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“They might sleep on the floor of the portrait gallery,” suggested Harison, who was clearly longing for sleep himself. “We could assign two constables to keep them together until morning—and another to bring them some blankets and refreshments.”

“For want of any better suggestions, so be it,” said Lansing. “Constables! See the jurors brought to the portrait room and bring them what they need to make them comfortable. The prisoner at the bar will return to the Bridewell until morning.”

A sound escaped Levi’s lips, the first sound to pass them all day. Despite himself—and his private conviction that the boy might well have done exactly what Mr. Colden claimed—Aaron was moved.

“What about us?” asked Catherine Ring. If anyone seemed as distressed as Levi by the adjournment, it was she. Aaron noticed that she pulled away from her husband, moving to stand before the bench herself.

Justice Lansing raised his voice to be heard throughout the room. “As to the rest of you, go home and get what sleep you can. Court will adjourn until ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

But if our minds revolt with horror at the idea of murder, it unfortunately happens that this crime may frequently be committed in such a manner as to render it impracticable for us to obtain direct and positive proof against the guilty.

—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

April 1, 1800

It was supposed to be done by now.

Creeping into the boardinghouse in the dead of night, Caty felt like a stranger in her own home, in her own body. Her fingers were clumsy on the ribbons holding her gloves; she fumbled with the strings of her bonnet.

Did it even make sense taking off her dress to sleep? She’d only be putting it on again in three hours when she woke to coax the fire back into life and put the water to boil for tea and coffee and stir the porridge.

She needed to put the oats on the coals to cook, she reminded herself. It seemed strange to think that in this endless night there were still the usual rituals to be observed.

She wished Justice Lansing had held firm and insisted they stay.

But that was selfish of her. Caty felt a surge of guilt thinking of Rachel and Phoebe and David and Eliza. Bad enough they’d gone to sleep without her there. What would they have thought when neither of their parents came home? At least they’d wake up and see her tomorrow morning and she could hug them and hold them close before going back to that horrible place where the lawyers in their fancy clothes played their nasty games and stopped honest women from speaking the truth.

Mostly honest women. Mostly the truth.

In the bedroom, the children were all in their beds, Phoebe snuggled up against Rachel, David sprawled on his back with the covers kicked off, Eliza in her cot.

Eliza would be two in just four days. Caty felt tears sting her eyes. It was April—fourth month—tomorrow—no, today already. For the past three months, since Elma had been found, through the long, hard, miserable months of winter, she had thought of nothing but Levi’s trial. They just had to get to the trial, that’s what she’d told herself, and then it would all be over and they’d all be back to normal.

Except it wasn’t. And they weren’t.

Elias banged into the room and began the noisy process of disrobing.

“I’m going to set the porridge to cook for morning,” said Caty, and left the room. The idea of being in there, with him, suddenly seemed unbearable.

In August they would have been married ten years.

In the kitchen, Mr. Colden’s maid had nodded off in front of the fire. They’d forgotten all about her and so had Mr. Colden. Gently, Caty shook Mr. Colden’s maid awake. Mr. Colden hadn’t told her what to do with the girl. The girl didn’t seem to know either.

“He told me I’m to stay until the trial’s over,” she said confusedly.

A trial that lasted more than a day. Who had heard of such a thing? Caty felt a surge of frustration, with Mr. Colden, with everyone, with all these men who talked and talked and then left her to deal with their mess.

“There’s a bed upstairs for you,” Caty said. She was hardly going to send the girl to walk back at three in the morning. “The third door to your right on the second floor.”

Elma’s room. The room she’d slept in after she’d come back from the country. Just a room now, empty.

They’d asked such a lot of questions about which room Elma slept in.

The girl thanked her and stumbled up the stairs. That would be another for breakfast tomorrow morning, Caty thought, in that part of her mind that was always calculating the number of breakfasts to be cooked, whether they had enough clean sheets to last until Monday wash day, and was there room in the hem to let down Phoebe’s dress if she grew again before spring.