Amanda turned to look at Mrs Hewitt, an elderly, statuesque, full-bosomed lady. An acquaintance of her Aunt Lucy’s, despite being something of a busybody, she was a likeable, well-meaning woman.
‘I am well, thank you, Mrs Hewitt. Aunt Lucy’s death was all rather sudden. She took a turn for the worst following a chill and sadly never recovered.’
‘Well, what a good thing she had you to take care of her. At last she’ll be with her beloved Edward. I imagine there is much to do at the house?’
‘Cousin Charlotte and her husband stayed on at Magnolia Grove after the funeral to take charge of everything.’
‘And you? Are you to remain in Charleston?’
‘I’m afraid not. I’m going back to England in a few days’ time—although I shall be sorry to leave.’ She shifted her eyes to look at the convicts, closer to them now. She was appalled at the pallid, unshaven faces. The heat and moistness of their unwashed bodies released a sickly stench.
Mrs Hewitt followed her gaze, raising her perfumed handkerchief to her nose to blot out the vile odours. ‘Look at them—gallows meat, the lot of them. Probably been working at the docks—been some kind of accident as a ship was being unloaded, apparently—some of the cargo tipped into the sea and every available man was needed to retrieve it. I see one of the prisoners is that vile man Claybourne—the one in the middle—the one responsible for that ghastly crime.’
Wishing the prisoners would walk faster so that they could move on, Amanda looked at the man Mrs Hewitt pointed out with scant interest, and then with a growing curiosity. She hardly noticed anyone else—her attention was entirely focused on him. With his mouth set in a thin, hard line, he walked with his head held high, with a kind of arrogance, which, in the midst of so much wretchedness that clung to his fellow prisoners, had its own kind of greatness. She could see that his clothes were of fine quality, but badly stained. The rags of his once-white shirt gave little protection to his broad shoulders and bronzed skin, which showed through in many places, but he did not seem conscious of the hot sun. His overwhelming masculinity stirred some deeply rooted feminine instinct that she acknowledged.
‘What did he do?’
Mrs Hewitt turned to look at her, plying her fan with verve. ‘Why, don’t you remember? He’s the man who killed poor Carmen Rider.’
Amanda recalled the scandal that had torn through Charleston. The town had reeled with horrified fascination of the murder. Carmen was a thirty-year-old wealthy widow, a Spanish woman, who had been brutally murdered in her home two months or so ago. It was her maid who had found her. The room had been ransacked and she had died from vicious wounds, having clearly put up a fierce struggle against her attacker.
‘I was in Savannah with Aunt Lucy, visiting her sister-in-law at the time, so I do not know the details of the case.’ Besides, she thought, she had been enjoying the delightful company of some of the charming bucks belonging to Savannah’s elite too much to dwell on a depressing murder case taking place in Charleston. ‘What do you know about Mr Claybourne, Mrs Hewitt?’
‘Not much, only that he lived out of town—in a wooden cabin in the cypress swamp—by the river. Bit of a loner, if you ask me. At one time he spent some time in the Smoky Mountains—with the Indians, some say, where he improved his skill with horses. Carmen hired him to break in some of her mounts. Since her husband died she had had a host of admirers but she quite shamelessly threw herself at Mr Claybourne—proclaiming her love for the man to anyone who would care to listen. From what I’ve heard he was not as enamoured of her as she was of him, but he stayed anyway. Whether or not they had a full-blown affair is open to speculation.’
‘He might have fared better had he stayed in the swamp with the alligators,’ Amanda murmured. ‘I seem to recall there are Claybournes in England—aristocrats, I believe.’
‘As to that I wouldn’t know, but I shouldn’t think there is any connection. I cannot see a peer of the realm coming to America to work with horses.’
‘No, I suppose not. Why do you think he killed her?’
‘It was known that they quarrelled and he left her the day before she was killed. When she was found, it was believed that he was the murderer—her brother was certain of it, though he’s a rogue if ever there was. There are those who know Mr Claybourne that say his behaviour was most out of character, that he is a man of considerable intelligence, and that a man of that stamp does not commit such acts of madness without good reason. But everything seemed to point to him. He was the prime suspect and arrested and taken to gaol.’
‘Was there no one else who could have killed her?’
‘Opinion was unanimous that he was the only one with a motive strong enough, and in a final quarrel he murdered her. Owing to the seriousness of the case and the social prominence of Carmen—her husband was a well-known and respected attorney in Charleston, you know—the jury found him guilty and he was sentenced to hang.’
‘And what did Mr Claybourne have to say for himself?’
‘All the time he stuck to his statement that he was nowhere near her home at the time—and there were many who believed him innocent but none who could substantiate his alibi. The servants gave accounts of constant discord between their mistress and Mr Claybourne and testified that a man of his description let himself into the house and went to Carmen’s room on the night she was killed.’
As Mr Claybourne passed in front of the carriage, Amanda was aware of the tension and nervousness in herself. He was close enough now for her to see his face more clearly. Beneath his facial growth she could see he was attractive. His jaw was roughly carved, his forehead was high, his eyebrows heavy, his cheeks lean and his hair, though dull and lank, was thick and dark brown.
As if he felt her scrutiny, he turned and met her eyes. She knew instinctively that he was just as aware of her as she was of him. Her heart skipped a beat as she met those eyes steadily, and she saw amber flames ignite within their depths.
His eyes assessed her frankly, taking in her cool, quiet beauty. She was vividly conscious of him, and she felt the unfamiliar rush of blood humming through her veins, which she had never experienced before. Instantly she felt resentful towards him. He had made too much of an impact on her, and she was afraid that if he looked at her much longer he would read her thoughts with those clever eyes of his.
And then he was gone, oblivious to the cane which at that instant the guard thudded on to his back. Amanda watched the convicts become swallowed up by the crowd, her eyes fixed on the tall man until the last.
‘When will the sentence be carried out?’ she asked Mrs Hewitt.
‘In about a week.’
When the congestion began to clear, and after bidding Mrs Hewitt farewell, all the way to Magnolia Grove Amanda turned her thoughts once more to her predicament, trying to find a way to circumvent her father. There must be some way to escape marrying a man of his choosing, there must be something she could do. And then the words of Nan came back to her—that perhaps she should marry a senile old man who wouldn’t last the year.
Nan was right—but instead of a man in his dotage, why not a man who was to end his life on the gallows one week hence, a man with the name of Claybourne who could well be a relative of the aristocratic Claybournes in England? Then she could go home and truthfully tell her father she was a widow—whilst keeping the manner of her husband’s death to herself—and he would have no choice but to respect a year of mourning. By then she would be twenty-one and independent of him.
But suppose he wouldn’t marry her? Suppose, despite all her promises of enough food and comforts to make his last days bearable, he still refused to marry her? Then what would