SOUL OF LEAD

7 December - evening

Dinner was held in the cozy dining room with a roaring fire in the hearth. Verity had set the table with an elegant brocade cloth, polished silverware, and crystal glasses. The aroma of roasted goose, sage stuffing, and sweet potatoes wafted through the room, making even the Major feel a pleasant inner warmth. In the glow of the crackling fire candlelight, his battle scar looked less like a permanent frown. The perfect wedding meal had been prepared and was ready to be enjoyed by the happy new family; if the groom had been anywhere in sight.

"Will you look at the time, Constance," the Major scoffed at the meal growing cold before him. "The poor man hasn't been found since being jilted at the altar. If you have run Anders off, I see no ticket back to London in your future. He was your only hope, you know? If he is generous enough to show up for you tonight, I will expect your cooperation. Further shenanigans will not be tolerated. Though, I imagine, now that your cellar has burned, you will have nothing foolish to occupy your time. You shall be a wife, after all. Married to a man of means, you will not need to peddle your positively poisioned teas and salves. You're fortunate you aren't being tried for murdering poor Lawson."

Constance shifted in the discomfort of her pink wedding dress, fidgeting with the hemline as she listened to the berating. Her eyes darted around, searching for any sign of Bradford. Though she could rest assured neither Anders nor Lawson would spoil the meal, she hoped for a sign of hope or escape. She longed to leave the table and the tension behind but took comfort in watching Verity carve the roast goose. Even with the familiar ritual, her dress became increasingly unbearable, causing her to squirm in her seat. She tried to focus on the food, but her appetite had vanished as nothing but words filled her mouth. "Father," she heard herself speak before she realized it was too late. "I cannot marry Anders today or ever. The law prohibits it, as I am another man's wife. You may now address me now as Mrs. Pendleton or not at all."

Resting his fork on the rose china plate, the Major hung his head. "Then, I regret to inform you, Widow Pendleton, that your husband has been found guilty of murder. Your cousin Thaddeus has been killed. Doctor Stevens was there as a witness. Two men died; your husband has been charged for both deaths."

"Both? Father, I can assure you. Taddeus killed Marc. Bradford killed Thaddeus only. He told me everything the day it happened. Quite an unfortunate honeymoon, to be sure, but I know he did not do it. Bradford only killed Thaddeus for murdering Marc unfairly. He shot before Marc could take aim. He was eight paces in. I know this," Constance cried out, her fist meeting the table and upsetting crystal glasses filled with wine.

Shoving the roast goose from his way and leaning across the table, Major Forsythe reached to slap the tears from his daughter's cheek. "So, you confess your husband murdered one of my finest men? I shall take this news back to the ship for the Lieutenant's immediate execution. He's there, you know? Your precious husband, shoeless, sitting in filth, chained to a man who is dead or close to it. I do hope the despair takes him before the smallpox does. Perhaps the rats will do him in," he smirked, taking a forkful of the upturned goose. Chewing slowly and happily, he sighed. "Had I known the bastard had defiled my daughter, I would have taken much more pleasure in the endeavor."