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He could see Josiah nod, just once, but it was enough.

“Levi Weeks, the prisoner at the bar, is indicted for the murder of Gulielma Sands. The deceased was a young girl, who till her fatal acquaintance with the prisoner, was virtuous and modest, and it will be material for you to remark, always of a cheerful disposition, and lively manners, although of a delicate constitution.”

That was why they were here. For a girl who would never have a chance to be a woman. A girl seduced and betrayed. A girl whose murderer sounded the depths of the well in which he meant to drown her.

“We expect to prove to you that the prisoner won her affections, and that her virtue fell a sacrifice to his assiduity, that after a long period of criminal intercourse between them, he deluded her from the house of her protector under a pretense of marrying her, and carried her away to a well in the suburbs of this city and there murdered her—”

Cadwallader’s voice broke. He took a moment, letting the image haunt the jury as it haunted him.

“No wonder, gentlemen, that my mind shudders at the picture here drawn and requires a moment to recollect myself. I will not say, gentlemen, what may be your verdict as to the prisoner, but I venture to assert that not one of you, or any man who hears this cause, shall doubt that the unfortunate young creature who was found dead in the Manhattan Well was most barbarously slain.”

In the galleries, he could see enterprising souls scribbling away, recording his words for later publication. He was suddenly very glad Maria had insisted on his wearing his new coat and tying his cravat for him.

But this wasn’t about him. This was the story of a girl betrayed.

Cadwallader gestured grandly at a tidy woman in brown, her auburn hair covered by a neat white cap.

“For our first witness, the people of New York call . . . Catherine Ring.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

The first, and perhaps the most material evidence on the part of the people, was Mrs. Ring.

—An Impartial Account of the Trial of Mr. Levi Weeks for the Supposed Murder of Miss Julianna Elmore Sands, by James Hardie, A.M.

New York City

March 31, 1800

Caty rose clumsily to her feet.

“Mrs. Ring,” Mr. Colden said gently. “Do you solemnly declare and affirm that the evidence you shall give shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”

“I do.” The words were ashes on her lips.

This was Elias’s doing; it was he who forced her to—not lie. She wasn’t going to lie. But to withhold. She could feel her soul soiled by it. She wished she could scrub it clean the way she did the washing.

General Hamilton stepped forward, resplendent in a sky-blue coat, the candlelight glinting off the red in his hair.

“Your Honor,” he said, in a voice that seemed to bounce into every corner of the courtroom. “The defense moves that Mr. Elias Ring be removed from the room while his wife gives her testimony.”

“What?” Elias exclaimed.

“Your Honor—” began Mr. Colden.

Caty felt sick with fear. Elias was arguing; the jury was whispering; the spectators were humming with the excitement of it all. The lawyers had convened in a huddle by the bench.

They knew. Why else would they ask? Levi had seen—Levi had told. Mr. Colden had explained to her—Levi wasn’t able to speak in his own case. But what would she do if his lawyers asked her about Elma and Elias?

Lie. She would have to lie, and then burn in hell eternally after.

Justice Lansing gave a smart rap of his gavel. “The prisoner has a right to it, of course, if he requests it. So ordered. Constable, will you escort Mr. Ring from the room?”

“It’s just their attempt to unsettle you,” Mr. Colden murmured, as though she were a skittish horse, needing to be soothed. For the jury, he asked, “Mrs. Ring, when did Levi Weeks first come into your household?”

Caty could feel Levi’s eyes on her. “In July last, Levi Weeks came to board in our family.”

Seventh month. She ought to have said seventh month. It was against her religion to use heathen names. Already she was displaying her fall from grace.