A Breach of Promise

by Anne Perry

  Again Rathbone felt himself cold with anger that Melville had allowed this to happen. He was not merely a fool, he was irresponsible. Rathbone had been instinctively sorry for him in the beginning, but now he was annoyed that Melville had not somehow managed to make his feelings plain enough that the Lamberts would have withdrawn from the betrothal themselves and avoided this fiasco. He looked at his client, in the chair next to him, avoiding Rathbone’s eyes, staring at nothing. He seemed closed in a world of his own.

  The court was waiting.

  Delphine Lambert selected her occasion and began. “Mr. Melville had been to speak to my husband about some architectural matter—something to do with oriel windows, I believe. My husband went out, and Mr. Melville came down into the withdrawing room to take tea with Zillah and myself. This was last autumn. It was one of those late, golden days when everything looks so beautiful and you know it cannot last….”

  She blinked and made an effort to control emotions which were obviously raw.

  Sacheverall waited sympathetically.

  “We talked of all sorts of slight things, of no consequence,” Delphine continued. “I remember Killian—Mr. Melville—sat in the chair next to the sofa. Zillah sat on the sofa, her skirts all swirled around her. She was wearing pink and she looked wonderful.” Her eyes were soft with memory. “He remarked on it. Anyone would have. When you see her you will understand. We talked and laughed. He was interested in everything.” She said it with the pleasure of surprise still in her voice. “Every detail seemed to please him. Zillah was telling him about a party she had been to and recounting several anecdotes which really were very funny indeed. I am afraid we were a trifle critical, and our amusement was sometimes not altogether kind … but we laughed so hard we had tears running down our cheeks.” She smiled and blinked as if the tears came again, but this time of sorrow. “Zillah has a delicious turn of phrase, and Killian so enjoyed her observations. She was a perfect mimic! Perhaps it is not very ladylike,” she apologized. “But we had such fun.”

  Sacheverall nodded in satisfaction. Even the jurors were smiling.

  Rathbone glanced at Melville.

  Melville bit his lip and moved his head an inch in acknowledgment. He looked wretched. Perhaps it was the look of innocence, but it had all the air of guilt. The jury could not have missed it.

  “Please continue,” Sacheverall prompted.

  “We had tea,” Delphine resumed. “Hot crumpets with melted butter. They are not easy to eat delicately. We laughed at ourselves over that as well. And toasted tea cakes. They were delicious.” She made a little gesture of deprecation. “We ate them all. We were so happy we did not even notice. Then Killian and Zillah got up and went for a walk in the garden. The leaves were turning color and the very first few had fallen. The chrysanthemums were in bloom.” She glanced at the judge, then back to Sacheverall. “Such a wonderful perfume they have, earthy and warm. They always make me think of everything that is lovely … rich but never vulgar. If only we could always have such perfect taste.” She sighed. “Anyway, Killian and Zillah remained outside for some time, but I was in every proper sense still a chaperone. Zillah told me afterwards they were discussing their ideas for a future home, all the things they would most like to have, and how it would be … colors, styles, furniture … everything two people in love would plan for their future.”

  Rathbone looked at Melville again. Could any man really be such a complete fool as to have spoken to a woman of such things and not know perfectly well she would take it as a prelude to a proposal of marriage?

  “Is that true?” he demanded under his breath.

  Melville turned to him. His face was deep pink with the rush of blood to his cheeks, his eyes were hot, but he did not avoid looking straight back.

  “Yes … and no …”

  “That won’t do!” Rathbone said between his teeth. “If you are not honest with me I cannot help you, and believe me, you are going to need every ounce of help I can think of—and more!”

  “That may be how she saw it,” Melville answered, looking down now, not at Rathbone. His voice was low and tense. “We did talk about houses and furnishings. But it wasn’t for us! I’m an architect … houses are not only my profession, they are my love. I’ll talk about design to anyone! I was making suggestions to her about the things she wanted in a home and how they could be achieved. I told her of new ways of creating more warmth, more light and color, of bringing to life the dreams she had. But it was for her—not for both of us!” He turned to face Rathbone again. “I would have spoken the same way to anyone. Yes, of course we laughed together—we were friends….” His eyes were full of distress. Rathbone could have sworn he held that friendship dear and the loss of it hurt him.

  Delphine Lambert was still talking, describing other occasions when Melville and Zillah Lambert had been together, their easy companionship, their quick understanding of each other’s thoughts, their shared laughter at a score of little things.

  Rathbone looked across at the jurors’ faces. Their sympathy was unmistakable. To change their minds it would take a revelation about Zillah Lambert so powerful and so shocking it would shatter any emotion they felt now so that they would be left angry and betrayed. And Melville had sworn there was no such secret. Was it conceivable he knew something of her which made it impossible to marry her, yet he still cared for her too deeply to expose it—even to save himself?

  It would have to be something her parents did not know, or they would never have risked his revealing it. They could not rely on Melville’s self-sacrifice.

  And Zillah herself would not dare to tell them, even to save Melville, and thus this whole tragic farce.

  Rathbone would have to press Melville harder, until he at last spoke of whatever it was he was still hiding. And Rathbone had felt certain from the first that there was something.

  He turned his attention back to the court.

  Delphine was describing some grand social event, a ball or a dinner party. Her face was alight with remembered excitement.

  “All the girls were simply lovely,” she said, her voice soft, her slender hands on the rail in front of her, lightly touching it, not gripping. She might have held a dancing partner so. “The gowns were exquisite.” She smiled as she spoke. “Like so many flowers blown in the wind as they swirled around the floor. The chandeliers blazed and were reflected on jewels and hair. The young men were all so dashing. Perhaps it was happiness which made everything seem so glamorous, but I don’t think so. I believe it was real. And Killian danced the whole evening with Zillah. He barely spoke with anyone else at all. He sat a few dances out, but I swear I did not see him pay the slightest heed to any other lady, no matter how beautiful or how charming.” She gave a little shrug of her shoulders. “And there were many titled ladies there, and heiresses to considerable fortunes. On that particular occasion Lady—”

  Sacheverall held up his hand. “I am sure a great many people of note were there, Mrs. Lambert. What is important is that Mr. Melville paid very obvious court to your daughter, for everyone to see, and his intent could hardly be mistaken or misinterpreted. Now, madam, I must bring you to a far more painful area, for which I apologize. I most truly wish I could avoid it, but there is no way in which it is possible.”

  “I understand.” Delphine nodded, the light going from her face, her body seeming almost to shrink as she dismissed past happiness and faced the present icy disillusion. “Do what is necessary, Mr. Sacheverall.”

  “You have just told me how publicly and how obviously Mr. Melville courted your daughter. It must have been common knowledge among all your acquaintances, indeed in all society, that they were to be married?”

  “Of course.” She raised her beautiful eyebrows. “She did not hide her joy. What young girl does?”

  “Exactly.” Sacheverall took several paces to one side, then to the other. He moved elegantly, and he was aware of it. He stopped and faced her again. “When Mr. Melville suddenly, and for no
reason that we may observe, broke off the engagement and refused to go through with the ceremony, what effect did this have upon Miss Lambert’s reputation, the way in which she is regarded by society, and her hopes for any future marriage?”

  “Of course it will ruin her!” The panic rose in Delphine’s voice. “How could it possibly do anything else? People will ask why, and when there is no answer, they will assume the worst. Everyone does, don’t they?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Lambert, I am afraid it is one of the less attractive characteristics of human nature,” Sacheverall said with ardent sympathy. “Even when it is unjustified.” He smiled ruefully. “And beauty has its disadvantages in that it increases envy among those less fortunate.”

  Delphine looked on the verge of tears. “And she is innocent of everything!” she said desperately. “It is so unfair!” Her eyes swept across the jury and then back to Sacheverall. “How could he do this to her—to anyone? It is wicked beyond belief! I can hear them already, beginning to ask each other what can be wrong with her. What does he know about her that he is not saying?” She looked at him defiantly. “And there is nothing! Nothing at all! She is modest; clever enough, but not too clever; lovely but not too proud or self-obsessed; and as honorable as it is possible to be.” She gulped, and her voice dropped huskily. “And she was so in love with him. It is so wicked I just cannot imagine why he is doing it! You have to find out! You have to prove it is Killian Melville, not Zillah, who is evil and perverse.”

  “We shall do, Mrs. Lambert,” Sacheverall said gently. “We will prove to the court, and to society, that Miss Lambert has been wronged without cause. Her reputation shall be restored. It would be monstrous that she should have her entire future ruined because of one young man’s irresponsibility at best, dishonesty or immorality at worst. Will you be so good as to remain there in case Sir Oliver wishes to ask you anything? Thank you, Mrs. Lambert.” He turned to Rathbone invitingly.

  The expression of confidence in his face was sufficient warning. Rathbone knew he would get nothing from Delphine Lambert. Almost alone she had built the case. And she had done it without exaggeration. Such breaking of a betrothal after what seemed to everyone a natural love affair would suggest to even the well disposed that there was something profoundly wrong with Zillah Lambert but that Melville was too much of a gentleman to expose her.

  Rathbone rose to his feet. He dare not fail to speak to her. That would be an open admission of defeat.

  There was a rustle of anticipation in the room. The jurors were watching him.

  “We sympathize with you in your concern, Mrs. Lambert,” he said courteously, his mind racing for anything whatsoever to mitigate her testimony. “Perhaps you will tell me something more about these wedding arrangements that you mentioned …”

  “All made!” Her voice rose again. “Of course, the official invitations had not gone out, but everyone knew who was invited, so it comes to virtually the same thing! I have never been so mortified in my life. You cannot imagine the humiliation of having to tell people!” She flung her arms out, hands graceful even in her extreme emotion. “How do I explain? What is there anyone can possibly say? Poor Zillah.” She turned to the judge. “Can you begin to imagine how she feels? Every time anyone laughs, if we didn’t hear the reason, we think it is at our misfortune.”

  Rathbone forced himself to remain friendly. “I am sure that is natural. We have all experienced such fears when we are aware of some …” What word could he use without seeming critical? He had given himself an impossible sentence to finish. She was looking at him again. “Self-consciousness is to be expected,” he said instead. “But to these arrangements, Mrs. Lambert …”

  “The dressmaker, the wedding attendants, the church, of course, the flowers in season,” she listed them off. “I spent hours seeing that everything should be perfect. It is the most important, the most exquisitely beautiful day of a woman’s life. I would have given anything I had to ensure that nothing whatever went wrong for her. No time, trouble or expense was to be spared. Not that it was the money. Never think for an instant that it was that.” She dismissed it with a wave of her hand.

  Curiously, he believed her. It was honor which concerned her. What should have been entirely happiness and beauty instead had become a source of embarrassment and cruel jests, the golden future tarnished beyond repair. She had not mentioned it, maybe she had not even thought of it yet, but it was not impossible that the sense of rejection which Zillah felt would make it hard for her to believe the next man who claimed to love her. No one could say what seeds of future misery had been sown.

  “I am sure that is so, Mrs. Lambert,” he agreed soothingly. “I do not doubt it. But my question is, how much did Mr. Melville participate in all these plans and decisions?”

  She looked blank. “Mr. Melville? It is the bride’s parents who make these arrangements, Sir Oliver. It was nothing to do with him.”

  “My point precisely.” He was careful not to show any feeling of victory, however slight. It would offend the jury. He stood in the center of the open space, aware of everyone’s eyes on him. “He did not agree to the style of the wedding gown, the amount or kind of flowers, or even the church….”

  She looked completely bemused.

  “My lord.” Sacheverall rose to his feet with a gesture of disbelief. “Is my learned friend suggesting that Mr. Melville broke the engagement to marry in a fit of pique because he was not consulted on these matters? And further, that such absurd behavior is somehow justified? If that were so, my lord, no man would ever marry!” He laughed as he said it, turning towards the jury.

  Rathbone kept his temper only through great practice.

  “No, my lord, I am not suggesting anything of the kind, as my learned friend would have known had he waited a moment or two. What I am suggesting is that these arrangements, excellent as they no doubt were, were made without Mr. Melville’s knowledge. He did not ask for Miss Lambert’s hand in marriage, nor did he intend to. The matter was anticipated and, in all good faith, acted upon without his participation. He did not break his agreement, because he did not make one. It was assumed—perhaps with good cause, but nonetheless it was an assumption.”

  “Sir Oliver is making a clumsy argument!” Sacheverall protested. He stared at Rathbone. “Are you finished? Have you no better case than that to offer?”

  Rathbone had not, but this was certainly not the time to say so.

  “Not at all,” he denied blandly. “I am explaining what I intended by the question, since you misinterpreted it.”

  “You are saying Mrs. Lambert organized a wedding without any assurance that there was a bridegroom?” Sacheverall challenged, the laughter of derision all but bubbling through his words.

  “I am suggesting it was a misunderstanding, not villainy,” Rathbone answered, aware how lame the argument was, in spite of its probable truth. Except that he was convinced Melville was holding something back so important it amounted to a lie. There was something elusive about the man, and he had no idea what it was. He had taken his case on impulse, and he regretted it.

  Sacheverall dismissed the idea and returned to his seat, with his back half towards Rathbone.

  “Sir Oliver?” the judge enquired.

  There was nothing more to say. He would only make it even worse.

  “No, thank you, my lord. Thank you, Mrs. Lambert.”

  Sacheverall had nothing more to add. He was wise enough not to press the issue. He was winning without having to try.

  It was already late for luncheon. The court adjourned.

  Rathbone walked out with Melville. The crowd stared at them. There were several ugly words said quite clearly enough to hear. Melville kept his eyes straight ahead, his face down, his cheeks flushed. He must have been as aware of them as Rathbone was.

  “I didn’t know about the wedding until it was all planned!” he said desperately. “I heard, of course, bits and pieces. I didn’t even realize it was supposed to be me!” They were pa
ssing through the entrance hall of the courthouse. Rathbone held open the doors.

  “I know that sounds ridiculous,” Melville went on. “But I didn’t listen. My mind was on my own ideas: arches and lintels, colonnades, rows of windows, depths of foundations, front elevations, angles of roofs. Women are often talking about fashion and who is going to marry whom. Half the time it is only gossip and speculation.”

  “How can you have been so stupid?” Rathbone snapped, losing his temper at the idiocy of it, all the unnecessary embarrassment.

  “Because I suppose I wanted to,” Melville answered with astounding honesty. “I didn’t want it to be true, so I ignored it. If you care about one thing enough, you can exclude other things.” Now they were outside in the sharp wind and sunlight. His eyes were the blue-green of seawater. “I care about buildings, about arches, and pillars and stone, and the way light falls, about color and strength and simplicity. I care about being able to design things that will long outlast me, or anyone I know, things that generations after us will look at and feel joy.”

  He pushed his hands into his pockets hard and stared at Rathbone as they walked along the street towards the busy restaurant where they could purchase luncheon. They brushed past people barely noticing them.

  “Have you ever been to Athens, Sir Oliver?” he asked. “Have you seen the Parthenon in the sunlight?” His eyes were alight with enthusiasm. “It is pure genius. All the measurements are slightly off the true, to give an optical illusion of perfect grace to the observer … and it succeeds brilliantly.” He flung his arms out, almost hitting a middle-aged man with a gray mustache. He apologized absently and continued to Rathbone. “Can you imagine the minds of the men who built that? And here we are two thousand years later struck silent with awe at its beauty.”

  Unconsciously he was walking more rapidly than before, and Rathbone had to increase his pace to keep up with him.