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Harison addressed the foreman. “How do you find the defendant? Guilty or not guilty?”

The foreman looked at Richard Croucher and then back at the judges, before pronouncing one word.

“Guilty.”

Chapter Thirty-Six

The prisoner being brought to the bar to receive his sentence, the Recorder, in the presence of a large number of people, addressed him in the following words: RICHARD D. CROUCHER, you have been convicted, after a full impartial trial, of an offense of the most detestable nature. . . .

—From the trial of Richard D. Croucher for the rape of Margaret Miller

New York City

July 8, 1800

“May it please the court, I have no complaint to make of Your Honors or the jury—I have no doubt I deserve punishment for my conduct—but I swear, the girl’s words are all lies!”

Richard Croucher wasn’t elegant now. Hope could just see from the back of the crowded, sweltering courtroom as he made a break from the dock, his cravat askew, his hair coming out of its queue. His lawyer grabbed him by the arm before he could fling himself at the bench.

Margaret Miller cried out, shrinking back. Hope would have fought her way to her—she still felt responsible; this girl had been injured in a room just upstairs from her while Hope, unwitting, had stewed over Levi Weeks below—but Mr. Colden stepped in front of Margaret, shielding her with his body.

“I never knew her!” Thwarted, Croucher pointed a finger at Margaret Miller, his whole body shaking with fear and fury. “I never had any connection with that girl!”

Mr. Harison rose from the bench, his face as stony as the cliffs above New Cornwall. “It is too late now to make protestations of this sort. Your declaration, sir, is contradicted by your own repeated confessions.”

Croucher glared at Colden, at Margaret Miller, at the jury. “They’ve twisted my words—it’s lies!”

Harison raised his voice, drowning out the prisoner’s angry cries. “A jury of this country have pronounced you guilty. In several other countries a conviction of this kind would be followed by an ignominious death, but the humanity of the modern code, of this country, has instead determined that you be confined in the state prison for life. The court think themselves bound to add that it be to hard labor. You may count yourself fortunate.”

When Mr. Harison said Mr. Croucher might count himself fortunate, everyone in the room knew it wasn’t just Croucher’s avoiding execution for the rape of Margaret Miller he was talking about.

Mr. Colden had said it out loud. A trial for murder which lately took place in this city. A trial which might have tried the wrong man.

Maybe it was for the best, Hope told herself doubtfully. Maybe Mr. Croucher would suffer more with his skin cracked and calloused, in sweat-soaked homespun that chafed his skin to sores, and lice crawling through his dirt-encrusted hair, than he would with a swift and merciful death at the end of a rope.

They couldn’t prove he had killed Elma.

“Constables, take him away and see him conveyed to the state prison.”

Hope watched Croucher herded from the room, pinioned between two constables. It was justice of sorts, even if not the justice they’d wanted. At least Margaret Miller had got to see her assailant punished.

It was better, Hope thought, than having a warm posset and pretending it never happened, as Caty had recommended.

Outside, the weather had turned. The day that had begun fair had turned uncomfortably sultry. Men of business hurrying their way down Broadway turned doubtful looks to the sky, which had developed the haze that heralded a summer storm. Hope’s linen shift stuck clammily to her skin. A good storm would wash away the summer stench and the corruption in the streets. But summer rains also brought with them mud—and the fever.

Hope hastened her pace as the leaves of the enormous tree outside the Verplanck mansion began to shake ominously in the rising wind. She wasn’t the only one; all around her, carters were urging on their mules and women with shopping baskets on their arms hurried their steps.

In the house, a fire burned in the hearth despite the heat, rendering the kitchen unbearable. Hope found Caty in the garden, resolutely weeding a row of peas, although her gown was patched with sweat and her hair hung limp beneath her cap. In the corner of the garden, by the fence, Rachel was helping little Eliza pick the first of the gooseberries, showing her how to squeeze them for ripeness and trying to get her to put them in the basket instead of her mouth.

Hope stumbled to a stop just beside her sister. The walls of the Watkins house and the Forrest house seemed to press against her, making the tiny garden feel even smaller than usual. The swollen clouds turned the sky an unpleasant orange and gray. The air was thick with smoke and the refuse of a thousand households.

Caty didn’t look up from her weeding. “I won’t ask where thee have been.”

“I was at the courthouse.” As Caty well knew. Hope had told her at breakfast where she meant to be. “They convicted him. Mr. Croucher. Mr. Colden had him convicted for the rape of Margaret Miller.”

“Not in front of the children!” Caty cast a quick look at her daughters. “I don’t see why thee had to go.”

Hope lowered her voice, so her nieces wouldn’t hear, although she suspected Rachel knew already. Rachel saw more than Caty imagined. “It happened just upstairs from me. If I had heard anything earlier that night, I might have stopped it.” It was more than that. “If we hadn’t been so set against Levi—”