ESP 29

chapter 29

When Briony first saw Keith standing in the defendant’s seat, her composure wavered.

…How has he become so gaunt?

In her eyes there were no judges, no grim-faced inquisitors, no crowd whispering as they glanced between her and Keith. She hardly remembered how she had reached the witness stand or how she had taken her oath. Even when the inquisitor, the representative of “The Queen’s Eye,” stepped in front of her, Briony’s gaze still flicked toward Keith.

Is he ill?

He had never been the burly muscular type, but lean and well-shaped. Now he was thinner still, with a faint shadow of worry carved between his brows. To the ladies, perhaps he looked like a tragic, handsome figure out of a tale—but to Briony, he appeared only like a weary patient.

“…Lington.”

She realized the marquis was addressing her.

“Ah, yes.”

“You are—pardon me—Mistress Allington, the former Countess of Dalmore, correct?”

“Yes.”

“You heard the questions I exchanged with your former husband earlier?”

“Yes.”

Before being called, she had sat just beyond the thin wooden partition, listening without missing a single word. She had heard, for the first time, of the corpse found outside Fanshaw’s walls and of the matter with the hat. Yet the instant Keith had said, “I met my wife on the way home,” the events of that evening had sprung back into her mind with sharp, written clarity. She looked the marquis squarely in the eye.

Meanwhile, the spectators stirred with surprise at the sight of the infamous former Countess of Dalmore—born to a mere viscount’s family, yet said to have brought a dowry larger than the combined holdings of most dukes.

…She was that young? That beautiful?

Some among them had attended the wedding, invited out of courtesy as local lords. But back then, guests had gossiped only of the bride’s staggering dowry and of the groom’s good fortune, being of higher rank but poor. The bride herself had received little notice.

At that time Briony had been a small, frail girl, barely shed of her girlishness, constantly cowed by her overbearing father. Her beauty had only begun to bloom later, once she found peace and stability at Ebony. Of all present, only the defendant himself knew this; to the rest, her transformation was startling.

“She looks twenty at most, not twenty-three.”
“What fault could the count find to divorce her? She’s not even inferior in looks.”
“Is there a debutante in society prettier than her?”
“And none will bring as much dowry as she did.”

“Silence!”

The judge’s bark reduced the crowd to meekness, though their eyes remained restless with curiosity.

The former Countess of Dalmore appeared with jet-black hair, milk-white skin, and a blue silk dress that emphasized her refinement. The gown was buttoned to the neck, revealing only her arms, yet the elegance of those lines alone suggested the softness of her flesh. The men imagined what lay beneath the silk, the women envied the youth of her skin—few could concentrate on the trial itself.

Her face was not of the tiny, doll-like prettiness adored in Algonquin society, but rather a harmonious blend: a rounded brow and sharp nose gave her a youthful air, while her deep-set, intelligent eyes lent maturity.

And those eyes—amber, like a cat’s—were clear and unwavering as they met the inquisitor’s gaze. Even seasoned dukes leaned unconsciously forward. Among them was Theodore Byron, Lord of Weardale.

“Mistress Allington. You must answer truthfully. On the evening of December 24th last year, is it true that you met the Earl of Dalmore returning from Fanshaw and went home with him? If you do not remember, say so.”

“I remember. Without a doubt, we returned together.”

“How can you be so certain?”

“That day—”

Briony searched her memory.

“That day I had gone to visit the carpenter’s new bride. In Ebony, there is a custom where newlyweds host neighbors throughout their first month. It was about a half-hour’s walk. The weather was fine, so my maid and I walked there. Returning, they lent us a donkey to ride back.”

“And when did you meet the earl on your way home?”

She nodded.

“That carpenter also rang the town bell. At seven, to end the workday, and at ten, to mark curfew. We left about fifteen minutes after the seven o’clock bell. Nearing Ebony Heights, we met Lord Ebony’s carriage.”

“And then?”

“Lord Ebony invited me to ride with him. So I left the donkey with the coachman and entered the carriage with my maid.”

“Then it was the Earl of Dalmore himself who drove the carriage?”

“Yes.”

In truth, Briony had placed only her maid inside the carriage. She herself had sat beside Keith on the coachman’s bench, facing the crisp December air together. The inquisitor had not asked, and so she did not offer this detail.

“And how was his condition?”

“He seemed as usual.”

“What exactly do you mean by ‘as usual’?”

At that question, even Keith turned his eyes toward her. The sudden weight of so many gazes had not shaken her, but his did. Her tongue faltered.

“Well…”

In truth, Keith had been slightly different that evening. Why had she felt so? Perhaps because the carpenter and his wife had radiated such warmth, such happiness, that Briony had unconsciously absorbed it herself. They had repeatedly toasted the health of Lord and Lady Ebony. They had insisted she not walk home, pressing the donkey upon her.

When the carriage appeared, Keith seemed startled to find his wife there unexpectedly.

“Where have you been? And this donkey?”
“I went to congratulate the carpenter. He lent me the donkey.”
“It’s cold. Get in the carriage. Let Ash ride the donkey.”

The coachman protested, but obeyed in the end, leaving Keith to drive. Briony had lingered outside.

“Briony…?”
“I want to ride beside you.”

After light protest, Keith relented, and she sat beside him. What was different? Perhaps the awkward way he steadied her waist with one arm while guiding the reins with the other, the brush of his coat against her cheek, the way his eyes darted now and then to check if she was cold or afraid.

At the time, Briony had not known Keith wished to divorce her. Half-leaning against him in that cramped seat, she had not disliked it. She had even dared imagine—foolishly—that perhaps he too liked it.

“…Lord Ebony is a gentleman. That evening, too, he was polite and kind.”

“I see. And the carriage?”

“The carriage?”

“Was anything broken, or stained?”

She understood what the marquis was after.

“That carriage was one I brought from the Allington estate when I married into Dalmore. It was new then and remained in perfect condition. If it had been damaged or stained, I would have noticed.”

“And where is that carriage now?”

“…At my home, in Shovary.”

Sir Gideon Allington was a man of careful accounts. Among the items reclaimed upon his daughter’s divorce was the carriage he had purchased for her. Dmitri had included it when he sent her belongings from Ebony Heights back to Shovary.

She added coldly, “If you need it, ask Sir Gideon Allington to send it to Fanshaw. He would know best whether it had any flaws.”

A sharp remark. Keith looked toward her again, but she avoided his eyes.

“Very well, Mistress Allington. Enough about the carriage. Now—about the hat. Did you ever hear that the Earl of Dalmore ordered a hat from Madame Fantine’s boutique?”

“No.”

It was the truth. Briony felt no tension, though she had to control her expression. A letter had once arrived from Undine Isle, delivered by a boy, containing a receipt for a hat. But no man about to divorce his wife would commission an expensive lady’s hat for her. Keith had given her gifts in the early days of their marriage, but never in such a secretive way.

Had he truly meant that hat for me…?

Was the true suspicion not in the corpse discovered near Ebony, but in the fact that Keith had secretly ordered a lady’s hat while planning to divorce his wife?

When the marquis spoke again, Briony even felt slightly annoyed. She wanted time to think.

“Mistress Allington, do you care for the Orlovian style?”

“No.”

“That lady there—”

He pointed to a noblewoman.

“What do you think of a hat like hers?”

“It’s far too flamboyant for me.”

“Forgive the question, but why did you divorce the Earl of Dalmore?”

“Your Honor, that is irrelevant to the charges.”

Keith’s voice cut in at once.

Briony flinched. His low voice was identical to the morning she had left Ebony, when he had told the Queen’s Eye investigators, “Do not lay hands on my wife.”

She felt the sudden burn of countless eyes on them both—so intense it made her grip the railing of the witness stand.

The judge answered slowly, “The court deems the question relevant. Continue.”

The marquis pressed directly.

“Why did you divorce the Earl of Dalmore?”

If she said, “Because he wished it,” it would damn him instantly. But she had come here precisely to prevent that.

Briony drew a breath.

“…Because I disliked living in a poor estate.”

“And what did you dislike, specifically?”

“Ebony had endless needs. My dowry was enough, but there was always more to repair, more to build. The duties of a countess were heavier than I expected. I thought it better to begin anew with someone of higher station while I was still young.”

“Then why testify here?”

Now Briony dared not look toward Keith.

“If my former husband bears scandalous charges, my honor will be tarnished too.”

“So the two of you had poor relations?”

“What do you mean by ‘poor’?”

Unwittingly, she echoed the marquis’s own earlier phrasing, leaving him momentarily blank.

“…Quarreling over money or property, neglect of marital duties, that sort of thing.”

“No. As I said, Lord Ebony is a gentleman. But a marriage doesn’t survive on gentlemanliness alone.”

The gallery’s reaction split.

The noblewomen nodded—indeed, marriage was never so simple. To leave one’s home for a distant estate like Ebony, only to face endless expenses and labor, was exhausting. Any young bride who had dreamed of Fanshaw’s glittering society would soon weary. If her dowry had been spent entirely on repairs, forbidden for other use, that was the earl’s fault.

But many husbands thought otherwise. Especially those outshone by their wives’ wealth or pedigree muttered that the former countess was unreasonable. For all her beauty and money, she had been but a viscount’s daughter; compared to an earl, that was barely nobility. If she had bought her title with money, she should have fulfilled her duties. Perhaps she had belittled her husband, withheld her bed, even crushed his pride with her wealth. Three years married, and no child—surely their union had been sour.

The marquis, sensing the drift of sentiment, shifted the topic.

“If Ebony was so impoverished, would it not make sense for the Earl of Dalmore to seek any money-making venture?”

Keith’s voice broke in again, indignant.

“Your Honor, that is a leading question—”

“I’ll answer.”

Briony overrode him. She feared that Keith’s constant interruptions would harm his case.

“I can answer that. Ebony was impoverished, yes. But as you see, Lord Ebony could not even hold on to a wife like me. If keeping a wealthy viscount’s daughter was beyond him, how could he manage other ‘money-making ventures’? Is there any work easier, more profitable, than maintaining such a marriage?”

“Well said!”
“She has a fiery tongue, that countess.”

The reactions, once divided, now balanced. Briony sensed that half the eyes on her had turned almost sympathetic. Yet the bitterness of her words struck her own chest. So when the marquis concluded, she felt relief through the confusion.

“Your Honor, the interrogation of witness Mistress Allington is complete.”