by Anne Perry
“So you know her well?”
“Yes, I do.”
It was all very predictable, and there was nothing Rathbone could do to affect it. To cast doubt on Lady Lucinda’s judgment, or her honesty in expressing it, would only play directly into Sacheverall’s hands. It could both turn the jury against him, and indirectly Melville, and show them his own desperation. If he had any evidence of his own he should produce it, not insult Lady Lucinda.
Sacheverall grew more and more enthusiastic, seeking praise and affirmation for Zillah with many new avenues of questioning.
Rathbone looked around the gallery. He saw the range of expressions on the faces as they craned forward, listening to every word. For a woman in black bombazine with a ribboned hat it was an avid interest showing in her eyes, her lips parted. For a man with gray side-whiskers it was more relaxed, even a trifle cynical, a half smile. A well-dressed young woman with straight brown hair under her bonnet looked at Melville with undisguised contempt. Her neighbor seemed more curious as to why a young man with such golden opportunities before him should risk losing it all for such an absurd reason. Rathbone could almost read the speculation in their eyes as to what was unsaid behind the polite words from the witness stand. What was the real reason behind this charade?
More than once he caught someone looking at him, speculation easily read as to what he could do, what he knew and would spring on them, when he was ready.
He wished there were something!
He saw several studying the jury, and perhaps trying to guess their thoughts, although at this point there seemed only one possible verdict.
Melville sat through it all sunk in unhappiness but without moving, except occasionally to put his fingers up to his mouth, and then away again, but he did not speak. He did not offer any contradictions or suggestions of help.
Rathbone declined the offer to question Lady Lucinda. There was nothing whatever to ask.
The next witness was another young woman of impeccable reputation, and she reaffirmed everything that had already been said.
The judge looked enquiringly at Rathbone.
“No, thank you, my lord,” he said, rising briefly to his feet and then sitting down again.
Sacheverall was delighted. His contempt, not only for Melville but for Rathbone also, was vivid in his face and the entire attitude of his body.
He called the Honorable Timothy Tremaine and asked him for his opinion of the most admirable Miss Zillah Lambert. As Tremaine spoke, his own admiration for her grew more and more apparent. He smiled, he met her eyes, and his eager expression softened. He spoke of her with a warmth which was more than mere sympathy. An idea began to form in Rathbone’s mind, not clearly, and only a thread, but he had nothing else.
“Your witness, Sir Oliver,” Sacheverall said finally, with an ironic half bow towards Rathbone.
Rathbone rose to his feet. “Thank you, Mr. Sacheverall.” He was acutely aware of all eyes upon him. There was a hush as if awaiting a startling event. He would disappoint them, and it rankled with him more sharply than he had expected. He felt the defeat already.
“Mr. Tremaine,” he began quietly, “you spoke of Miss Lambert as if you are quite well acquainted with her. May I assume that is so?”
“Yes sir, you may,” Tremaine answered politely. He too must have been waiting for some retaliation at last.
Rathbone smiled. “And you expressed some regard for her yourself—indeed, some admiration?” It was not really a question.
“Yes sir.” Tremaine was more guarded now.
Rathbone’s smile widened. He knew what the gallery was waiting for, what Tremaine himself quite suddenly feared. It was there in his face. He drew in his breath as if to add something, then changed his mind.
“Yes?” Rathbone enquired helpfully.
“Nothing …”
“There is no need to apologize for your feelings,” Rathbone assured him. “It is only natural. She is most attractive. Indeed, Mr. Sacheverall himself has been unable to conceal a very considerable”—he hesitated delicately—“personal regard towards her….”
He heard Sacheverall’s indrawn breath behind him and ignored it.
“I …” Tremaine realized the trap and sidestepped it rather obviously. “Yes sir. I think we all feel a certain … friendship towards her which—” He stopped, uncertain how to complete the thought.
“Is your regard as … warm as Mr. Sacheverall’s?” Rathbone asked blandly.
“Well …” Tremaine looked at him squarely. “I could say I regard her more as a friend …”
Sacheverall stood up, his face only very slightly pink. “My lord, the depth of my regard for Miss Lambert is irrelevant. It is Mr. Melville’s behavior towards her which is at issue here. If Sir Oliver is trying to suggest that I have in any way overstepped the bounds of the strictest propriety, or that Miss Lambert has regarded me as other than her legal counsel, then I would warn him that he is not above the laws of slander either, and I will protect Miss Lambert’s good name with every skill at my disposal … and every weapon also!”
Rathbone laughed very lightly and swiveled to look at Sacheverall.
“My dear Sacheverall, you have spent the morning persuading me of Miss Lambert’s virtue, charm and total desirability. Is it really now slanderous for me to suggest that you are not immune to charm yourself? Surely it would be more so to suggest that you are? Then you might think I accused you of being less than a natural man. Or at the very least of speaking insincerely, saying something which you yourself did not believe.”
“You are—” Sacheverall began.
But Rathbone overrode him. “Your sincerity seemed to ring through your words, your choice of adjectives to describe her, the very ardor of your tone and the grace of your gestures. You made your argument superbly.”
“What is your point?” Sacheverall snapped, his cheeks flushed. “There is nothing improper for you to find!” He gestured towards Melville, who was sitting staring at him. “That is where the fault lies. You ha ve paved the way for that yourself! Indeed, it would be an unusual man—perhaps, to borrow your own phrase, something less than a natural man—who would not admire Miss Lambert!” His face twisted into an expression suddenly far uglier than perhaps he knew. “Have you considered, Sir Oliver, that you do not know your own client as well as you imagine? You are the last man I would have supposed naive, but I could be mistaken.” His meaning was masked, but it was clear enough. There was a gasp around the room. One or two of the jurors looked taken aback. The remark was indelicate at best, at worst slanderous.
The judge looked expectantly at Rathbone.
Rathbone had turned immediately to Melville. Sacheverall was right in that he had not known his client as well as he wished to.
But the look on Melville’s face was one of bitter but quite honest laughter. No one could doubt he found the remark genuinely funny. There was no embarrassment in him, not a shred of shame or even discomfort.
The judge blinked.
One or two jurors looked at each other.
Sacheverall colored very slightly, as if aware he had stepped a little too far. For the first time he had lost the sympathy of the jury. But he would not retreat.
“There may be many reasons for a man to shrink from marriage,” he said rather loudly. “Reasons he would not be willing to acknowledge to anyone. I make no accusations, please be clear; I speak only in general. He may be aware of disease in himself, or in his family.” He waved his arms in a gesture Rathbone had come to recognize was characteristic. “There may be a strain of madness. He may have a burden of debt he cannot meet, and therefore could not keep a wife. He may even be in danger of prosecution for some offense or other. He may already be married!”
There was a buzz of excited conversation as people in the gallery turned to whisper to one another.
“Silence!” Mr. Justice McKeever ordered, his voice surprisingly penetrating for one so soft. “Silence, or I shall clear the court!”
Obedience was instant. A man in the gallery cleared his throat, and it sounded like a minor explosion.
“Or he may be unable to consummate the union,” Sacheverall finished.
One of the jurors, an elderly man with thick white hair, clicked his teeth and shook his head disapprovingly. The remark obviously offended him as being in exceedingly poor taste. Gentlemen did not discuss such things.
Again Rathbone glanced at Melville, and saw only laughter in his light, sea-blue eyes.
“Of course,” Rathbone agreed, equally penetratingly. “And there may be many reasons why a man may decline to marry a particular lady, many of them disagreeable, coarse and offensive even to suggest, so I shall not.” He saw out of the corner of his eye one of the jurors nod. “I am loathe to have this already sad situation descend to such a level,” he finished.
McKeever smiled bleakly. He had seen too many civil cases to hold out any such hope.
“I am sure you would,” Sacheverall agreed sarcastically. “And I daresay your client even more so. But he should have thought of that before he humiliated and insulted Miss Lambert and used her affections so lightly. It is too late for such regrets now, even more for the fear of how it may reflect upon his own reputation.”
The fragile advantage had slipped away already. Thank heaven it was Friday and Rathbone had two days in which to try to prevail on Melville to tell him the truth. If he did not, then he could see no strategy at all which would avoid defeat. Perhaps Melville had not realized quite how damaging that would be to him, not only financially but also professionally. Barton Lambert would certainly cease to support him or employ him. Lambert was a man of influence. Melville might very well find his entire career jeopardized, regardless of his brilliance.
Rathbone forced himself to smile and face Sacheverall.
“This is not over yet,” he said with infinitely more confidence than he felt. “Let us await the conclusion before we assess the damage, and to whom. I have no wish to cause injury, but I shall represent my client’s interests with all the vigor at my disposal.”
“Naturally.” Sacheverall was not disturbed. He had regained his composure and he knew he had little to fear. Victory was only an inch from his grasp, and in his mind he could already feel it. “One would expect no less of you,” he added, but his smile lacked any anxiety that Rathbone might win.
He called one more witness, and then the court was adjourned for the weekend. The crowd dispersed from the gallery with unusual quietness and good order. It was an ominous sign. They were not expecting any surprises, no turn in events to spark their interest or change what to many was already a foregone conclusion.
Melville rose to leave also and Rathbone put his hand out and grasped his arm, gripping it unintentionally hard. He saw Melville wince.
“You’re not going,” he said grimly, “until you tell me the truth. I don’t think you realize just what you’re facing. This could ruin you.”
Melville sat down again, turning to stare at him. Around them the crowd had moved away. There was hardly anyone left except the ushers and court officials.
“You need a lot more than talent to succeed in the arts,” Rathbone went on quietly but clearly. “You need patronage, in architecture more than almost anything else. Your plans are stillborn if they never get off the paper.” He saw the pain tighten Melville’s face but he had to go on. If he did not succeed in persuading him now it could be too late. “You have to have a wealthy patron who believes in you and is willing to spend tens of thousands of pounds to build your halls and houses and theaters. You are not big enough yet to defy society, and you will very soon find that out if you lose this case without any excuse to offer.”
Melville blushed. “You want me to try to blacken her name?” he asked angrily. “Suggest that I suddenly found out something about her so appalling I couldn’t live with it? That she was a thief? A loose woman? A drunkard? A spendthrift? A gambler? I can’t. And if I could”—his lip curled in disgust—“would that endear me to society, do you suppose? How many wealthy men would then wish to have me in their close acquaintance, to observe their wives and daughters and then tell the world their weaknesses!”
“I don’t want you to tell the world!” Rathbone answered back with equal sharpness, and still holding Melville’s wrist, ignoring the last few people leaving the room, looking at the lawyer and his client curiously. “I meant you to tell me so I can understand the battle I am supposed to be fighting. I don’t need you to tell me that blackening Zillah Lambert’s name, with or without justification, will not help you. But with the truth, I may be able to reach a settlement out of court. It wouldn’t be victory, but it would be a great deal better than any other alternative facing you now.”
“I know nothing to her detriment,” Melville insisted. “Do you think I am being noble and letting her family sue me without a word in my defense? Is that what you imagine?” There seemed to be a brittle ring of amusement in him, as if the idea were funny.
“I don’t know what to think.” Rathbone half turned as the last woman went out of the doors and the usher looked at him enquiringly. “But if there is nothing about Zillah, then I must conclude that Sacheverall is right and it is something to do with you.”
He had longed to read an answer, a vulnerability or a fear in Melville’s eyes which would give him the clue he needed, but there was nothing. Melville remained staring at him with a blank, defiant despair.
“Is there someone else you love?” Rathbone guessed. “It doesn’t excuse you, but it would at least explain—to me, if no one else.”
“There is no one else I wish to marry,” Melville replied. “I have already told you that.” He gave a little shiver. “There is no purpose in your asking me, Sir Oliver. I have nothing to tell you which can help. The only truth of the matter is that I never asked Zillah to marry me. I have no intention of ever marrying anyone.” There was a curious bleakness in his eyes as he said it, and a momentary pull at his lips. “It was arranged without consulting me and I was foolish enough not to realize that all the chatter was taken to be sufficient notification. I was blind, I fully acknowledge that; naive, if you like.” His chin came up. “I admit to carelessness of her feelings because I did not think of her as more than a friend I cared for dearly. It did not cross my mind that she felt otherwise. That was clumsy, looking back with the clarity of hindsight. I will not make that error again.”
“That’s not enough,” Rathbone said bitterly.
“That is all there is.” A self-mockery filled Melville’s eyes. “I could say I had suddenly discovered madness in my family, if you like, but since it is not true, it would be impossible to prove. They’d be fools to believe me. Any young man could say that to escape an engagement if no proof were required.”
“Except that it would disqualify him from all future engagements as well,” Rathbone pointed out. “And possibly other things. It is not a tragedy one would wish upon anyone.”
The irony vanished from Melville’s face, leaving only pain behind. “No, of course it isn’t. I did not mean to make light of the affliction of madness. It is just that this whole situation invites the thought of farce. I am sorry.”
“It won’t feel like farce when the jury finds against you and awards costs and damages,” Rathbone replied, watching Melville’s expression.
“I know,” Melville answered in little above a whisper, looking away. “But there is nothing I can do except employ the best lawyer there is and trust in his skill.”
Rathbone grunted. He had done his utmost, and it was insufficient. He let go of Melville’s arm and stood up. The ushers were waiting. “You know where to find me if you should change your mind or think of anything at all which may be useful.”
Melville rose also. “Yes, of course. Thank you for your patience, Sir Oliver.”
Rathbone sighed.
At first Rathbone decided to go home and have a long, quiet evening turning the case over in his mind to see if he could discov
er something which had so far eluded him. But the prospect was unpromising, and he had been in his study only half an hour, unable to relax, when he abandoned the whole idea and told his manservant that he was going out and did not know when he would be back.
He took a hansom all the way to Primrose Hill, where his father lived, and arrived just as the shadows were lengthening and the sun was going down in a limpid sky.
Henry Rathbone was at the far end of the long lawn staring at the apple trees whose gnarled branches were thick with blossom buds. He was a taller man than his son, and leaner, a little stooped with constant study. Before his retirement he had been a mathematician and sometime inventor. Now he dabbled in all sorts of things for pleasure and to keep his mind occupied. He found life far too interesting to waste a day of it, and all manner of people engaged his attention. His own parents had been of humble stock; in fact, his maternal grandfather had been a blacksmith and wheelwright. He made no pretensions to superiority, except that when he judged a man to have sufficient intelligence to know better, he suffered fools with great impatience.
“Good evening, Father,” Rathbone called as he stepped through the French doors across the paved terrace and onto the grass.
Henry turned with surprise.
“Hello, Oliver! Come down and look at this. Do you know the honeysuckle in this hedge flowered right on until Christmas, and it’s coming well into leaf again already. And the orchard is full of primroses. How are you?” He regarded his son more closely. The evening light was very clear and perhaps more revealing than the harsher sun would have been. “What is wrong?”
Oliver reached him and stopped. He put his hands in his pockets and surveyed the hedge with the aforementioned honeysuckle twined through it, and the bare branches of the orchard beyond. His father frequently read him rather too easily.
“Difficult case,” he answered. “Shouldn’t really have taken it on in the first instance. Too late now.”
Henry started to walk back towards the house. The sun was barely above the trees and any moment it would disappear. There was a golden haze in the air and it was appreciably colder than even a few minutes before. A cloud of starlings wheeled above a distant stand of poplars, still bare, although in the next garden a willow trailed weeping branches like streamers of pale chiffon. The breeze was so slight it did not even stir them.