The young woman put her hands together in front of her chest, as if praying. The stone-faced prison guard wove the cords of the sibille around the thumbs of her joined hands. The guard held onto the whipcords, ready to tighten them.
She looked at the man who had caused her so much pain, both physical and emotional. He looked back. Was the sneer on his face real or imagined? She looked down again at her hands; it would be a small thing to endure if she could inflict pain in equal measure on the man whom she now confronted.
The judge asked her, "Is what you have said in your prior examination true?"
The cord tightened. Pain.
"It is true."
"Is the confirmation you have given here today the truth?"
Tighter now. More pain. The young woman steeled herself. She would be damned if she would cry out.
"It is true!"
The cord tightened yet again. The pain was nearly unbearable.
"It is true, it is true, it is true, everything I said!"
Artemisia Gentileschi awoke, sweating, to daylight and a concerned servant. She rubbed her thumbs, massaging away phantom pain and pushing the memory back down inside her mind. It took her a moment to realize where she was: in Rome, staying in the palazzo of Cassiano dal Pozzo, a friend and patron. She was sweating and didn't know if it was the June heat.
"Are you all right, Maestra Gentileschi?" the young woman asked. She held a bowl of water.
"I am fine. I will have breakfast after I get dressed."
The servant curtsied and left the water on a table. Artemisia rose from bed to wash her face. Her eyes fell on the letter lying on her bedside table and the news it contained. Her father, Orazio, was dead.
It had taken six months for the letter to come via agents of her patron, King Philip IV of Spain. His Most Catholic Majesty was currently an ally of England in the League of Ostend. Due to the war threatening to engulf half of Europe, communication with England was anything but quick. Six months for Artemisia to find out that her father had succumbed to plague.
Artemisia splashed cool water on her face, hoping to wash away her grief with the sweat. The sweat, at least, was cleansed. The grief remained, as well as the old memories it dredged up. She finished dressing, had breakfast, and a carriage took her to the Church of San Matteo, where Galileo's hearing was to be held.
Galileo was the reason she was even in Rome in the summer. He was an old friend, and it had pained her deeply that she had been unable to do anything for him. She was living in Naples, far from where he was being held; she had no money she could give him and no influence she could exert on his behalf. She had written him a few letters but wasn't sure if he'd ever gotten them; she'd had no response.
When Artemisia heard that Galileo was being brought to Rome to stand before the Holy Office—a de facto trial if not an official one—she decided the least she could do was to come to Rome and, if possible, be present in the church where the hearing would be held. She didn't know if Galileo would even know she was there, but at least there would be one friendly face among the spectators.
At least, she reflected as she stood in line with other noble parties, she would be able to sit in a pew rather than stand. Gian Lorenzo Bernini, the Holy Father's favorite sculptor, had made the arrangements. Artemisia couldn't help thinking, somewhat sourly, that it was another favor she owed the man. Almost two years before, he had made arrangements for her oldest daughter, Prudentia, to travel to Grantville in the company of Giulio Mazzarini. Gian Lorenzo would, Artemisia knew, collect on his favors in due time.
As the English might say, "In for a penny, in for a pound." For Artemisia, the benefits received from a favor had to outweigh the inevitable obligations to be incurred in asking for the favor. In this case the benefits were worth it. Because supporting Galileo was not the only reason Artemisia had for wanting to be present at the hearing. She wanted to see Father Lawrence Mazzare for herself. Prudentia had written many times of his kindness; the Grantville priest had helped make satisfactory living arrangements for her daughter, and he had never asked for anything in return. Artemisia hoped to meet the American priest and thank him personally if possible.
Finally, she was let into the church. Crowded as San Matteo's was, it was cooler than standing in the street. She looked around; everyone seemed to be whispering and pointing at a nobleman in very fancy cavaliere dress and the stout priest seated with him. They were sitting not far away. The whisperers were saying something about them being Polish, but to Artemisia—who'd dealt with several agents of King Charles of England—the cavaliere had the look of a Scotsman. Still, with as many mercenaries as were on the loose these days, who could tell? Artemisia was tempted to ask them herself, but they looked distracted.
Then the hearing started. Like every one else around her, Artemisia was completely unprepared for what happened next.
She came out of San Matteo's in shock, along with most of the other bystanders. The strange cavaliere, it turned out, was not Polish but (as she had suspected) a Scotsman in the service of the United States of Europe. Artemisia, being long familiar with the politics of Rome, had no doubt that the implications of a Scots Calvinist being willing to exchange his life for the pope's would be a topic of endless conversation for the foreseeable future. The cavaliere—Lennox, his name was; he was an officer rather than a knight—had not, in fact, been killed. His cuirass had stopped the ball from the pistol of the holy father's would-be assassin. The truth was spectacular enough, but Artemisia had no doubt that before long, half of Rome would be claiming to have personally witnessed a legion of angels defending the pope against the demon servants of Lucifer (in human guise as heretical fanatics) while the holy father miraculously brought Captain Lennox back from the dead and made him see the folly of his Calvinist ways.
Artemisia herself could hardly get back to her rooms at dal Pozzo's quickly enough. The first order of business was to send a letter to Father Mazzare. She knew from what friends had told her where the American was staying; she wrote a brief note expressing to Father Mazzare her desire to meet him, in order to thank him personally for his kindness to Prudentia. As soon as a servant was dispatched to deliver the letter, Artemisia hurried to a room that had been set aside for her to work. She had to sketch.
She knew there would be hundreds, thousands, of depictions of what had just transpired at the Church of San Matteo. Works would be commissioned, and many more artists would complete works in hopes of selling them and getting noticed by the pope himself, other members of the Barberini family, or someone hoping to ingratiate himself with them.
The picture Artemisia began to sketch was different. For her the enduring image of the day's events would not be Lawrence Mazzare's eloquent defense of Galileo or Lennox's heroism, but a young man comforting his brother after the boy accidentally killed a man.
It was just as well Artemisia had work to occupy her. After the spectacular events surrounding Galileo's hearing, everyone in Rome wanted to meet Father—soon thereafter Cardinal—Lawrence Mazzare. Artemisia counted herself lucky that only a week later, she received an invitation from Cardinal Antonio Barberini the Younger to dine with himself and the brand-new cardinal-protector of the United States of Europe.
Artemisia made sure she was looking her best when she went to Palazzo Barberini. As soon as she was shown into the sitting room, she executed a smooth and practiced curtsy, kissing the rings of both cardinals.
"Your Eminence. Your Eminence."
Mazzare laughed. "I'm afraid, Maestra Gentileschi, that I'm not used to being called that yet. I'm not sure I ever will be. And I wanted to tell you what an honor it is to meet you. I've long been an admirer of your work and have been looking forward to this ever since I received your letter. Cardinal Barberini was kind enough to arrange it for me." Cardinal Mazzare spoke excellent, if oddly accented, Italian.
"And I am hoping to be able to discuss some business with you, Maestra, if you would not object," said Antonio the Younger.
"Of course I would not object, Your Eminence." She turned to Cardinal Mazzare. "I am still known, Your Eminence? Where you came from?"
Mazzare sipped his wine. "Not to the extent you deserve, alas. But I have a feeling that's going to change. And your daughter is becoming quite well-known in her own right. She's made quite an impression on Grantville, I can tell you."
Artemisia felt her cheeks warm at this compliment to herself and her daughter. She was sure she was blushing. "You do me too much honor, Your Eminence. I am grateful that you made arrangements for her, and though you have never asked for anything in return, I am your servant if you should ever need me. It was hard to send Prudentia away, but I felt it would be too good an opportunity for her to miss. I wanted her to be appreciated for who she was, not be looked on as an exotic animal in a menagerie."
From the looks on their faces, neither man seemed to know how to handle that remark. Artemisia regretted saying it. Now was not the time to bring up old hurts.
A model of tact, Cardinal Mazzare decided not to comment on that sentiment. "Tino Nobili and I have had our differences over the years, but he's one of the most generous men I know. And Prudentia has been a model of good behavior."
"In her letters, my daughter has spoken highly of Signor Nobili and his household. They have treated her like a member of the family. She also tells me," she said, with a significant look at Cardinal Mazzare, "that she has become quite enamored of a young man. A young soldier by the name of James Byron McDougal. Do you know him, Your Eminence?"
"Not as well as I'd like," Mazzare responded candidly. "Pete, Jabe's father, never grew up in a church. Zula, his mother, was raised Catholic and had her kids baptized, but she doesn't come to church very often now." The American cardinal looked rather sad at this. "Still, they're a well-regarded family in Grantville. Pete and Zula both are good parents and hard workers."
"But he's a soldier," said Artemisia with not a little scorn.
"In Grantville all the young men are expected to have some military training. The girls too, if they can pass the physical tests and wish to volunteer. They complete their training and for most of them, that's it. They're available as a reserve force if they're needed, but most of them go on to other things. Jabe has enlisted for a year, but I'm quite sure he doesn't plan to make a career in the military. You should also know," said Mazzare, with a significant look of his own, "that Pete McDougal is an old friend of Prime Minister Stearns. They used to work closely together."
Artemisia seemed mollified by this explanation. If the young man in question was well regarded, with good connections, perhaps she would not object to a match with her daughter—if one was proposed.
They were summoned to the dining room. The meal was served, and the conversation drifted into small talk. Cardinal Mazzare was fascinated by Artemisia's stories of her time in Florence, her opinions on the notoriously difficult Galileo, as well as her admiration of Caravaggio—another of the American cardinal's favorite painters. Antonio, for the most part, observed; Mazzare was turning out to be quite cultured for a man who, by his own admission, had been a priest in a small provincial town until fairly recently. After the meal, Antonio the Younger broached the topic that had been on his mind.
"Maestra," the pope's nephew said, "I should be most annoyed with you. If you'd wanted to send Prudentia to Grantville, you should have come to me, not Bernini."
"Gian Lorenzo is an old friend. I did not want to disturb Your Eminence with such trifles." Artemisia surprised herself by keeping a straight face while saying that.
"The fact is, Maestra, that I would much rather have you owing me a favor than owing Bernini one." The three laughed. Antonio continued, "I am hoping, and my family is hoping, that you would consent to accept our patronage once again."
"That will mean severing my ties with King Philip," she said.
"That miser isn't paying you half as much as you deserve. You know we are a generous family."
"And you have better taste," Artemisia said. The remark sparked more laughter. "You know, Your Eminence, that I would love nothing more to have the Barberini back as my patrons. I am hoping, however, to go to Grantville. Perhaps permanently."
"Why? Meaning no offense to my brother in Christ, but it is my understanding the artistic world in Grantville, and the USE as a whole, is practically nonexistent." Antonio didn't sound angry, merely curious.
Artemisia gathered her thoughts. In the past week she had been pondering this question a great deal. Bernini and dal Pozzo had asked the same thing when she'd sounded them out for advice; for that matter, it was a question she'd asked herself.
"Your Eminence, in the past few weeks, I received news from England. My father died about six months ago."
"I am sorry to hear Orazio has passed away," said Antonio with genuine feeling. Cardinal Mazzare added his sympathies. "I shall have a requiem mass said in his honor at our family chapel at Sant' Andrea della Valle. But what has that to do with your decision?"
"If you don't mind telling us," Mazzare added. From the look he gave to Antonio, Artemisia guessed that the American thought his fellow cardinal quite rude for pressing the matter.
"I do not mind, Your Eminence. It is a question I expected to be asked. I find myself tiring of the competition. I don't like Naples. It's crowded, dirty, and dangerous. I love Rome and will miss it, but I confess I rather enjoy the thought of being a preeminent artist up north. And I look forward to working where I will be appreciated for my skill as an artist, rather than treated as a curiosity."
"I appreciate your honesty, Maestra," said Antonio. "I must tell you that I have decided to direct considerable patronage to you."
"Would staying in Rome be a requirement?"
"What would you do if it was?"
Artemisia said nothing. The pope's nephew continued: "It is not. It is something my brother Taddeo might do, but not me. In any case, distance should not pose any great difficulties. The distance from London to Naples hasn't proved any great obstacle to your work for King Charles, after all. And it is my understanding," said Antonio, with a sly smile at the American cardinal, "that my American brother seems to have a way of communicating rather quickly."
Cardinal Mazzare did not react to Antonio's last statement. He smiled at Artemisia and said, "If you wish, we—our delegation, that is—would be more than happy to have you travel to Grantville with Gerry and Ron Stone. In fact, I am quite certain it would set their father's and stepmother's minds at ease if you did."
After witnessing the pandemonium the Stone boys had been in the middle of last week, Artemisia wasn't quite sure she was up for the challenge. Still, she didn't see how she could gracefully refuse the offer. And it would be safer for her, in any event.
"I thank you, Your Eminence," she said. "I very much appreciate your kindness. Please let me know when the boys are ready to leave, so that I may make arrangements. I will need to collect my younger daughter and wrap up my affairs in Naples."
Cardinal Mazzare nodded.
"Maestra," said Antonio, "His Holiness has asked me to tell you that he wishes you to see him before your departure."
Artemisia had to fight down a brief flutter of excitement and anxiety. "Of course, Your Eminence. I am entirely at His Holiness's convenience."
It was a quiet night at the Club 250. Sherry Dobbs Murray was drinking alone. It was something she tried not to do too much, but tonight she couldn't help herself. Things were going to hell with Ronnie, her husband, and it was either drown her sorrows or go crazy.
The problem with drowning your sorrows alone, thought Sherry, is that pretty soon you end up going crazy anyway. She had to go home sometime; it might as well be now. With luck Ronnie would be asleep or passed out. As Sherry left the Club 250, she saw a party leaving the Thuringen Gardens. She approached close enough to see what was going on. The only people she recognized were Pete McDougal's oldest boy and the Italian girl he'd been going around with the past few months.
That's when she saw the only unattached male in the group. He looked like a soldier—and a kraut. Normally, Sherry didn't have much use for krauts, but she couldn't deny the boy looked like a stud. Strong jaw, wide shoulders and a nice, tight ass. What more could a girl want? Sherry was lonely, drunk and horny; Ronnie had been hitting the sauce even harder than usual lately, which made him more useless than usual in bed.
Sherry wasn't what anyone would call beautiful. She knew she was sexy, though. The kraut stud gave her a second look. She was curvy, with auburn hair; men in this time liked a girl with meat on her bones. They eyed each other speculatively, and then Sherry joined the group. They went to Constantine and Danielle Nobili's house; apparently, most of them were getting sent to Rome for something or other, and it was a last chance to party with the wives and girlfriends. Jabe McDougal and his girl didn't join them. They made their apologies and left for the evening.
At the house, the conversation got louder and raunchier. The Revenooers Rue flowed freely. This stuff is almost as bad as tequila, Sherry thought, but it gets the job done. Dietrich, that was the kraut stud's name, was undressing her with his eyes, and Sherry was getting turned on.
They went somewhere private, but not before indulging in more moonshine. They were gone for about a half an hour, and all Sherry wanted to do by that point was go home.
Artemisia and Constantia Gentileschi arrived in Grantville, along with Gerry and Ron Stone, in October. In the livery stable at the edge of town, she found Prudentia waiting for her, along with a gangly, shy-looking young man. She hugged and kissed her oldest daughter, and then the two sisters had a joyous reunion.
"You look good, my daughter," Artemisia said. "I trust you have been working hard?"
"Yes, Mama."
"It is wonderful to meet you, Maestra Gentileschi," the young man stammered out in Italian.
Artemisia tried to look stern but couldn't quite manage it. "You must be young Giacomo."
"James, ma'am. Most people call me Jabe."
Artemisia's accent couldn't quite manage "Jabe;" for her, he would remain "Giacomo," "Gia' " for short—the Italian version of "James" or "Jim." She was rather pleased that her daughter's suitor was easygoing enough to accept his new nickname. It was always a good sign when a man didn't take himself too seriously. She introduced him to her younger daughter, Constantia.
Jabe had hired a horse cart to take them into town. Prudentia explained that Signor Nobili offered a place for both of them.
"But, Mama, the house is rather crowded. I thought Constantia could stay with me, and you could stay at the Higgins Hotel. I know you like your quiet."
"Hotel?" The word was unfamiliar.
"It's like an inn, ma'am," said Jabe. "Larger than most inns, though. And much cleaner."
As soon as all passengers and baggage were stowed on the cart, they lurched off. Artemisia and Constantia were too tired for a full tour of Grantville, but Jabe and Prudentia pointed out some of the sights on the way to the hotel. Constantia pointed at the decorations on the street.
"Are you preparing for a celebration?" the ten-year-old asked in fair English.
"Yes," Jabe said. "Our president—well the president of Thuringia-Franconia, anyway, not the whole USE—our president, Ed Piazza, had Congress declare October 7 a holiday. State government offices will be closed and everything. There's also going to be lots of ceremonies and celebrations up in Magdeburg."
"It's in honor of the heroes of the Battle of Wismar. It's the first anniversary," Prudentia added.
"Officially, they're calling it 'Remembrance Day,' " Jabe continued. "But most of us call it 'Hans Richter Day.' There's going to be lots of parties."
"I know you're tired of traveling, Mama, but we will need to leave for Magdeburg in a couple of days."
"One of Prudentia's paintings is being officially presented to Princess Kristina."
Her daughter blushed deeply. Jabe grinned wickedly, enjoying putting Prudentia on the spot.
Prudentia recovered quickly, though, and gave as good as she got. "Just wait till you see Jabe's documentary. It's being televised again." It was Jabe's turn to blush now. Artemisia was unfamiliar with "documentary" and "televised," but judging from the banter between her daughter and young Gia, she thought it might be wise to start raising money for a dowry.
Sherry knew she couldn't hide things from Ronnie much longer; if she didn't say something soon, her body would tell the tale for her. She was long past being "late," and was getting sick pretty much every day. If her husband wasn't drunk or hung over all the time, he'd have noticed something was up long before now, but even Ronnie wouldn't be clueless enough to miss a bulging belly. Better to tell him now and get it over with.
Ronnie's reaction was even worse than Sherry imagined it would be. He didn't hit her; that wasn't Ronnie's way. But the verbal abuse was worse than his fists would have been.
"You fucking kraut-loving slut! Whore! How much did he pay you, huh? Did that include popping out his fucking little kraut bastard kid? Whore! Stupid fucking whore! I bet you'd do your dad too if you had the chance!" From there Ronnie just got louder and less coherent. It was too much, even for the Club 250. They were kicked out, Ronnie calling her everything he could think of every step of the way.
Artemisia had had three days to recover from her trip. Constantia had been having fun tagging along with Prudentia, which kept her occupied. Jabe managed to get a day off from his work in the Grantville office of the Joint Armed Services Press Division to give her "the grand tour" and to help her get properly settled in. The first order of business was setting up a bank account. After that was done, Jabe engaged a local "real estate agent," Huddy Colburn, to find a short-term lease. It would give her time to decide what she needed for a house in Grantville.
At her audience with Pope Urban VIII, before she left Rome, Artemisia was given several commissions. Urban, after seeing her initial sketches for a painting of Frank Stone comforting his brother at San Matteo, told her he wanted the original when it was completed and directed her to paint a copy as a wedding gift for Frank and Giovanna Stone. In addition to that work, she would complete an altarpiece for Sant' Andrea della Valle, and there were frescoes to be painted in a USE church. The specific church would be left up to Cardinal Mazzare or his appointed agent, though the holy father made it clear that he expected to be kept informed as work progressed.
The practical upshot of all this was that Artemisia had two hundred scudi—about $10,000 in USE paper money—to sustain her and her household in Grantville for a few months, an advance on the commissions the pope had given her. She had a letter of credit for an additional twelve hundred scudi she could access once the altarpiece and painting were finished and work began on the frescoes. To show her appreciation for Jabe's efforts, Artemisia paid for dinner at the Thuringen Gardens.
When they left, the plan was to join Tino and Vivian Nobili for dessert at their house. It was a Saturday night, the Gardens was at its busiest and dessert with the Nobilis would be a chance for quiet conversation. As soon as they got outside, Artemisia noticed a couple arguing in front of a rather disreputable-looking establishment across the street from the Thuringen Gardens.
Jabe recognized the man's voice. "Ronnie Murray. He's a drunk and a bully." The scorn in the young man's voice surprised Artemisia; it didn't seem to fit with his nature, as she'd gotten to know him over the last few days. From the look on Prudentia's face, she was a little surprised as well.
"Let's go," Jabe urged. "He probably won't hit Sherry. Odds are he's so trashed he won't even remember this tomorrow." If not for Ronnie's choice of words, Artemisia might have agreed and kept on walking. However . . .
Ronnie's words echoed in her mind and became something else: "She was wild and leading a bad life . . . she was a whore, and her father didn't know how to remedy this . . . she told me her father wanted to use her exactly as if she were his wife . . . she flirted out of her window so much you'd have thought her house was a bordello."
These words flared inside Artemisia Gentileschi, erupting from a core of rage that remained at the center of her, even though it had been nearly a quarter-century since those lies had been directed against her in open court. Without being fully aware of what she was doing, Artemisia marched toward the argument. She spared only a quick glance back at Jabe; he was frozen, as if he couldn't decide what he should do.
Drunk and furious as Ronnie was, it took the brute a moment to realize she was even there. He tailed off in disbelief—he seemed shocked that someone had actually gotten involved.
"Monster! Bastarde! Leave her alone!"
Ronnie Murray found himself looking not at his cowering wife but at a very determined woman, a total stranger to him. Artemisia had never been petite but at forty-one the stockiness of middle age had long since set in; clearly she was not a tiny female inclined to back down against the likes of a cowardly bully. If looks could have killed, Artemisia's dark eyes, burning with fury, would have been deadly weapons.
"Mind your own goddamned business, bitch," Ronnie growled. "Or I'll give you what I'm gonna give her."
Eerily calm, Artemisia pulled out the knife she always carried with her, ever since . . . that day. Ladylike it was not, but she long ago determined that whoever tried to do to her what Agostino Tassi had done would pay. Dearly.
Fortunately for Ronnie two local constables chose that moment to arrive.
Marvin Tipton and Jürgen Neubert were technically off duty. Marvin had just received news that he was to be a grandfather, and Jürgen had insisted they have a drink together when their shift was done. When the disturbance call went out over the radio, Marvin told the dispatcher he and Jürgen would handle it, as they were already on their way to the Gardens. Marvin had to suppress a smile when he saw a woman holding a knife on Ronnie Murray.
"Okay, what's going on here?" Marvin asked.
He almost wished he hadn't asked the question. Ronnie started up with his rambling, drunken, profanity-laced version of events; Artemisia, reverting to her native language under stress, was trying to talk over Ronnie, ably backed by her two daughters. Jabe McDougal was trying to say what he had seen. Sherry Murray, Marvin noted, was the only one not saying anything.
"QUIET!" When everyone had fallen silent, Marvin continued: "Jürgen, why don't you take the ladies to the station in the cruiser? I'll find somewhere better to talk to Ronnie. Sergeant McDougal?" asked Marvin, turning to Jabe.
"Yes sir?"
"See the girls home. Where can I get hold of you?"
"I think I'll wait with Prudentia and her sister at the Nobilis' house, Officer Tipton," Jabe said.
"Good. I'll call you there when we're done." With that, Marvin led Ronnie back toward the Club 250, and Jürgen escorted Artemisia and Sherry to the patrol car.
Marvin caught up with Jürgen at the station about an hour later. The two women were nowhere to be seen. "They are at Leahy Medical Center. Herr Doktor Adams is examining Frau Murray," Jürgen said. "It seemed to me correct procedure after Frau Murray told me what happened. I told Herr Doktor we would meet him at the medical center after you returned."
"You can fill me in on the way, I guess. So much for a drink at the Gardens."
Jürgen gave Marvin the complete story, recounting his report. Sherry had broken down once they'd arrived at the station, and the whole story came pouring out, more to the woman with her than to Jürgen. A few nights before Ed Piazza's embassy departed for Rome, there had been a party.
As Marvin drove, Jürgen continued reading from Sherry's statement: "There was this young kraut—Marine, I think. He looked good. Ronnie hasn't . . . well, the kraut looked good, like I said. We were pretty smashed, we went off alone and things started getting kinda hot and heavy. I was into it, y'know, I was liking it. But when he started getting under my shirt, I started thinking what if Ronnie found out? And I told the guy I wanted to stop. But he wouldn't. He just kept on . . . he wouldn't stop." His partner looked at him, his face full of concern. "Marvin, she started crying then, and I could not get any more information, but it was clear she should go to the medical center."
"You were right. What about the Italian lady?"
Jürgen couldn't resist a wide smile. "Artemisia Gentileschi, famous artist; she's painted for kings. She said I had an interesting face, and she might want to sketch me!"
Somehow Marvin wasn't surprised that his partner knew who this Artemisia whoever was. Jürgen had a deep curiosity about the world, and Marvin knew for a fact he spent a lot of his free time in the library. He even took his cousin's family there on weekly outings. If Jürgen Neubert were up-time, Marvin thought, he'd probably go on Jeopardy! and win a bunch of money.
"And what about you, Marvin? What of Herr Murray?" asked Jürgen.
"Well, I think I talked Ronnie into not pressing charges against Ms. Gentileschi." Judging from Jürgen's expression, Marvin figured he hadn't mangled the woman's name too badly "He could always change his mind, but I told him it was a waste of time."
"Frau Gentileschi did pull a knife on him. That is a violation." Jürgen was one of the most by-the-book officers Marvin had ever worked with.
"Maybe. But a judge or jury wouldn't convict. She wasn't even really threatening Ronnie with it; she was just making him think twice. Even Ronnie admitted as much."
They'd arrived at Leahy Medical Center. Jürgen parked the car, and the officers headed inside. Marvin paused before opening the door.
"Mark my words, Jürgen. If Sherry's story is even close to true, there's going to be a world of trouble."
"Well, Sherry's definitely pregnant," said Dr. Jeffrey Adams as he came into the office where Marvin and Jürgen were waiting for him. "Ten to twelve weeks, probably, based on when she thinks her last period was. Hard to tell exactly without doing an ultrasound, which I can't do."
"Was she violated, Herr Doktor?" asked Jürgen.
"She says she was. Medically? There's no way to tell, not now. If she'd gotten an exam right away, we might have been able to say, but nearly three months later?" He shrugged.
"She didn't mention any names, perhaps, Herr Doktor?"
He thought for a moment. "She wasn't sure. She said he was German. Definitely a Marine, attached to the Rome delegation. Thought his name was Dieter, Dittmar, something like that. She didn't remember for sure. Said she was pretty drunk at the time."
"That matches her official statement," said Marvin. "I was almost hoping she was lying. Damn. Damn, damn, damn. This is going to be a mess."
The constables—Marvin and Jürgen—took Artemisia and Sherry to the Higgins Hotel. It hadn't been easy for Artemisia to turn down Tino Nobili's offer to stay at his place, but with Constantia staying there and the grandchildren often there when Danielle needed a babysitter, the Nobili house was too crowded and noisy for her. The Higgins Hotel would do until Signor Colburn found suitable housing for her and her daughters.
By the standards of the day, the Higgins Hotel was luxurious, not to mention maybe the cleanest inn on the European continent. Artemisia thought it even put her rooms at Cassiano dal Pozzo's Roman palazzo to shame. There was a helpful staff that would deliver meals to the room upon request; all one needed to do was call them on a device known as a "telephone." Each room had two beds with freshly laundered sheets, a bathroom with running water, electric lighting (and what a marvel that was), something called a "hot plate" for heating water, a teapot and a selection of "Frau Tibelda" brand teas. Artemisia selected a packet labeled "Frau Tibelda's Calming Chamomile" and started some water heating. She noticed the woman standing in the middle of the room, not doing or saying anything.
Artemisia indicated one of the beds. "That one's yours. You can sleep here as long as you need to."
The woman—Sherry—didn't move. "Why're you doing this? You don't know me."
Artemisia studied the teapot sitting atop the burner. "My name is Artemisia," she said, realizing the woman probably hadn't caught her name with all that had gone on. "Your man said some things that made me angry. No one should say that to someone they care about."
She sat down on the bed. "He's my husband. Ronnie."
Artemisia nodded. "May I ask you something?" Sherry merely shrugged. "Are you so sure that the child isn't your husband's?"
Sherry laughed bitterly. "Ronnie's been snipped." Artemisia looked at her questioningly. "So he don't have no kids. You know?"
Sherry had shut down mentally when Ronnie started laying into her, but she was finally starting to come back to herself. She realized that the woman now making tea for her was clearly a down-timer. Sherry was fuzzy on people's status, but she could tell this Italian woman's clothes were well-made. That probably meant she was important. Which left Sherry even more puzzled as to why this woman gave a damn about the likes of her. Be that as it may, this woman wouldn't know what a vasectomy was.
"He didn't seem like he'd been unmanned," Artemisia said seriously.
It took Sherry a moment to realize what Artemisia meant by "unmanned." When she did, she had her first good laugh in months. She laughed so hard she cried, and Artemisia couldn't help joining in. Sherry attempted to explain.
"No, nothing like that. They didn't cut off his balls. Though in Ronnie's case that might've been good. There's like a little tube thingie that runs to a man's thing. They close that off, and a guy can't have no kids. Ronnie didn't want 'em. Said one woman trapped him that way, and it wasn't going to happen again."
"I see. Your surgeons truly are skilled if they can do such a thing," said Artemisia. The water was now boiling; she turned off the hot plate and poured two cups. She set a strainer in each to let the tea steep. "That would be difficult, if a man knew for certain he couldn't have children."
"I've thought about getting rid of it. But . . . I don't know."
"Abortions are so easy to get here?" Artemisia asked, surprised.
"Doc Adams'll do them if you're not too far along. Or the Jew doctor, Becky Stearns' dad."
Artemisia couldn't help goggling a little. This woman—obviously lower class—could speak casually of going to a doctor of such renowned reputation as Balthazar Abrabanel? Artemisia didn't know Balthazar personally, but she was acquainted with several members of the Abrabanel clan's Italian branch, and they spoke highly of Balthazar's medical skills. Artemisia had suspected her daughter's reports of Grantville's wealth and radical notions of equality were exaggerated. Now she knew they weren't.
"Dotto Adams certainly seemed knowledgeable. And Dotto Abrabanel's skills are widely praised. An abortion from either one should be safe I would think."
A quick check of the tea showed it had steeped long enough. Artemisia gave a cup to Sherry and took a careful sip from her own. Sherry just held her tea, watching the steam rise off the cup.
"I've thought about it. But I'm thirty-four. I probably won't have a chance to have another one, especially if I end up trying to patch things up with Ronnie. I always thought I was okay with not having kids, but now . . ." Sherry trailed off.
"It's not an easy decision." Artemisia paused for a moment, as she decided whether or not to go on. "I have two daughters, you know."
"Well, I kinda figured the girl going with Jabe McDougal was yours."
"When I found myself expecting my younger daughter, Constantia, I was faced with a similar decision. I was pretty sure she was my husband's, but not certain. We had been living apart for several years by then but were trying to reconcile. He wasn't the only man sharing my bed at the time. In the end, I decided to have Constantia."
"That's not the only reason you're helping me," said Sherry rather sharply. It was almost as if she were issuing a challenge.
Artemisia was not offended. She smiled at Sherry. "You are quite right, Signora Murray. It is not. But that is a story best left for another time. Drink your tea, and then it will be time to sleep. You need your rest."
"You should call me Sherry. If we're going to be roomies, I don't want you calling me 'senyora.' "
"Of course."
"Can I ask you another question, Artemisia?" She nodded. "Did you ever regret it? Having your little girl, I mean?"
Artemisia smiled. "Not for one moment, Sherry. Not a single moment."
On Monday morning, September twenty-ninth—two days after the incident at the Club 250—the first order of business for Officers Tipton and Neubert was to pay a visit to Wes Jenkins. Head of the civilian administrative office in Fulda until recently, Wes had accepted an appointment to head up the State of Thuringia-Franconia Consular Service and had moved back to Grantville with his new wife, Clara. He had been at his post less than a month. Wes and Marvin chatted while one of staff looked for a list of Roman embassy personnel. Marvin briefly recounted the events of Saturday night. Wes groaned theatrically.
"You know, after everything that happened this summer, I was hoping I could just come back here, relax a little and enjoy married life. No rest for the weary, I guess."
"Are you?" asked Marvin.
"Am I what?"
"Enjoying married life?"
Wes couldn't resist a grin. "We're managing to enjoy it just fine."
"Well, congratulations, Wes. Really."
"Thanks. Congratulations yourself, by the way, on Sarah. Clara was telling me the news the other day—don't ask me where she heard about it. Maybe I'll join you at the Gardens."
"Sure. If I ever get the chance."
The assistant came in with a copy of the list and handed it to Marvin.
"Thanks. Thanks again, Wes. This is someone else's headache now."
"Thank goodness," Wes said. "Tonight at the Gardens, then?"
"Sure. As long as no Italian artists pull a knife on any white trash drunks, we're on."
A cart carrying the Gentileschis pulled up to the front gate of the Grantville Army base. They'd come to pick up Jabe on their way to the railroad station. They were due to leave for Halle on the afternoon train and from there travel to Magdeburg by riverboat. The girls waited while Artemisia went to get Jabe; she wanted to see where the young man worked. After the sentry placed a quick call to the press office, she was let through.
When she expressed doubts about Jabe being a soldier, Artemisia had assumed that the Americans, like everyone else, let their mercenaries run wild throughout the countryside or in garrison towns unless they were needed for battle. She saw how wrong she was. Even one such as her, not familiar on a personal basis with military procedure, could tell at a glance the people in this camp were orderly and disciplined. No one bothered her as she walked; in fact, one young man was kind enough to escort her to the press office when she got lost.
When Artemisia arrived at the press office, she found Jabe in the middle of a group as unruly as any Neapolitan mob she'd ever seen. He nodded when he saw her and began fighting his way toward her, handing out sheets of paper and shouting "No comment!" the whole way. When he finally reached her side, the young man looked as harried as a woman with three young children.
"You're a sight for sore eyes, Artemisia."
Artemisia understood the intended, if not the literal, meaning of the expression from the obvious relief in Jabe's voice.
"Do you have to deal with such savage behavior every day, Gia'?"
Jabe laughed. "No, thank goodness."
"Then what were you handing out that those people were eager for?"
"A press release. I'll tell you more about it later. It's about Sherry Murray, so it might end up concerning you anyway, at least partly."
Artemisia nodded. "If they want any information out of me, they had best be more polite about it."
Jabe chuckled. "If not, can I get you to pull a knife on them? Maybe it'll improve their manners."
They continued chatting on the way to the train station. Artemisia was nervous about traveling in such an outlandish device. Talking with Jabe was taking her mind off things, and after the scene she'd witnessed, she was interested in hearing more about his job.
"Most of the time things aren't that crazy," Jabe said. He went on to explain that Grantville itself had four newspapers: the Times, the Free Press (which published a German edition as the Freie Presse), the Daily News and a relatively new weekly, Freiheit!, which was published by the Grantville Freedom Arches and which hewed to the Committee of Correspondence line on the issues of the day.
That paper's opposite number was a weekly out of Rudolstadt called Die Wochliche Krone, known as The Weekly Crown to its English-speaking readership. The Weekly Crown was modeled on up-time news and commentary magazines and was firmly in the Crown Loyalist camp. Rudolstadt's newspaper, the Rudolstadt Taggeblatt—or Rudolstadt Daily Times (though it did well to come out three times a week)—was more neutral than the weekly, though it generally tended to be skeptical of Prime Minister Stearns and his policies. In addition, Jabe explained, the papers from Saalfeld, Suhl and occasionally Jena sent correspondents to the Grantville office, and there were freelancers who wrote dispatches for the Thurn und Taxis imperial couriers to distribute along their route. By the time he was done explaining all this, Artemisia was convinced that Jabe showed more bravery by facing these "journalists" than if he'd been fighting alongside the Swede in his military campaigns.
She could hardly believe it when they arrived in Magdeburg. For all her initial nervousness, Artemisia decided she quite liked traveling by rail. It was far faster and much more comfortable than carriage travel. She didn't even feel exhausted, as she usually did after even a relatively short carriage ride.
If Artemisia was happy to reach Magdeburg, her daughter was ecstatic. She'd never seen Prudentia so excited, and she couldn't blame her daughter. She remembered the first time she'd completed a commission for an important client. In the years since, she'd painted for people even more important than Grand Duke Cosimo II Medici, but even working for King Philip or the holy father didn't quite match the pride and excitement she'd felt when she'd delivered that first painting to His Grace. She knew Prudentia would be feeling the same thing when she presented her painting to Princess Kristina in just a few days. But even as Artemisia applauded her daughter in a ceremony at Hans Richter Square, she couldn't help wondering what was going on with Sherry.
Back in Grantville, the police went over the list supplied by Consular Affairs. There was only one person on the list with a name close to what Sherry thought her attacker's name was: Marine Lance Corporal Dietrich Linn. Marvin Tipton wasn't the only one who sensed this was trouble. Just because John Simpson's political campaign was in the past didn't mean that the divisions it attempted to exploit were completely forgotten. No one wanted anything to do with this case and kept trying pass the buck to a higher authority.
Police Chief Preston Richards didn't know for certain who had jurisdiction over military personnel. Grantville hadn't been near any military bases before the Ring of Fire, so it wasn't a problem the police department had ever had to deal with. He forwarded Neubert's and Tipton's report to Ed Piazza's office. Preston figured this was why Ed was president.
Ed viewed it as a matter for USE military command to handle and kicked it up to Magdeburg to General Torstensson and his staff. Torstensson's adjutant made inquiries and found that the civilian authorities had jurisdiction. Just to cover themselves, however, the general staff kicked the matter to the prime minister's office. By all reports, Mike had a fit and told Ed Piazza what needed to be done in no uncertain terms.
The Chief Justice of the State of Thuringia-Franconia poured two fingers of scotch for his father. He had a very big favor to ask, and he was dipping into his last bottle of eighteen-year-old Oban to "grease the wheels," so to speak. Chuck had gotten a taste for the brand on a trip to the Hebrides back before the Ring of Fire, and it became one of the former small-town lawyer's few indulgences.
"This must be serious, son," said Thomas Price Riddle. "I know how you've been hoarding this ever since the Ring of Fire." He sipped the scotch, smiling in appreciation.
Chuck locked the Oban away and sipped his own glass. "Alex and Julie have standing instructions for bringing some good stuff back with them. When I told Alex what I was ready to pay, he thought I was nuts."
"You're changing the subject, son," the older man said. "If this is some sticky legal problem you need your old man's help on, you didn't need to break into the secret stash. Not that I don't appreciate it."
"It is a sticky legal problem, Dad, but it's not your opinion I need. It's you." Chuck handed his father the memo.
Tom read it and frowned. "Judge in Extraordinary?"
"The official paperwork's on its way over from Ed's office even as we speak," said Chuck. "He wants you to preside over this trial." Chuck summarized the facts of the case for his father.
"But why me?" Thomas asked.
"Two reasons. The first is that Maurice Tito has more than he can handle on his docket as it is in the Grantville courts. This trial may take weeks, and everything else would grind to a halt." Chuck made a mental note to stay on the state congress's case about appointing more judges to help Maurice handle his increasing caseload. "Second, you're about the only person with a solid working knowledge of up-time military law."
"I thought you said this was being handled by the civilian authorities?"
"I did. But you never know what will be relevant these days. Ed said, and I agree, that the judge should have experience in military as well as civilian legal procedure."
"I should be defending the kid, not presiding over his trial!"
"You're expected to appoint a lawyer, and I'm sure you'll find a good one. And I'm also sure you'll school them in the basics of the Uniform Code of Military Justice, to the extent that it will be relevant to the case."
"That's irregular as hell, and you know it!" Thomas said. "Talk about conflict of interest! That's bad enough, but how can this kid get a fair trial if his lawyer only has a crash course in military law?"
Chuck sighed. He loved his father and respected him as a lawyer. But the old man could be real difficult sometimes.
"Corporal Linn's in Rome, and it's going to take at least a month for him to even get back here. Not ideal, but more than enough time for you to school trained lawyers in the relevant areas of law and make sure that the young man has a competent defense." Chuck took another sip of his scotch. "Besides, you'll have help. Maurice will be available to advise on an informal basis if you need him, and Jesse Wood will be observing the proceedings as well."
"I suppose I don't have a choice, do I?" Chuck shook his head. Tom continued, "Maurice should be running this circus, but I appreciate his help. But why Jesse? I'd have thought Admiral Simpson would have made more sense."
"For starters, Simpson can't be spared from Magdeburg. Jesse's about the only member of the general staff who still spends much time here in Grantville, and from what I understand, he won't be able to do much flying this time of year anyway. More than that, though, Jesse's very popular among the down-time Germans. His presence is a statement to our German citizens that one of their own is going to get a fair trial. That there won't be any railroading or lynch mobs."
"I'll need the file. And I'll need a printer to print up my copy of the UCMJ and the relevant case law, for everyone concerned."
"Done and done. The official file's on its way with your appointment paperwork, and my office will pay for the book printing."
The two men finished their scotch in silent salute. They shook hands, and Thomas left. Chuck knew that his father would want to get to work immediately.
Tom Riddle moved quickly to prepare for the coming trial. At Maurice Tito's suggestion, John Bradshaw, the junior assistant district attorney for Grantville, was appointed lead prosecutor for the case. John had fled England, one step ahead of King Charles's agents. His crime? In another universe—the universe in which Tom Riddle had been born—he had been Lord President of the trial that had found Charles guilty of tyranny and sentenced him to death by beheading.
"Cornelius Fricke is a fine lawyer," Maurice said of his senior ADA, "but he's busy enough right now. John's got one of the best legal minds I've ever come across, and the fact that he's neither an up-timer nor German can't hurt. It's time for him to have a high profile case, and there'll be no appearance of bias."
Tom's other mandate, to find a good defense lawyer for Dietrich Linn, ended up solving itself. Johann Selfisch, a junior partner in the Hardegg, Selfisch and Krapp law firm, contacted Tom and offered to take the case pro bono. Johann headed up his firm's Rudolstadt office and was a familiar figure in Grantville-area legal circles. He was notorious, in fact; the man had a mania for watching taped episodes of Ally McBeal, The Practice and the entire Law & Order family whenever business brought him to Grantville. He'd even watched most of the O.J. Simpson trial, though no up-timer would admit to having taped it. Johann Selfisch was enamored with the up-time concept of the "celebrity lawyer" and wanted badly to become one himself.
If Tom found that aspect of Selfisch's personality distasteful, he couldn't deny that the man was a competent attorney. More than competent, in fact. Johann Selfisch was quite good. If Dietrich Linn wanted another lawyer once he arrived in Grantville, that was his affair; until then, though, Tom couldn't turn down Selfisch's offer of representation. Not surprisingly, the man wasn't happy when Tom issued a gag order in the case.
"First of all, Sherry Murray's reputation is not going to be dragged through the mud!" he had told Selfisch when defense counsel argued against the order. "Second, I will not have Corporal Linn trying to flee if word of this gets out. He doesn't know why he's being called back—the warrant will be served when he arrives—but you know how quickly the couriers will spread the newspapers and dispatches. If he goes to ground, I will hold you responsible and do my damndest to see you're convicted as an accessory after the fact. Is that understood?" It was, but it didn't stop Selfisch from doing what a good defense attorney should: swamp the prosecution in paper. Nearly every single motion was denied, but that didn't stop him; John Bradshaw was heard to mutter darkly about preferring a cell in the Tower to dealing with Selfisch's innumerable motions.
The mood in town was getting ugly, and it only got worse by the end of October when Dietrich Linn arrived in Grantville and was formally arrested for the rape of Sherry Murray. Most people sympathized with Sherry; she was viewed as a fundamentally decent person, if unwise in her choice of men. But there was a vocal minority making a lot of noise about "dirty krauts raping our women," as well as a group who figured that if Sherry was going to get drunk and party with strange men, she shouldn't then cry rape. More than a few fistfights had broken out. The press coverage wasn't helping; even the relatively restrained Grantville papers were covering the so-called "trial of the century" from all possible angles.
Sherry clung to Artemisia for support. The two women formed an unlikely friendship, and when Artemisia moved out of the Higgins Hotel into more permanent lodgings, Sherry moved in with the Gentileschis. It wasn't as if Sherry was entirely alone; she was getting counseling from Henny DeVries. It wasn't as if her family was shunning her; Slater and Phyllis Dobbs blamed Ronnie for what happened more than they blamed her and supported Sherry's decision to have the baby.
Artemisia, though, always seemed to know the right things to say and when not to say anything at all. Most important to Sherry, though, was the fact that Artemisia always made time for her whenever Sherry needed her, no questions asked. She'd always suspected Artemisia had more reason for taking an interest in her than the Italian artist had said. But it wasn't until the eve of the trial that Sherry fully understood why this was.
The night before the trial was set to begin, Sherry's parents invited her to dinner. The pastor of her parents' church, Reverend Chalker, would be there too and wanted to say a prayer over her. Sherry had never been much into church, but at this point she would take all the help she could get.
Her parents didn't object when she insisted on bringing Artemisia with her. A month ago Sherry would have thought twice about bringing a famous artist to dinner at Dobbs Hollow. But as she got to know Artemisia, Sherry learned she was a lot closer to blue collar than Sherry would have thought. Her picture of what a "famous artist" was like was formed by that guy who'd painted soup cans—she couldn't remember his name—who was almost more famous for being famous than for being an artist. Artemisia, she found out, had only learned to read and write in her late teens and had very little formal education. She'd had to work hard to make a living, and she'd had a few patrons who were always trying to stiff her. In addition to being stuck-up rich snots, European nobility could also be a bunch of cheap S.O.B.s. If nothing else, Sherry knew, the fact that her self-appointed protector and new friend had pulled a knife on Ronnie would make Artemisia okay with Slater and Phyllis.
Dinner went well enough. Reverend Chalker said a blessing, and if he had any opinions about Artemisia crossing herself after the prayer, he kept them to himself. After they were finished, Sherry's father finally asked the question they all had been wondering about.
"Why are you doing this? Not that we're not grateful for the kindness you've shown Sherry, but why do you care?"
Sherry felt her friend take her hand and give it a squeeze. She'd gotten used to Artemisia being the strong one in their friendship, but now Sherry sensed that the comforter needed comforting.
"Your daughter asked me the same question the night we met, Signor Dobbs. I told her then that it was a story for another time."
"And now?"
"Now is the time."
It all came out, pouring out to these people who, with the exception of Sherry, were strangers. Sherry was amazed. She knew that Artemisia had great strength, kindness and compassion; she'd experienced that firsthand. But Sherry also sensed that her friend had a part of herself—a large part—that she kept closed off.
Now, though, Artemisia opened herself completely. She told them about growing up and following in her father's footsteps, how she tried to learn everything she could about painting from her father, his students and his friends. She told them about one of those friends, Agostino Tassi.
"He was friends with my father, and he became obsessed with me. It seemed like I couldn't go anywhere without seeing him. At church, at home, on the street—everywhere. It made me feel uneasy. But I will admit that a part of me, a small part, enjoyed the attention. He isn't a bad looking man, Tassi, and he has some talent."
Sherry felt Artemisia squeeze her hand even tighter. "What I didn't know is that he was working with a woman who I thought was my friend. Tuzia. She rented rooms from us. She let him into my bedroom. I was asleep when I heard him come in . . ."
Artemisia was never quite sure why she bared her soul to these people. She'd always intended to tell Sherry, but the other people were strangers to her. But she couldn't evade an honest answer to Signor Dobbs's direct question, and once she began telling the story, she couldn't stop.
In her mind, it was twenty-four years ago. She was facing not Sherry Murray, Slater and Phyllis Dobbs and Reverend Chalker, but a magistrate, his notary and other Curia officials. She was swearing out her deposition all over again.
"He put his hands all over me. He put his knees between my legs . . . I felt a strong burning, and it hurt very much. I tried to scream as best I could. I scratched his face and pulled his hair. I even scratched him down there, but it didn't bother him at all. He continued to do his business."
For a time, all Artemisia could do was cry as she hadn't done in a quarter-century. Even the tears she'd shed when she got news of her father's death were a trickle in comparison with what flooded out now. But leaving her with those tears was a poison that had been corroding her soul all these years, and she wouldn't have stopped crying even if she had been capable.
It was inevitable that the trial of Dietrich Linn would become a circus. But Thomas Price Riddle at least kept it a small circus, rather than a huge, three ring, Barnum & Bailey affair. Riddle eased his gag order once Corporal Linn was in custody, and Johann Selfisch was in front of the press and on the radio at every opportunity, playing up his client's humble origins—he was the illegitimate son of a baker from Krefeld—and the Marine's spotless record. And while he stuck to the letter of Judge Riddle's order not to malign Sherry Murray, it didn't stop Selfisch from making veiled remarks about her reputation.
For Artemisia the trial was a revelation. Unlike her experience with the court officials from the Vatican, Sherry's trial was held in the open, for the public to attend. Judge Riddle did not allow testimony relating to Sherry's past behavior. Artemisia knew Sherry did not have it easy, but no one—at least not in open court—was calling her a shameless flirt and a whore.
The trial took two weeks. John Bradshaw did his best to try a case that was anything but airtight. Sherry's claims were bolstered by the fact that she'd consistently told the same story since she came forward a few months ago. The nurse who had counseled her, Henny DeVries, testified that, in her expert opinion, Sherry had suffered psychological trauma.
The defense had good arguments of its own. Dr. Adams testified that by the time he actually examined Sherry, there was no way to tell whether nonconsensual sex had occurred. And although prosecutor Bradshaw had objected, Riddle allowed testimony from several witnesses at the party who stated that Sherry was quite drunk. By the time the case went to the jury, no one was willing to make a guess as to the verdict. Nearly everyone felt that it could go either way.
The evening the defense rested, Artemisia spent some time with Sherry at her parents' house. Sherry was splitting her time between Dobbs Hollow and Artemisia's townhouse in Grantville; Ronnie was telling her he wanted her back, she said, but she wasn't ready to move back in with her husband quite yet. Artemisia had come to feel great warmth for Slater and Phyllis, and Reverend Chalker too. It had been a long time—too long—since she had allowed herself to be that vulnerable in front of anyone.
That warmth was dispelled when she arrived home and found Jabe and Prudentia arguing. Her daughter had confessed to her that the two had had some problems talking to each other as their relationship had gotten more serious but that they'd mostly solved that problem. Perhaps, thought Artemisia as Jabe stalked off past her with barely a nod, this problem wasn't as solved as her daughter thought.
All she could get from Prudentia that night was that her daughter thought Jabe was being a pig because he thought Corporal Linn was innocent when clearly the man was guilty. She knew better than to try to reason with her daughter right then; she recognized the righteous anger and black-and-white view she herself had had when she was Prudentia's age.
As they waited for a verdict, Artemisia had Sherry read the dispatches Jabe and the Joint Armed Services Press Division had issued. Though she could speak English quite well now, Artemisia couldn't really read it. She was trying to learn, but it was very difficult. The releases were actually quite neutral; there was a lot about Linn being "innocent until proven guilty," which Sherry explained was a principle up-timers held particularly dear, but nothing which claimed the Marine corporal was innocent of the crime of which he was accused.
"It's pretty standard stuff," said Sherry with a shrug after she'd read the statements. "They're not attacking me; they're only saying the military will respect the verdict of the civilian court, and they want the trial to be fair."
"Which means my daughter is being a little ridiculous."
"She's a teenager," said Sherry with a snort. "It comes with the territory."
Indeed, after a few days went by with no sign of Jabe, Prudentia came to her in tears. Artemisia tried not to smile when her daughter asked her what she could do to apologize to her young man. Artemisia comforted her daughter and was glad she'd been talking to people who knew Jabe and his family over the past few months. Even as she dried her daughter's tears, she began mentally planning her wedding.
A week went by with no verdict. Just as Artemisia had predicted to herself, Jabe McDougal called one night after dinner. He carried some papers and a small box.
"Is Prudentia here?" he asked.
"She's painting right now. Do you wish to see her?"
"Um, maybe in a bit. If she wants to talk to me. But I want to talk to you first, alone."
"Of course, Gia." Artemisia knew why Jabe wanted to talk to her, but a part of her was enjoying his discomfort. It is rather endearing, she thought.
"I want to marry your daughter." He handed her the papers he'd brought with him. "Those are my discharge papers. As soon as the verdict comes in, I'm done with my military commitment. I don't quite know what kind of job I'm going to get, but I'm sure I'll find something. I've finally sold my book, so I've got some money from that to start us off. It's nothing special, just people talking about their memories of the Ring of Fire, but I hope it will do okay. And I know Prudentia has saved a lot from the paintings she's sold. We can probably get by till I find something."
She hugged Jabe. "Giacomo, I decided some time ago that I would agree to this—if Prudentia agrees, and I think she will. We will talk of your employment prospects after you've spoken to her."
Artemisia went to summon her oldest daughter and found that Constantia had already done so. Prudentia looked both anxious and hopeful as she left with Jabe. She was neither alarmed nor upset by the fact that Prudentia didn't come back until the next morning. Her brother would have had a fit, but "honor" was a lot of male foolishness. Artemisia knew Jabe was not one to make a false marriage pledge.
Prudentia could hardly contain herself, showing off the engagement token Gia had given her. If the diamond ring her daughter wore was any indication, her future son-in-law was either wealthier than he let on or very frugal. As soon as she saw it, she got an idea for a possible career for Jabe McDougal.
Two weeks went by with no verdict. Between her advancing pregnancy and the stress of waiting, Sherry felt tired and irritable all the time. She was at Artemisia's house when the call from the prosecutor's office finally came. They went to the courthouse as quickly as they could.
The jury trooped in, and the foreman (forewoman, in this case) handed a slip of paper to the bailiff, who in turn handed it to Judge Riddle. He nodded gravely and turned to address the jury.
"Madame Forewoman," he said, "are you quite certain you cannot come to an agreement?"
"Yes, Euer Gn—, I mean, Your Honor."
"And you swear that you have made your best faith efforts to reach a verdict?"
"Your honor, we are, I believe the correct expression is 'hopelessly deadlocked.' "
"Very well. Given the fact we have a hung jury I have no choice but to declare a mistrial. I would like to see counsel in chambers, along with the defendant and his accuser." Riddle banged his gavel.
Sherry brought Artemisia with her into Judge Riddle's chambers. No one questioned it; the Italian woman was by now Sherry's most visible supporter. They sat down in front of Judge Riddle.
"I had a feeling this might happen. I had the jury polled yesterday, and they were split down the middle. I'm getting too old for this, and I want to propose the following solution. Mr. Bradshaw, if you would please?"
In his quiet, Cheshire-accented voice, John Bradshaw offered a plea bargain: Corporal Linn would plead guilty to a Class A misdemeanor assault charge and be given a suspended sentence. In exchange, he would be put under bastardy bond; he would acknowledge Sherry's baby, assuming it was born alive; and he would continue to support the child financially until it turned eighteen. Finally, Corporal Linn would not be disciplined by the military for this incident.
"If you agree to this," Riddle said, "you will be held strictly to it. If you try to evade your obligations, young man, your sentence will be reinstated and you will serve every single day of it, I promise you."
Johann Selfisch conferred with his client. "We accept this offer, Your Honor."
"Is this acceptable to you, Ms. Murray?"
"I can't go through this again, Your Honor." Sherry said.
"Are you sure you want to give up so easily, Sherry?" Artemisia asked. "It doesn't seem like enough for what happened."
"It's more than I would get if another jury let him off the hook. I agree to this, Your Honor."
Sherry spent the next few days with her family. Artemisia understood; she had family things she needed to take care of as well. She had to speak to her daughter's fiancé about his future employment.
"Gia, I have a proposal for you. It may, I think, offer you a job you will find rewarding."
"Sure. What is it?"
"Lieutenant von Kessel spoke very highly of your skills in working with people and said that you have excellent manners. You always treat others with respect, even when they don't deserve it. He also told me that you are utterly reliable. He was quite sorry, in fact, that you did not plan to reenlist."
Jabe just flushed and stammered. Artemisia smiled and continued: "I have seen for myself that you are good at coordinating things. Prudentia and I will need someone reliable to represent our interests, meet with patrons and see that work is delivered and paid for. This is something family does, and you are now family. It would afford you the opportunity to meet important people and see a little of the world."
For just a brief moment Jabe looked trapped, but then he nodded. "I can do that. I think I'd like that. I haven't been anywhere much except Grantville and Magdeburg, except for a trip up to Luebeck a few months ago."
"It is settled then."
"Yeah, except . . ."
"Yes?"
"I'll need some help. And I just had a good idea."
A part of Sherry didn't want to pick up the things she'd left at Artemisia's home. She hoped they would stay friends, but she expected now that the trial was over, just about everybody would forget her. She was surprised when she found not only Artemisia, but also her two daughters and Jabe McDougal waiting for her. She noticed the ring on Prudentia's finger.
"Congratulations," she said to the young woman. Atemisia's daughter glowed with happiness.
"You know you and the child are always welcome wherever I am," Artemesia said. "But I wish to offer you a job."
"What can I do for you? I can't even draw stick figures."
"I need . . . what is the term? . . . a personal assistant." Artemisia looked to Jabe and he nodded. "Someone I can trust. My soon-to-be son-in-law suggested you, and I can think of no one better. It won't pay well at first, but I think I can provide a living for you if you are willing to learn some needed skills. Please say yes."
Sherry found she couldn't say yes. She was too choked up. She could only nod.
"Good," said Artemisia, beaming with delight. "Your first job will be to help me plan a wedding."