by Anne Perry
“And Tuscany!” he went on, his face glowing. “All Italy, really—Venice, Pisa, Sienna; but the Tuscan Renaissance architecture has a sublime simplicity to it. Classical without being grandiose. A superb sense of color and proportion. One could look at it forever. The arcades … the domes! Have you seen the round windows? It all seems part of nature, sprung from it, not vying against … there is a mellowness. Nothing jars. That is the secret. A unity with the land, never alien, never offending the vision or the mind. And they know how to use terraces, and trees, especially cypress. They lead the eye perfectly from one point to the next—”
“The restaurant,” Rathbone interrupted.
“What?”
“The restaurant,” the barrister repeated. “We must have luncheon before we return.”
“Oh. Yes … I suppose so.” Obviously it had slipped Melville’s mind. It was an irrelevance.
The first witness of the afternoon was Zillah Lambert herself. She took the oath with a grave, trembling voice and looked up to face Sacheverall. She was very pale, but so far composed. She wore cream trimmed with palest green and it complemented her perfectly. Her glorious hair was piled richly on her head rather than tied severely back, and she looked vulnerable and very young. Yet there was a brightness about her like the glancing sunlight of April, as if she brought a breath of the spring countryside with her.
Without realizing, the jurors smiled at her. She was utterly unaware of them, looking only at Sacheverall. Not once did her eyes stray to Melville, as if she could not bear to look at him. No one could have failed to be aware of it.
“I regret the necessity for this, Miss Lambert,” Sacheverall began, as Rathbone had known he would. “But it is absolutely unavoidable, otherwise I should not subject you to this embarrassment, and an ordeal which must be terribly distressing to you.”
“I understand,” she whispered. “Please do what you must.”
Sacheverall smiled warmly at her. “Miss Lambert, has Mr. Killian Melville been a constant visitor at your home over the last two years?”
“Yes sir.”
“To see only your father, or also your mother and yourself?”
“He spent a great deal of time with us too,” she replied. “He often dined with us and would stay afterwards late into the evening. He and I would talk of all manner of things, our hopes and beliefs, our experiences, whatever we found beautiful or interesting, funny or sad.” She blinked hard, trying to keep away the tears. She glanced momentarily at Melville, and then away again. “He was the best and gentlest companion I ever had. He was wise and honest and yet he could make me laugh more than anyone else I knew. He told me wonderful tales of some of the places he had visited, what he had seen and how he felt about them … and the things he planned to build. He knows a great deal about history, most particularly the history of art in Italy. I—I find it wonderful to listen to him, because he cares so much.”
A certain tightness pulled Sacheverall’s mouth and his eyes were sharp.
“Quite so,” he said tensely. “In short, Miss Lambert, one might say he courted you.” That was a conclusion, not a question. He went straight on. “He spoke of his feelings, he shared his hopes for the future, he showed an extraordinary trust in you that we may assume he did with no one else. Did he make it unmistakable that he cared for you deeply, whatever ways, or words, he chose to use?”
“Yes … I believed so.” She was obliged to reach into her reticule for a handkerchief with which to dab her eyes. “Excuse me.”
“Of course.” Sacheverall was instantly tender. “I imagine every man in this room will understand how you feel—except for Melville, and possibly his counsel.”
Rathbone considered objecting, but it was not worth the trouble. The remark had already been made, and its impact would be less than that of Zillah herself. One could feel the sympathy for her filling the room. Even the gallery was totally silent. If anyone had been disposed to laugh or feel any sense of satisfaction in her misfortune, either they had changed their minds or they had sensed the atmosphere and wisely concealed it.
“Miss Lambert,” Sacheverall continued, “was Mr. Melville fully aware of all the wedding plans and arrangements?”
She sounded surprised. “Of course.”
“He was present when you discussed such matters as the choice of church? He was consulted in that, wasn’t he?”
“Yes, of course he was.” She gazed back at him. “Do you imagine we would arrange such a thing without making certain of his feelings?”
“No, I do not, Miss Lambert, but Sir Oliver seems to have considered it the case.” His very slight sneer derided it. “Did Mr. Melville at any time give you the slightest idea he was going to break your agreement?” He jerked his head in Melville’s direction.
“No,” she said simply.
“And has he since offered you any reason for his behavior?” Sacheverall persisted.
“No.” She was having difficulty restraining her emotions and it was plain for everyone to see. Some of the jurors were staring at her intently, others were embarrassed for her and did not wish to seem to intrude into her distress. If Sacheverall was not careful he would risk losing their sympathy towards himself. Perhaps that did not matter to him, as long as he retained it for her. What Rathbone knew of his reputation suggested he was a man who wished to win, even if it should be at considerable cost.
Sacheverall bit his lip and made some show of reluctance.
“Miss Lambert, has he given you any reason for his actions, any reason at all?”
“No,” she said so quietly it was barely audible.
The judge leaned forward but he did not ask her to repeat it.
“Only one more question, Miss Lambert,” Sacheverall promised. “Have you any idea whatever why he has done this? Have you done anything at all to give him cause? Is there anything he could have discovered about your situation, your family or your personal conduct which could explain it or justify it?”
“That is at least three questions, Mr. Sacheverall,” the judge pointed out.
“It will require only one answer, my lord,” Sacheverall said with a wave of his hands. “After that the witness is Sir Oliver’s.”
“Miss Lambert?” the judge prompted.
“No, my lord, I know of nothing,” she assured him.
Sacheverall shrugged and looked back towards the jury, then Rathbone. “Sir Oliver, your witness.”
Rathbone rose to his feet. “Thank you, Mr. Sacheverall. I feel you have made my point for me.” He smiled, largely to unnerve Sacheverall and irritate him. Then he turned to Zillah, still smiling, but now gently. He walked towards her and looked up, his expression mild. “Miss Lambert, you have just told my learned friend that you know of no reason whatever why Mr. Melville should have broken your engagement to marry. There is no shadow of any kind upon your family, your financial position, or your personal reputation.”
There was a murmur of resentment from the gallery and the jurors’ faces darkened.
Rathbone continued to smile. “I have no cause to doubt that what you say is the truth, absolutely. Have you a quick temper, Miss Lambert, or a sulky disposition?”
She looked surprised. “I don’t think so, sir. No one has ever suggested such a thing to me.”
“Are you disposed to gossip, perhaps?”
“No sir. I consider it a vicious habit.”
Again there was a rustle of dislike from the gallery and several of the jurors were glaring at him.
Judge McKeever frowned, but he did not interrupt.
Melville was drumming his fingers tensely.
Sacheverall looked more and more satisfied.
“And is your health good?” Rathbone continued. “You do not have any chronic problems, no more than the usual afflictions that upset us all from time to time?”
“No sir, my health is excellent.” She still looked totally bemused.
“Your patience with my intrusiveness is witness to your equable temper
and your good nature, Miss Lambert,” Rathbone said gently. “And it is apparent to any of us here that you are of a remarkably pleasing appearance.” He disregarded her blush. “And becoming modesty. Oh … I forgot to ask, are you extravagant?”
She looked down at her hands. “No sir, I am not.”
“And your father’s abundant success ensures your financial position. In all you seem to me a bride any man might consider himself most fortunate to win.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I cannot imagine why Killian Melville cast aside his opportunity, but the shortcoming is with him, most certainly not in you.”
Melville jerked up his head.
Sacheverall stared at Rathbone, then at the judge.
McKeever leaned over his bench. “Your point, Sir Oliver? You seem to be maligning your own client.”
“My point, my lord, is that Miss Lambert is not a young lady who will receive only one offer or opportunity of marriage,” he replied expansively, looking at her as he said it. “She is most desirable in every way. She does not seem to have a failing or a weakness, above the merest frailties we may all expect in any human person. She will undoubtably receive many more offers of marriage, at least as fortunate as that of Mr. Melville, possibly more so. She may easily win the heart of a man with title and fortune to offer her. I cannot agree with my learned friend Mr. Sacheverall”—he waved his arm at her—“that she has suffered a great injury, or indeed with her mother, Mrs. Lambert. I do not refer to her feelings, of course, which are undeniably injured. She has been insulted and her trust betrayed. But her worldly future has not been injured. Unfortunately, our personal feelings cannot be protected from the wounds of love. To accept the gift of life is to accept also the risks.”
“Really!” Sacheverall protested, starting to his feet and walking forward.
McKeever raised his scant eyebrows and his wide blue eyes were innocent. “Yes, Mr. Sacheverall?”
“I …” Sacheverall gave up in disgust and returned to his seat.
“Have you anything further to put to Miss Lambert?” McKeever asked them both.
They each declined, and he adjourned the court until the following day.
Rathbone left feeling thoroughly miserable. He had scored a slight victory over Sacheverall on the point of Zillah Lambert’s very evident charm and apparent innocence, but it would not win him the case, and they both knew it. It made Melville’s behavior all the more incomprehensible, and the thought that filled Rathbone’s mind as he walked smartly along the footpath, avoiding the eyes of the few professional acquaintances he passed and heading for the nearest hansom cab, was just what did Melville know about Zillah, or her family, that he refused to say? And that thought must also sooner or later cross the mind of almost every one of her friends and enemies in society as well. Certainly it would cross the lips of the mothers of her rivals. And they would make doubly sure that it entered the ears of the mothers of suitable young gentlemen, heirs to titles and fortunes.
If anyone was marrying Zillah Lambert for love, it would seem he could not do better, but that was not the majority of those whom her mother would seek. Even if no one was vulgar enough to say so, the jurors were men of the world, and no doubt married themselves, perhaps with sons who would soon seek brides. Would they accept willingly a girl about whom there were questions?
It was beginning to rain and he had to run to catch a hansom before a couple of gentlemen in short temper could beat him to it. He heard their cries of frustration as he slammed the door and gave the driver his address.
Two hours later, after he had dined without enjoying it and then paced the floor for thirty-five minutes, he went out again to look for another cab to Melville’s rooms.
He had only been there once before, Melville had come to him during their preparation for trial. The building was a handsome Georgian town house, but in no way different from its neighbors on either side. However, once he was past the vestibule, across the hall and up the stairs to the second floor, where Melville had his rooms, it was utterly individual. The inside had been gutted and the new walls were curved and washed with colors giving a unique appearance of space and light. They had been used to create optical illusions of both distance and warmth. One room seemed to blend into the next. Ivories and golds and shades of brown sugar blended with the richness of polished wood. One brilliant fuchsia-red cushion caught the eye. Another in hot Turkish pink echoed it.
Killian Melville sat in the middle of the floor on an embroidered camel saddle. He looked wretched. He barely glanced up as Rathbone came in and the maid disappeared.
“I suppose you want to resign the case,” he said gloomily. “I can’t blame you. I appear to be a complete cad.”
“Appear to be?” Rathbone said with sarcasm.
Melville looked up. There were shadows around his eyes and fine lines from nose to mouth and around his lips. He was handsome in a refined, ascetic manner, but the most outstanding impression in his countenance was still one of overriding honesty. There was a directness in him, a sense of courage, even daring.
“Are you asking to resign?” he repeated.
“No, I am not!” Rathbone said sharply, stung more by pride than by sense, and certainly not by any belief that he could win. “I shall fight the case to the end, but the least I can realistically hope to do for you is mitigate the scale of the disaster. On what you have given me, I cannot beat Sacheverall; he has all the weapons.”
“I know,” Melville agreed. “I do not expect miracles.”
“Yes, you do.” Rathbone sat down on the sofa without waiting to be invited. “Or you would not have entered this case at all. It is not too late to make some excuse of nervousness, indisposition, and still ask her to marry you. She may well refuse now—heaven knows, you have given her cause—and then at least her honor will be satisfied and you will have extricated yourself.”
Melville smiled with self-mockery. “But what if she accepts?”
“Then marry her,” Rathbone responded. “She is charming, modest, intelligent, good-tempered and healthy. Her father is rich and she is his only heir. For heaven’s sake, man, what more do you want? You have admitted you like her, and she obviously cares for you.”
Melville looked away. “No,” he said quietly, but there was infinite resolution in his voice. “I cannot marry her.”
Rathbone was exasperated. He felt helpless, sent into battle robbed of both armor and weapons.
Melville sat in the camel saddle staring at the floor, shoulders hunched, miserable and obstinate.
“Then for God’s sake, give me a reason!” Rathbone heard his own voice getting louder, filled with anger. “If you forbid me, then I won’t use it, but at least let me know! What is wrong with Zillah Lambert? Does she drink? Has she some disease? Is there madness in her family? What is it?”
“Nothing,” Melville said stubbornly, still staring downwards. Rathbone could see only his profile. “So far as I know, she is as charming and as innocent as she looks.” He continued, “I know of nothing else.”
“Then it must be you,” Rathbone accused. He could not remember ever having been so angry with a client before. Melville was brilliant, handsome, highly individual, and had a very real charm … and he was destroying himself over something which, compared with the tragedies and violence Rathbone usually dealt with, was utterly trivial. That a young woman’s reputation was being questioned and her feelings were being hurt were not light matters, but they were so very much less than the imprisonment, ruin and often death which he dealt with in cases of murder. And Melville’s problem seemed so much of his own making. Why did he lie? What could there possibly be that was worth concealing at this cost?
Melville sat hunched and silent.
“What is it?” Rathbone demanded. “Is it Zillah Lambert you won’t marry, or anyone at all?”
Melville turned to look at him, his face puzzled, something dark in his eyes which Rathbone thought might have been fear.
“Well?” Rathbone said urgently. “Are you free to marry? Whatever you tell me I am bound by oath to keep in confidence. I cannot lie for you in court, but I can and will keep silent. But I cannot help you if I don’t know what I am fighting.”
Melville turned away again, his face set. “I am free to marry … but not Zillah Lambert. That is an end to it. There is nothing wrong with her. I’ll take the punishment. Just do the best you can.”
Rathbone remained another half hour, but he could get nothing more from Melville. At quarter to ten he left and went home through rising wind and squalls of rain, still surprisingly cold.
He poured himself a draft of single-malt whiskey and drank it neat, then went to bed. He slept very badly, troubled by dreams.
4
THE TRIAL RESUMED the next morning with Sacheverall providing witnesses to Zillah’s blameless character, as Rathbone had known he would. It was hardly necessary—her own appearance had been sufficient—but then he could not be certain that Rathbone had no witness of his own in store, someone who could cast doubt on the innocence and charm they had seen.
The first was a Lady Lucinda Stoke-Harbury, a girl of Zillah’s own age who was newly betrothed to the second son of an earl, and impeccably respectable. She stood with her head high, her eyes straight ahead, and spoke clearly. Sacheverall could not have found anyone better, and the very slight swagger with which he walked to and fro on the open space of the floor showed his confidence. He smiled like an actor playing to the gallery, and seemed just as sure that the rest of the cast would respond as if according to a script.
“Lady Lucinda, please tell us how long you have been acquainted with Miss Lambert, if you would be so kind.”
“Oh, at least five years,” she replied cheerfully. “We have been great friends.”
Sacheverall was delighted; it was exactly the reply he wanted. He hesitated long enough to make sure the jury had fully digested the statement, then continued.
“Have you many friends in common?”
“Naturally. We attend all the same parties, dinners, balls and so on. And we have often been to art galleries and lectures together.”