The Curse of Jacob Tracy: A Novel by Holly Messinger Page B

surprised if they’re lettin her have visitors.”
    “Visitors, perhaps, but they cannot prevent her from conferring with her barrister. I believe the law of this country entitles her to legal representation?”
    “I believe so, yes ma’am.”
    “And dare I hope you have a more presentable coat than the one on your back?”
    Trace looked down at himself. He was clean enough, though dressed in his usual coarse work clothes and boots. He had, he remembered distantly, expected to be cutting wood today. He had one frock coat left from his married days—it was several years old and too small for him now, but …
    Miss Fairweather did not wait for his answer. She spoke a few sing-song words to the Chinese, who came forward and bowed to Trace.
    “Go with Min Chan. I took the liberty of having some suits tailored for you, in preparation for such an occasion.”
    “What occasion is that?” Trace asked, with a twinge of alarm.
    “In case I needed you to look presentable,” she retorted. “Pray do not delay further, we may not have much time.”
    *   *   *
    “S HE DID WHAT now?” Boz paused in his solitaire game, one hand poised on the card he’d just played, frowning at Trace as if he’d lapsed into Greek.
    Trace plucked irritably at the stiff new collar and tie. “She waltzed into Four Courts, hollerin about women’s rights, and bullied the constable into lettin Miss Anna be visited by her lawyer. ”
    “Meanin you.”
    “Meanin me.” He wriggled out of the tight wool coat and threw it on the bed. “She bought suits for me to wear, Boz, three of everything so one would be sure to fit. Just hangin there in an upstairs wardrobe, waitin for the time when she’d need me to parade around—”
    “Hang on,” Boz interrupted. “She went with you to the jail? I thought she didn’t like to go outside.”
    Trace paused in the act of pulling off a boot. “I’d say for sure she doesn’t.”
    He’d ridden his horse to the jailhouse; she’d ridden in a shiny black rickshaw pulled by the Chinaman. The rickshaw had deep black curtains that hid her completely from view, but Trace had gotten a glimpse of the inside: it had arcane-looking symbols painted in red all over the walls and curtains.
    She’d seemed hearty enough at first, as she marched into the courthouse adjoining the jail, and demanded to know who had seen to Miss Anna Herschel’s rights and well-being. None of the answers satisfied her, and Trace had to admit they were pretty flimsy—there were no matrons in the jail to tend to women prisoners, and no separate holding cell for women. On account of the girl’s hysterical condition she’d been put in a sickroom and left there, without food or clean clothes, since seven o’clock that morning.
    “The funny thing was, I think she actually cared how Miss Anna was treated,” Trace said. “She spent almost an hour getting her set to rights before she let me come in.”
    “And they just let her in?”
    “She knew just who to talk to, and just what to say. She threw down the names of the police commissioner and the jail trustees and some judge she said was a friend of hers. I don’t think she was lyin, either.”
    “Rich folks tend to know each other,” Boz allowed.
    By the time Trace was admitted to the infirmary, Anna was dressed in a plain, clean dress—also provided by her benefactress—her face washed, her hair brushed, and a little beef broth put into her. Miss Fairweather was busily packing away the things in her satchel, but Trace thought she looked whiter than usual, and her hands were shaking.
    “You all right?” he asked her.
    “I am not the one you should be concerned with,” she said, through a jaw held stiff with control. “Please proceed with your questioning.”
    Miss Anna sat on the edge of the rough plank bunk, staring at nothing. She gave no reaction when Trace pulled up a folding chair and sat in front of her. She was wringing her hands in her lap, rubbing them over and