daughter… and it was returned with an even look, instead of the usual guilty glance off to the side. Maybe it hadn’t been her? But if not her, who?
Vandenberg drew her attention back to the judge when he said, “I am very sorry, but I am certain I have received the full payment, and I cannot accept further payment even if I so wished. Non bis in idem.”
Tirzah stared at him. Why was he suddenly speaking gibberish? “Nonbizin i' dem? Speak propah, Ah... alrea'y has i'?”

And then she knew. She knew and it filled her with fury. It had been the rich bastard! That was what he had been up here talking to the judge for. He had been paying the debt for her. She would not stand for it! She would take no one’s charity, not while she could stand on her own two legs, which she most certainly could. She said sharply, “I’ wus him, wusn’ i’! Wusn’ i’?”
Her voice rising rapidly, she shouted, “Tha’ fukkin’ bugger! Ah’ll take his balls off!”
She turned and ran for the courthouse door, fully intending to run after Lord F•cking Wothersham and force him to take back his money. The f•ck did he think he was? The f•ck did he think she was? Did he really think that Tirzah would be grateful to be humiliated by having a debt paid for her out of charity? She would pay the debt herself, or die in the trying. Under no circumstances would she accept charity from anyone, but least of all from the bugger who had nearly killed her daughter.

Behind her swiftly moving form, the judge’s voice rang out, only very slightly louder than normal in order to carry well. “Bailiff, would you be so kind to restrain miss Grant-Freeman for the moment. Gently, please.”
Tirzah sped up, but she only made it halfway to the door before a pair of muscular male arms closed about her upper body, pinning her arms to her sides. She was lifted straight off the floor. Immediately her running legs switched to flailing legs, and she tried very hard to get the bailiff where it would hurt. His shins and knees got a royal kicking, and she would have got him in even more sensitive areas except that he was smart enough to keep it so her legs could not physically get that high with him behind her. So instead she bit his arm through the cloth of his uniform, which produced a grunt. She only let go so that she could start screaming, “Leggo me! Ya can’ do this, ya can’ ma’e me stay here, ya can’ le’ tha’ bugger ge’ away wi’ this, leggo me ya lummox, Ah warns ya Ah ain’t go’ any prollems hurtin’ ya, leggo me right’ now!”

Nobody raised and objections to his intermediate ruling and he nodded, but then someone in the room started to rise. He waited again, patiently listening if she wanted to add something to his words, wondering who she was and why she felt obliged to open her mouth and tell him what she thought. Then, she froze though, as Lord Wothersham shot her a look and a small, nearly unperceivable shake of the head. A back-up plan? He didn’t really get it, so continued with the trial as planned.

”“Well then, I think that Lord Wothersham will agree that he too has made a mistake, losing control of his horses and such, thereby causing grief to miss Grant-Freeman. Miss Grant-Freeman in turn admits that she damaged the curricle. Both have behaved in a fashion I doubt can be called gentlemanly or ladylike respectively. However the fact remains that the monetary value of the damage done by Miss Grant-Freeman outweighs that done by Lord Wothersham. The court shall therefore repay Lord Wothersham two-thirds of the cost of reparation in short order, and Miss Grant-Freeman will repay the court one-third over the course of the year as to spread the payment. Is this satisfactory to both parties?”

Lord Doyle got up immediately and declared he was satisfied with the judgment, that was good, since it was the claimant that usually was the hardest to convince. Someone who was trialed usually decided that whatever punishment he got was probably lighter than the judge could cook up, and took it with both hands if it seemed that he’d be kept out of jail. Of course, this lady wasn’t looking like she would be very grateful, and her indignation was quite clear. Wallace chose to ignore it though, since she raised no real protest, slamming the gavel down twice to signal decision had been reached and that from now on both parties were obliged legally to abide the constrictions he had laid upon them. Lord Wothersham asked if anyone else could pay in the stead of Miss Grant-Freeman, and Vandenberg was quite sure of what the man was planning. As he approached the lectern, his suspicions were confirmed, Doyle just had set this trial up to save face. That was good, made his job simpler. They concluded the deal soon after and he smiled as John turned away. Another good day, if you looked at it. Justice had been served according to the letter of the law and the soul of it. He watched the man disappear through the broad doors of his courtroom and felt quite happy.

Suddenly, a pair of very fierce-looking eyes popped up above his lectern and bore down on him like a pair of burning coals. It could’ve been a hilarious sight, the small woman trying to stare at him from her lower vantage, but Wallace had never liked sitting up high here. It was a necessary evil though.

“Hello, ya Honer. Whut di' tha' bugger wan’?”

Wallace smiled a smaller version of his well-known shark grin at the little explosive lady. She was a bit like a little teapot, always on the verge of blowing off her lid. Both in verbal as in physical manner. Not a lot of respect for decorum too, not that he minded, but it still surprised him.

“Oh, just a little chat about the fine and such.”

She looked at him with a kind of mistrust in her eyes that was so evident it was rather insulting. But she was right to mistrust, he was one of peerage himself…

“Whut abou' tha fahn? An' ya knows Ah can' ge' ya ten poun' in lessn' six months, donn' ya?”

He knew that, he didn’t really know how much Tirzah made exactly, but he wasn’t going to put too much pressure on her. It was mostly because he needed to give a signal to her and anyone else that things like that weren’t permitted. Wallace had always believed that a crime and its punishment should be balanced out, he liked the way the Hammurabi had put it. "To bring about the rule of righteousness in the land, so that the strong should not harm the weak." Of course, Hammurabi had been way too harsh with his laws, but Wallace like the saying. He liked many sayings. He took an expression of minor surprise, but his smile remained in place

“Strange... but it seems that I already received payment for said fine, ma'am... very strange... I shall look into this.”

She looked even more suspicious and stammered the expected reply: “Whut's tha' ya sez? Ah ain't gave ya nuthin' yet!”

His smile broadened and he replied to full truth, Wallace had indeed gotten the full payment, or he knew that Doyle would come through on his side of the bargain…

“I am very sorry, but I am certain I have received the full payment, and I cannot accept further payment even if I so wished. Non bis in idem.”

“Nonbizin i' dem? Speak propah, Ah... alrea'y has i'?” There was a pause and he could see how her water began cooking and steam began forming within her, half-expecting it to come steaming from her ears. “I’ wus him, wusn’ i’! Wusn’ i’? Tha’ fukkin’ bugger! Ah’ll take his balls off!”

Yep, the lid was off again, it didn’t surprise Wallace, she was obviously a proud woman, but he was going to keep her out of trouble. That was his job as a judge too, keep recidivism low. He signaled the bailiff to attention with his hand and calmly called out to the big muscular man.

“Bailiff, would you be so kind to restrain miss Grant-Freeman for the moment. Gently, please.”

He saw how the elderly lady tried as hard as she could to dash for the exit, but the broad and muscular man was faster and younger, he caught her as she reached halfway to the exit. He wrapped his broad arms around her and lifted her of the floor, being careful not to break the woman that looked very small in his arms, but had a volume and energetic resistance to more than compensate her shortage of length. Wallace winced as he heard the sound of a multitude of feet crashing into the guard, who budged not an inch. Tirzah’s screams and shouts of indignation called others to the room, one had his baton in hand and the other was reaching for his revolver as they entered the courtroom with a worried look. It must’ve sounded like a flock of seagulls had set up shop inside the long echoing room. The acoustics combined with Tirzah’s natural volume were giving Wallace a headache and rolling his eyes upwards he whispered to himself: ”I should’ve locked her up, she’s a danger to society.” He looked straightforward and called to the fuming lady with a calm and certain voice, clearly perceptible above her own screaming. ”Miss, I’m giving you a restraining order, do not go near Lord Wothersham again or I will have you jailed.”

He walked out of the box and down to the courtroom, near the struggling guard and his laughing mates. He looked at Miss Rachel and calmly asked her a question, with a small smile on his lips.

”Ma’am, could you save my bailiff before I have to send him to hospital?”

(OOC – all mods have been worked out, blah blah blah, all that jazz.)

Rachel had been sitting quietly in the courtroom since the beginning of the trial, expecting to be called upon as a witness. She was thoroughly angry about the entire thing, and wished very much that the floor would open up underneath Doyle and drop him down into hell. It was not quite possible for her to convince herself that her mother was innocent, but fining a woman of such advanced years was completely absurd. Beyond that, there should be a provision in the law for reckless driving. Unfortunately, she knew that there wasn’t, and that furthermore, there was virtually no way that her mother was going to get off from this.

She waited in the low hum of the courtroom – there were not many people present today, as to most it was not a terribly interesting case, and once or twice found her gaze crossing with Mrs Hardacre’s. She looked once at Doyle, contemptuously. However, most of the time she watched her mother, wishing that she could sit beside her – not that her mother would need her support, or want it, but Rachel simply wished that she could offer it.

Her eyes went to the front as the judge appeared, formally clad and somber in robes and curly white wig, and called for an already existent order in the court. Vandenberg summoned Doyle up to the witness stand, and the baron proceeded to begin outlining his version of events. As it happened, it was fairly accurate. Unfortunately, it was precisely accurate, except for the happenstance that Tirzah was a lady of very advanced age, and this matter had absolutely no business being presented in court at all. Her mother did not help things by interrupting him, however. Rachel stared at Tirzah, willing her to for once sit down and be quiet, well aware that it would be more likely to incite sympathy from the judge on the matter, but silence only came after Vandenberg had ordered it.

Then Doyle went on. His harsh, cold voice droned out as if he were reciting his times-tables. She wished he would just hurry the hell up and get on with things, until the important point – the thirty-two pounds. Rachel had no particular knowledge of curricle repair, but she did have a very good knowledge of her mother’s income. It was not easy for a woman of her mother’s age and colour to find a good job. Tirzah made a little less than pound a week, sixteen shillings more or less – less if her eyes troubled her and she was unable to meet her usual weekly quota. The sum that Doyle had just named was close to a year’s wages. Why didn’t he just ask for a f*cking pound of flesh while he was at it? Set thirty-two pounds against however many hundred thousand pounds per year that Doyle got, and you soon saw what kind of man he was. Unfortunately, that would make no difference to the outcome.

Although Rachel knew good and well that the trial was already signed, sealed, and delivered, after Doyle had finished, the judge called her mother up to the stand. Her face fell into her hands as she heard her mother begin, and she watched Tirzah through the latticework of her fingers. The cursing did not help things. She waited it out, wishing that there was something to be done to end this entire spectacle. Shooting Doyle might do nicely.

She was going to be called on next. What should she say? She had nothing really to add. She had been walking and the curricle had come upon her without warning; she had thrown herself out of the way. She had attempted to stop her mother and failed. Then he had come out of the George and demanded payment for the damage, and threatened bringing them to court. Then, as it happened, she had threatened to expose the case for Doyle – if only she had a camera, because it would have been just too rich to publish photographs of that curricle, even if not in the Lindebo Gazette – and found her threat thrown back at her. Then things had been started on their way down to the courthouse.

She lowered her hands from her face and interlaced them in her lap as the judge began to speak again. He had not requested her testimony. Instead, he was wrapping this up, and making his judgement swiftly. Well, that wasn’t really surprising. He was most likely quite eager to get them all out of his courthouse. To him, the case probably seemed utterly ridiculous, possibly even comical. He was not Tirzah’s son. He most likely had no idea what exactly the sum of thirty-two pounds meant to her. He made at least a hundred thousand pounds a year, and did not have to work in a dim room for fourteen hours a day, seven days a week, piecing shirts together.

The judgement was given. Tirzah was going to be responsible for the thirty-two pounds. Even to Rachel, thirty-two pounds was not a paltry sum. She did better than her mother – considerably better than her mother – but she was still not rich. She could afford it a hell of a lot better than Tirzah could, though. She had already decided, from the moment she heard the amount named, that she would pay the fine for her mother – Tirzah would never give her permission for that, and it would make Tirzah absolutely livid with her, but Rachel hoped to keep her from finding out exactly who had paid it. While Tirzah refused to allow Rachel to offer her any support whatsoever (once, she had threatened to throw any money that Rachel gave her right into the garbage) it would be difficult for her to do anything about it in this case.

As the judge went on, however, Rachel’s expectations were challenged. A suitable recommendation to mercy? She had not seen that coming; she had expected the fine to be £32, straight and simple. What sort of recommendation to mercy did he have in mind? Naturally, she made no move to protest the suggestion.

Rachel’s eyebrows climbed gradually further and further up her forehead, until the statement of astonishing words that really took her aback. The court would pay? Two-thirds of the cost? Her mind calculated swiftly: that was twenty pounds, thirteen shillings, and four pence. That left Tirzah with a fine of ten pounds, six shillings, and eight pence. £10 6s. 8d. That was not nearly as bad as the original amount.

She was startled by another voice – the bastard Doyle’s. What was he on about? If the court received payment on behalf of Miss Grant-Freeman…oh. Oh, no. No no no. She caught on quite quickly to what Doyle was suggesting, and to the reason for his approaching the bench. Rachel’s eyes caught fire and she stared poison at Doyle’s back. He thought he would be charitable to the poor lady and her daughter; now that he’d done dragging them into court, he figured it was his turn to play the generous bourgeois hero. She would be damned before she would accept his ‘generosity.’ If he wanted to salvage his conscience, the time for that was long past.

Her mother lifted her voice to complain loudly about something, probably the judgement, but fortunately Tirzah seemed to realise that she was not going to succeed at anything, and fell silent. There was a low-voiced conversation between Doyle and the judge, the gist of which she could guess at even without hearing a word of it, and then the baron left the courthouse and her mother descended upon the judge. The conversation following that was easily audible by the entire courthouse, as Tirzah discovered what Rachel had already guessed…though the full revelation took a couple of minutes. Tirzah whirled on Rachel first, but Rachel glanced back without saying anything, noncommittally. She simply watched as the knowledge broke upon her mother.

As Tirzah’s voice rose and broke into absolute fury, Rachel rose out of her seat and headed for the aisle to intercept her mother. She knew exactly what her mother was feeling at this moment, and if Rachel could have gotten her hands on Doyle, she would have been very happy to take his balls off. Rachel refused to owe him. But she also refused to see her mother in further trouble for God-knew-what. Assault, probably, and possibly castration. The bailiff reached her first. Tirzah was lifted into the air, struggling madly and furiously, and the police constables from the balcony descended on the situation. It would have made most laugh to see the tableaux. One small, elderly, half-blind lady surrounded by three armed men. Even Rachel felt an extremely disloyal surge of her own sense of the ridiculous. However, her sense of righteous indignation overpowered that.

The judge’s voice rang down from the box. “Miss, I’m giving you a restraining order, do not go near Lord Wothersham again or I will have you jailed.” The sense of the ridiculous swam up again, as the comical side of the Baron Wothersham requiring court protection from someone like her mother occurred to her, but she quashed it. Her path was blocked by one of the police constables, the fellow with his baton out. She told him in a clear voice, “Please excuse me. The lady is my mother. Let me through, please.” The man’s back was turned to her, and it stayed turned to her; he ignored her completely while laughing at the bailiff and his captive, and Rachel’s face darkened. She could not really shove past him. She opened her mouth to raise her voice and call out to her mother when a voice to her side broke in.

“Ma’am, could you save my bailiff before I have to send him to hospital?”

Rachel looked to the side at the judge. She had nothing against the man now that the case was concluded. Vandenberg had been perfectly fair, even good-natured, and she didn’t resent him for his amusement at the situation. “I’ll do my best, Sir Wallace,” she answered. The constable in the way had turned at the judge’s voice – evidently suddenly regaining his sense of hearing, though Vandenberg’s voice had been pitched lower than Rachel’s had been – and Rachel was allowed through. She stepped in close to her mother and the bailiff, so that if Tirzah decided to go on kicking, she would be hitting Rachel as well. Her mother subsided in the physical sense, but continued to shout furiously. “Lemmegolemmegolemmego! Ya barstuds! Yer all a bunch a namby pamby wusses couldn’t stand up ta me if ah was on mah own two feet--”

Rachel leaned in and said in a soft voice to Tirzah, in the middle of her tirade, “Mother, you’re hurting this man.” In order to hear Rachel, Tirzah was forced to drop her own volume and be quiet for a few moments, but she evidently only heard the second part of what Rachel said. Tirzah exclaimed loudly, “Ah’ll hurt him a lot wurse iffen he don’t leggo o’ me!” But her mother had stopped struggling, and there was actually a slightly guilty look on her face. The bailiff lowered her to the floor so that she was back on her feet, but did not let go of his firm grip on her around her shoulders. He had to bend down to keep the half-nelson lock on her.

“He can’t let go of you until you’ve calmed down a little,” Rachel answered reasonably.

“AH AM CALM!” Tirzah answered unreasonably.

“Doyle is long gone,” Rachel pointed out.

“So? Ah kin fin’ ou’ which way he wen’.”

“You have a restraining order upon you. That means you’re legally prohibited from going after him.” Rachel stated the facts bluntly for her mother.

“Wha? No’sense. Occourse Ah kin go affer him. Free coun’ry, Ah ain’t a slave no more.”

Rachel shook her head. “He is under the protection of the court order. It’s not a free country when it comes to attacking other people and attempting to revenge yourself on them. Taking his balls off is against the law.”

“Ah din’ mean tha’ li’rally...Ah wuzzen gonna hurt him. Much. Ah’s jes’ gonna make him take back his money.”

“I think it will be a good deal more successful and legal if you handle it through the post, mother.”

“No. Ah don’ thin' so. Ah thin' he woul’ jus’ preten’ he ain’t gettin’ mah letters. He wan’s ta humila’e me bah makin’ me owe him.”

“He wants to assuage his own pride and his conscience by displaying what he believes is graciousness.”

“He ain’t go’ a conshens, dear. He prolly ain’t go’ a soul. He’s lookin’ ta make me more o’ a pauper than Ah alrea’y am.”

There was no argument to be raised against that opinion, though it was certainly not true. Instead, Rachel stated, “Mother, you really do have only two options. One is to resolve this in a civil manner, through the post, and the other is jail. Please, take the first.” And there was of course Rachel’s own plan: either pay Vandenberg the full amount and ask him to return Doyle’s cheque, or pay Doyle herself personally. That didn’t need to be shared with her mother, though.

“Ah’d rather go ta jail than owe tha’ bugger money.”

“If you go to jail, you’ll still owe him money.”

“Nah nah, cuz if Ah go the jail the court pays mah debt and I jus’ have ta stay in a few years. Ain’t no prollem. Ah been in worse places.”

“No, Mother, it’s not that kind of jail.”

At this point the judge intervened in the argument. He looked at Tirzah without a smile creasing his face, so that it looked even more authoritative and serious. “Ma’am, where you would be sent to is not debtor’s prison, it will be infinitely worse than that. You will be violating a direct order of court, which, if interpreted a certain way would lead to ten years at least. Ten years in nasty circumstances, all property taken away, and you’d probably die there.”

“Well then at least Ah’d die withou’ owin’ that bugger money, wouldn’ Ah!?”

“Not really, in prison, debts don’t go away. That’s debtors prison in which you pay for your debts by hard labour. In normal prison you just spend your days in a cell of four by four…”

“Well, Ah spent mah days in a fo’ bah fo’ bah fo’ befo’, only i’ wuzzen none too clean, wuz i’, so Ah expect Ah’ll ajust.”

“And you’ll still owe Doyle the money.”

"Nah cuz ya can go ge' mah savins and sell all mah stuff an gi' i' tah him. Be a lil bi' mo' than ten poun' Ah 'spect so ya kin keep tha res' dear.

“I could, but I wouldn’t do it for you. I don’t intend to see you go to jail, mother.”

“Well then Ah’d jus’ be settin’ in jail fo’ nothin’, wouln’ Ah? Cuz Ah ain’t gonna stop tryin’ ta give tha’ bugger wha’ fo’ until he takes back his money.”

“Yes. You’d be sitting there for nothing. There’s absolutely no reason for you to go to jail. Whereas you could solve it another way.”

“Ah nevah sai’ Ah waned ta go ta jail. I’ was him” – she pointed at Wallace – “tha’ said he wouln’ ‘cept paymen’ from me.”

The judge spoke again at being addressed in such a way. “I have already received said payment, who it was from doesn’t matter, the debt is cleared.”

“I’ does mattah! Iffen ya won’ take whut Ah owes ya cuz that bugger alrea’y paid i’, then Ah gotta go make him take his money back, soes Ah kin pay ya.”

“However, Mother, you are under a restraining order and you cannot go after him. The only way that you can attempt to make him accept a payment from you is through the post. You cannot go and see him in person.”

“He’ll ignore i’! He can’ ignore me! Ah won’ le’ him ignore me!”

“You don’t really have a choice about it, Mother.”

Rachel overheard her mother mutter under her breath, “Bet me…” and then changed her tone. She said in a honey-sweet, serene voice, “Oh, well, now Ah know. Thankee kin’ly fo’ ya tahm, ya Honer. Occourse. Ya both are righ’. Ah won’ se’ foo’ near him. Occourse no’. Righty-ho, then. Am Ah finish’ here?”

The judge looked at her with a definite light of disbelief in his eye, and then said to Rachel, “Miss Rachel Grant-Freeman, because it is obvious that your mother is in no condition to take heed of her own actions and their consequences due to the prevailing sickness of age, the court states that henceforth, you shall be legally responsible for all her actions and the consequences thereof, do you accept the heavy burden of responsibility hereby laid upon you?”

Rachel caught the meaning behind his words, and she knew what he was planning to do with this. She also knew that it would, most likely, work. “If it keeps her from going to jail, then I do, your Honor.”

“Hoc habet, so be it then. Miss Tirzah Grant-Freeman, because your daughter now carries legal responsibilities for your actions, every infringement of law shall be directly passed on to her. She will pay your fines and carry the brunt of your misdeeds. Do you understand?”

Tirzah exploded. “WHA’! WHA’! THA’S A COMPLE’E MISUSE O’ JUSSICE AN’ YA OUGH’ TA BE ASHAME’ O’ YASELF!! HOW DARE YA MAKE MAH DAUGH’ER PAY HER HARD-EARN MONEY FO’ MAH DEBTS! HOW DARE YAH! AH KIN CARRY MAH OWN WEIGH’! AH AIN’T SICK AN’ AH AIN’T OLD! AH’M FI’ AS A FIDDLE AN AH’LL PAY MAH OWN DAMN FAHNS! AH’LL KILL MAHSELF BEFO’ AH LE’ YA STEAL HER MONEY! DO YA KNOW HOW HARD SHE WORKS?! DO YA!? YA ARE A DEVIL JUS’ LAHK THA’ BUGGER OU’ THERE!” It was obvious that she had completely lost it, screeching like a mad thing. She gave a lurch in the bailiff’s arms, but then stopped.

Vandenberg responded calmly, “This kind of behaviour is exactly the reason why you are not expected to carry the brunt of your own actions and words ma’am. I do not intend to touch the funds of your daughter in any way unless you give me reason to. Appealing to your sense of motherly protection seems to be the only way to keep you out of trouble, and I, as judge and personification of the law in this case, shall try as much to prevent any infringement upon her. If you don’t want to land her in trouble, do not land yourself in trouble.”

Carpe diem, sieze the day…Rachel realised that she had an opportunity here for something that she had been attempting to achieve for a very long time. “Will I be obliged to keep her in the same residence as myself, your Honor?”

“I strongly suggest such an action indeed, miss, she is your responsibility now and therefore, I see little other choice.”

Tirzah said nothing at all in reaction to this, and quivered with rage for a few seconds, but then she slumped in the bailiff’s hold, and tears began rolling down her cheeks. Rachel felt complicitly guilty with the judge, as if they had just killed a puppy together. She knew that they had just crushed Tirzah’s pride. She had manipulated her mother, and even if it was for what she considered Tirzah’s benefit – her mother was freezing up in that tiny attic of hers, and she would be in far better health staying in the Townsend boarding-house – that didn’t change her conscience. “I’m sorry, mother,” she tried. “It’s a court order. I can’t change it.” She slipped in next to her mother and put her arm around her shoulders; the bailiff let go of Tirzah then, so that for a moment Rachel was supporting her mother. Then her mother straightened.

Tirzah ignored Rachel and turned to the bailiff. “Ah’m sorry,” she said, and dusted him down. She was still crying. “Ah hope ya has a nice day.” Rachel glanced at the judge over her mother’s head and heard him sigh. There was something not much unlike her own feelings in his eyes, before he nodded to her, and then wiped his face blank, putting a stern mask back on.

Tirzah turned away without saying a word to either Rachel or Wallace, walking down the center of the courthouse towards the door as though she had suddenly lost all her energy. She looked old and small, walking away alone, and Rachel glanced briefly at the judge. “Good day, Sir Wallace,” she said in a quiet, subdued voice. He replied, “The same to you,” and both nodded to one another. Rachel followed after her mother.

She fell in beside Tirzah at the door to the courthouse, and said with a matter-of-fact air, “There’s an opening for a housekeeper at the boarding-house, mother. Mrs Hyde fell ill recently, and has had to retire from her regular duties.” Her mother was still crying, and completely ignored her. No more words were exchanged.

(Exit Rachel)

Tirzah was confidently expecting to wear down both her daughter and the judge by dint of superior stubbornness, even if she couldn’t win the argument logically. That was how she always won arguments if she couldn’t win them by persuasion. Most people—which was to say, everyone she had ever met, including her daughter—eventually gave up when it became obvious that Tirzah would never, ever change her mind. The longest argument she had ever had was six hours, and the fellow had finally let her have her way just to be rid of her. She was betting that the judge couldn’t tie up his courtroom for six hours, and therefore she should be getting her way well before then. She was not at all bothered by the fact that the bailiff kept her arms in a lock-hold, and she kept up a running stream of counters to everything either of the two said, expecting to be finished any time now.

It came as a great shock, therefore, when the judge, far from bending, figuratively stuffed her in a jail cell and slammed the door shut, throwing away the key right in front of her face. She couldn’t say anything as Rachel took the charge that the judge laid on her—of course it wasn’t Rachel’s fault, because Rachel, despite not being able to see eye to eye with Tirzah on this matter, was a good girl and only didn’t want her mother to go to jail—so flabbergasted was she. This wasn’t arguing. This was strong-arming, this was forcing Tirzah to what the judge wanted using the dirtiest, the most scumbaggy and villainous of tactics. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t justice. Justice involved allowing Tirzah to pay her own debt, not forcing her to submit to this via threatening her daughter. And didn’t the judge know that if he said Rachel was responsible for Tirzah’s debts, Rachel would gleefully take him at his exact word and pay every single one for her?

And so when the judge asked if she understood, she told him her exact opinion of his ruling, and at the end of giving him what for, she very nearly threw herself at him to try and strangle him. Of course, because of the bailiff still having her in a half-nelson, she didn’t get very far, and the jerk recalled her to reason. If she strangled the judge, then Rachel would be punished, not Tirzah herself. The man had found the way to control her absolutely, the way to guarantee that she did whatever he said she had to do. Fine. So be it. She would not go near Doyle. She would allow herself to be humiliated by accepting his charity. She had been humiliated before for the sake of her daughter, this was only one more thing in a long list of such humiliations, and by far not the worst. Hell, at least she didn’t have to sleep with either one, like she had with the tutor.

The judge blathered on about his judgement, and Tirzah subsided into a black cloud of animosity towards him. She very nearly laughed in his face when she said that he didn’t intend to touch the funds of her daughter. Oh, no, he wouldn’t have to. Rachel would gladly do it all on her own, and if Tirzah argued, Rachel would cite the letter of the ruling. What the Hell did the judge know of what he had done? But still, Tirzah could have taken it with a semblance of dignity—that semblance very much resembling towering rage and absolute fury—and she would have kept to the ruling and she would have stayed away from Doyle and she would have found some other way to get out of having to accept his charity, she really could have.

Except that Rachel, her very own baby Rachel, proceeded to blackmail her.

Right in front of everyone, where there was no possibility of arguing because this was a private matter between them, and Tirzah would not drag family arguments before strangers. And of course the judge, probably not knowing what he did, and certainly not caring even if he did know, agreed with Rachel at once. And then it was too late to argue. It was already signed, sealed and delivered. Now Tirzah was commanded by law not only to accept Doyle’s charity, but her daughter’s as well. She was to be treated like a senile old lady, unable to even choose her own place of residence. Tirzah stared at Rachel, and for the first time since she had been a slave, tears began to roll down her face in public. She sagged against the bailiff, who, being a gracious person, did not let her drop as payment for her earlier pummelling of him.

Rachel tried to excuse herself. “I’m sorry, mother. It’s a court order. I can’t change it.” Oh no, not now she couldn’t. Tirzah understood that perfectly well. Not after the fact, not after Tirzah was already ordered by law to be remanded into her daughter’s care. No, Rachel couldn’t change it now. But she was not a stupid girl, and she knew what she had done. Tirzah closed her eyes, not wanting to look at Rachel, just sagging against the bailiff—until she realised that the bailiff had moved and she was sagging against Rachel. Then she straightened. She ignored Rachel, removing herself from physical contact with her. Rachel could not blame this on the judge. Rachel had done it, and she knew it, and unless all that university training had been wasted on a complete idiot, she knew that Tirzah knew it and was aware that Rachel knew that.

Tirzah patted the bailiff where she had kicked him, dusting off his shins and knees. He looked bemused, slightly wary, and sympathetic all at the same time, and Tirzah realised how ill she had treated him. He was a nice boy, it wasn’t his fault. “Ah’m sorry. Ah hope ya has a nice day,” she told him. She glanced past him and saw the judge, his face cold and hard, and she glared at him for a moment before it became too much effort. What did he matter in the long run? So he had been another white man who had the power to humiliate her and had used it. That just made him another one in a long, long line of them. He was not the first and would likely not be the last. If she were to hold a grudge forever against everyone who ever wronged her, she would be filled with nothing but hatred.

She turned away from him sadly, bent and defeated, and walked out, not looking at Rachel, not looking at anyone. Today was the first day of a new kind of slavery. Two new kinds, actually; she would be slave to her daughter’s will now. Rachel came up beside her and said, “There’s an opening for a housekeeper at the boarding-house, mother. Mrs Hyde fell ill recently, and has had to retire from her regular duties.”

Was Rachel really that blind? Had she not wondered why Tirzah had never taken the job of a maid or other service worker? In absolute monetary value it would not have paid as well as seamstressing, but she would have had room and board, and to a frugal person like Tirzah, that would have allowed for the saving of nearly every penny she earned. Nearly all of Tirzah’s current wages as a seamstress went to the rent for her garret and for food. Tirzah would never accept a position as a maid, even a glorified one. Ever. How could Rachel not know that, even if she had never said it in so many words? Tirzah did not bother to reply to Rachel, letting her silence be refusal enough, and headed back to her garret in the Bramwell slums.

It was time to say goodbye to it, and to her freedom.

(Exit Tirzah)