“Selah,” he said once my feet were on the ground. “I’m not exactly sure how this is going to unfold, but I’ll need you to trust me.”
This went without saying. “Of course I trust you.”
“I might find it necessary to alter some of the facts from our time in Philadelphia. If this happens, it’s important that you not contradict me in front of the magistrates.”
“But, Henry—”
He placed a finger over my lips. “I may have a way out of this, but only if you trust me and agree not to argue.”
I frowned at him, displeased with the secrecy. “Most men wait to be married before they demand obedience. I fear you’ve gotten ahead of yourself.”
“Please, Selah, we’ve no time for a discussion.”
His green eyes pleaded with mine until it seemed I had no other choice. “Fine, I’ll not contradict you.”
“Thank you,” he breathed, obviously relieved. With this understanding between us, we followed James and Ben up the steps and into the courthouse.
Straight ahead at the far end of the room, two men were seated at a long oak table. They didn’t see us at first as they spoke quietly, their heads bent together over a thick stack of parchment. George McKee cleared his throat to get their attention. The two men looked up, and I recognized Martin Jones, the magistrate who had officiated at our wedding. Judging by his grim expression, the recognition was mutual.
The other man appeared vaguely familiar, with his short gray hair and silver rimmed spectacles. He appeared less sullen than his associate as he studied our little group. “Those of you who are here to observe the proceedings will please have a seat,” he said, casually pointing at the row of wooden chairs running along one side of the room.
Henry suddenly tensed at my side, and I saw his fingers twitch instinctively for the dagger that was safely sheathed beneath his coat. Such a dramatic response seemed an overreaction to the magistrate’s request until Ben and James moved aside. Standing half a head taller than me, they had been blocking much of my view. As they walked off to take a seat, I saw Nathan already sitting in one of the chairs, next to another man.
My stomach lurched violently, nearly flipping over altogether from the telltale locks of long black hair. The man turned slightly in his chair, a satisfied sneer playing on his pasty white face. Just as I had feared, Dirk Fletcher had accompanied the magistrates to Hopewell.
Henry leaned close to my ear. “That murdering scum will regret showing his face today,” he growled softly. “Don’t offer anything you’re not specifically asked by a magistrate. We need to find out what they know before we give anything away.”
“Shall we begin?” the gray-haired man asked, pulling my gaze back toward the big oak table. “I presume you are Selah Elizabeth Kilbrid and Henry Samuel Kilbrid.” In addition to his plain black clothing, the lack of Mister or Mistress clearly indicated he was a Quaker. I just hoped he was a nice one.
Henry remained silent and I simply nodded my assent.
The man looked directly at me. “You have grown into the spitting image of your mother,” he said, quite unexpectedly. “Do you remember me?”
Other than a hazy recognition, nothing came to mind.
“I hardly expected you would,” he said, not unkindly. “It must be ten years since we last met. I am Ely Burgess. Your father and I were business partners before he moved to Hopewell.”
The name and face immediately came together. “Pleased to see you again, Ely Burgess,” I said with a curtsy.
“I first met the late Jonathan Kilbrid the very day he arrived in Philadelphia from the Old World,” Ely said, neglecting to specify whether or not he was also pleased to see me again. “At the time we were both ambitious young men with little more than determination and hard work to recommend us. We became fast friends and remained so for nearly half a century.” Ely paused for a moment and started slowly tapping two fingers on the table.
He had purposefully emphasized a friendship with my father, certainly a bias in my favor. I felt my shoulders relax just a bit. Maybe this isn’t going to be so bad after all...
Ely’s fingers came to a rest and his eyes narrowed behind the silver-rimmed spectacles. “The reason I have mentioned my long association with Jonathan Kilbrid,” he said, all traces of kindness gone from his voice, “is to better explain the nature of my distress at how many times his daughter’s name has been brought to my attention these past two months.”
I swallowed hard as he continued to stare at me.