Free 31 Bond Street by Ellen Horan

member of the medical profession whose contributions would be missed. In fact, thought Clinton, the deceased had been plotting and devious, his deeds washed clean behind the façade of a fancy house.
    The law has taken me to strange places, Clinton mused. What chance had he to continue this case without the backing of a wealthy firm? Alone, the defense of Emma Cunningham would be difficult. He would need to rent an office and hire a staff. He would have to wait out the inquest, try to get his client removed from house arrest, and see that she was formally charged, even if that meant her being placed in jail. Then he would need to mount a defense for a trial that would surely be the sensation of the year. For the time being, his only communication with this woman was through an errand boy at the house, not even twelve years old. A key witness, a Negro driver, was missing, most likely running for his life.
    At the end of the service, Clinton stepped out into the midday glare and made his way slowly through the dense crowd. Pickpockets abounded. As the carriages were pulling away for the burial, the crowd thinned and the funeral procession receded down Broadway. The hearse, reaching the tip, would board the Hamilton Ferry; after making a journey through the ice floes of the East River, it would head up the bluffs of Brooklyn to Greenwood Cemetery, where thecoffin would be placed deep in the frozen earth, facing the departed island of New York.
    Clinton headed toward home. New York was a walking town, and walking allowed him time to think. Elisabeth would be surprised to see him at midday, and he would discuss with her the events of the morning. She had already argued against him taking the case on legal grounds: that the marriage between the two would be hard to prove or disprove, as marriages are not witnessed by any legal authority of the state, but only by God, or in this case, a nearsighted clergyman. The entire case would be drowned in dueling perspectives of credibility and of character. Of course, Elisabeth was right.
    But he also knew she would follow his lead and that she trusted his instincts. If he were to continue this case, there were great sacrifices to be made, and she was his best ally. After he stopped by the house for lunch, he would go back to Chambers Street and remove his books and papers. His long partnership with James Armstrong was over.

CHAPTER EIGHT
    C linton entered the house, dropped his hat on the hall table, and then went to the back parlor where a fire was crackling and woodsmoke was curling from the hearth. Elisabeth was deep in her favorite chair, with a book on her lap. She had a tangled look when she was reading, far away inside a story. She looked up and brushed some hair from her face. He sank into an armchair with his coat still on.
    “You’re home for lunch! What a surprise. Was it a hard morning?”
    “It was,” he said, slumping back. Elisabeth got up and sat on the arm of his chair and started to unwrap his scarf. She put a finger across his temple and traced the lines of his forehead. He let his eyes close under the warmth of her touch. Then she lifted the coat off his shoulders, and he shifted, allowing her to gently remove each arm from a sleeve, like she was undressing a young boy. Next, she sat down on a footstool and began to unbutton his boots.
    “I rode with James to the funeral. I met him at the ferry.”
    “Well that’s enough to wear a person out—a carriage ride with James Armstrong and then a funeral. Was it very oppressive?”
    “Both were quite oppressive.”
    “Well, at least you are done with that dentist. Too bad I can’t say the same about James.”
    “Actually, Elisabeth, I have some rather startling news.” She was still sitting on the stool by his feet and looked up, wary.
    “Henry?” her tone was chiding, but he heard the tinge of alarm. She knew him too well, and this was not going to be easy.
    He sat forward and took hold of her hands, holding them