Page 130 of A Scot Is Not Enough
Alexander set another paper in front of the magistrate.
“A list of the people in the room. You’ll want to question them first.”
Fielding read the list aloud. “The Duke of Herndale, the Earl of Rothson, the Countess of Denton, Viscount Dern... Really, Mr. Sloane. This is a list of London's most esteemed citizens. You expect me to demand they come to Bow Street for questioning?”
“Does Lady Justice care about station?” Alexander raised his voice, pivoting to the gallery.
In the crowd, heads tipped one to another.
“Go on, Mr. Sloane.”
“I should add, His Grace, the Duke of Herndale, lingered over the Viking sword andsgian-dubhthe longest.”
Alexander was almost innocent, imparting that news, and she loved him for it. Fielding passed the paper to his clerk as if the matter was done.
“Very well, Mr. Sloane, how do you address Miss MacDonald’s blatant violation of the Dress Act?”
The magistrate was smug, folding his hands on the table. Mr. Sloane riffled through his papers.
“This is a waste of time and a gross miscarriage of justice. Miss MacDonald should never have been charged for a law that...” A heavy pause ensued in which the entire gallery tipped forward. “Never should’ve been written.”
Shocked gasps filled the chamber. She turned toAlexander, delighting in his Romanesque profile. He was a man for the ages. His mind knife-sharp, his tenor sonorous.
“It is a shameful law meant to grind a defeated people—our neighbors and kin to the north—under the Government’s heel.”
“Shameful or not, itisthe law, Mr. Sloane.”
The chamber was still as a tomb.
“Be that as it may, you cannot keep this woman in chains. She broke no law.”
“Are you blind?” Fielding blustered. “I can see clear as day she has!”
“Parliament has a different view.”
Shouts and cries erupted. Mr. Sloane raised a sheet of paper and began to read, which quieted the circus better than Fielding slamming his table for calm.
“The Dress Act states:
‘That from and after the first day of August, one thousand seven hundred and forty-seven, no man or boy, within that part of Great Briton called Scotland, other than shall be employed as officers and soldiers in His Majesty's forces, shall, on any pretense whatsoever, wear or put on the clothes commonly called Highlands Clothes (that is to say) the plaid, philibeg, or little kilt, trowse, shoulder belts, or any part whatsoever of what peculiarly belongs to the Highlands garb; and that no tartan, or partly colored plaid or stuff, shall be used for greatcoats, or for upper coats.’”
Mr. Sloane stepped boldly to the table and slapped the paper on Fielding’s ledger.
On the entry dedicated to her.
“The law expressly forbids men and boys wear the plaid, not women.” He glanced at her, and said with the innocence of an altar boy, “We can all agree, Miss MacDonald is clearly a woman. A lovely one at that.”
Cecelia’s spirits lifted until Fielding’s brow furrowed.
“How do you answer the law’s mention of ‘any such person...’? She is apersongarbed in plaid.”
“By definition, she is not.”
“Not a person, Mr. Sloane? I’d like to hear you argue against that.” Fielding chuckled and the gallery laughed with him.
“Indeed, she is a person, sir. But Miss MacDonald is not garbed in plaid.”
Alexander flicked his fingers at the bench and Mr. Burton strode forward, a heavy tome in hand. The book was handed over, and Alexander flipped to a bookmarked page, and read the text aloud.
