The magistrate glared at the lawyer from under great brushy brows. “If the plaintiff will remain silent, we shall do that.”
The lawyer representing me stood, too. He held a paper in his hand. “Your Honors, I believe there is more to this examination than has reached the ears of the magistrates here convened.”
“One moment, Mr. Charlesworth.” I looked up, startled. It was Daniel Charlesworth, the clerk with the withered arm at Foulke’s, a man I had known in Boston so many years ago. Now in full wig and robes, his face softer and heavier with age, it was he. I raised my head and stopped weeping. The magistrate said, “Goodwife MacLammond, for taking action against a woman of high standing with a piece of rotted fruit you are sentenced to one hour bound head and hands in the public pillory which stands hard by this building. This sentence will commence upon leaving this room. There you will consider your temper and your tongue and contemplate Proverbs, chapter fifteen, verse one, ‘A soft answer turneth away wrath, but grievous words stir up anger.’ And, in consideration of that very proverb, though your action was of violence that cannot be overlooked, this body of magistrates believes that your anger was kindled in such a manner that to any righteous woman must have been outrageous. Therefore, your sentence on record is one hour but the time to be served is reduced to ten minutes. The claim is so adjudged. Now, what is it, Mr. Charlesworth?”
“It should be known, Honorable Sirs, that the claimant’s spouse, Lord Wallace Spencer, has filed a deed of severalty on the property owned by Master and Mistress Cullah MacLammond. It would be to the Spencers’ great advantage to cause her such embarrassment that the family would leave, deserting the home and lands forfeit to an attachment such as this.” I turned to Wallace, my eyes wide. Would he stop at nothing?
“Let me see that,” the magistrate said. Mr. Charlesworth handed him the paper. “I see. Well, sir. This is ridiculous. Everyone knows Miss Talbot was willed that farm by Goodwife Carnegie, and then by marriage, she and Mr. MacLammond have owned the Carnegie farm nearly twenty years.” He tore the paper asunder and said, “Let us have no more of that. Mr. Spencer? I suggest you take your delicate wife and yourself back to Virginia, where you may be quite better received than in Lexington. Despite the respect and admiration we feel for your good and generous mother, this society prefers our own. This court is dismissed. Bondsman, take Mistress MacLammond to the stocks.”
I went willingly. America Roberts followed, turned her face, and would not speak to her sister. August and Daniel Charlesworth followed her. The bondsman took my arm and led me to the platform behind the building where stood the reeking pillory. I looked upon that instrument of shame as if it were to be my rack of torture. People did die in such things. Crowds might laugh or taunt, but I had known them to become churned up to throw stones, or eggs, rotted fruit, decaying dead animals, dung, even pumpkins if the pilloried person were hated enough. One time an idiot had been sentenced to serve twenty-four hours after being found in some carnal act—I know not what of a certainty, but it involved an animal—and as he stood in the stocks he was stoned to death.
I climbed the steps. A crowd assembled, growing moment by moment. I wondered if the smell coming from the place was emanating from the platform or the crowd. Did they carry rotted fruit and dead cats or did I smell the remnants of some past judgment, still oozing under the planks even in the cold? America moved ahead of me and put her shawl over the rough wood on the neck trough. I removed my bonnet but left my cap in place to cover my missing hair, and handed her the bonnet.
The bondsman took the shawl and gave it back to her, saying, “Not allowed.” He thrust my hands through the holes and shoved my head toward the groove meant for the neck. After he closed the wide yoke, pushed the tenon through its hole and bolted it, he pulled off my gloves!