"If you see the situation as you have said, no doubt any other barrister of like skill and honor will see it the same way," she answered. "They will advise me as you have. And then I shall have to reply to them as I have to you, so I shall have gained nothing. There is only one person who believes in the necessity of pursuing the case."
"Who is that?" He was surprised. He could imagine no one.
"I, of course."
"You cannot represent yourself!" he protested.
"There is no alternative that I am prepared to accept." She stared at him with a very slight smile, irony and amus.e.m.e.nt mixed in it-and behind it, fear.
"Then I shall continue to represent you, unless you prefer me not to." He was horrified as he heard his own voice. It was rash to a degree. But he could hardly abandon her to her fate, even if she had brought it upon herself.
She smiled ruefully, full of grat.i.tude.
"Thank you, Sir Oliver."
"That was most unwise," Henry Rathbone said gravely. He was leaning against the mantelshelf in his sitting room. The French doors were no longer open onto the garden, and there was a brisk fire burning in the hearth. He looked unhappy. Oliver had just told him of his decision to defend Zorah in spite of the fact that she refused absolutely to withdraw her accusation or to make any sort of accommodation to sense, or even to her own social survival, possibly to her financial survival also.
Oliver did not want to repeat the details of the discussion. It sounded, in retrospect, as if he had been precipitate, governed far more by emotion than intelligence, a fault he deplored in others.
"I don"t see any honorable alternative," he said stubbornly. "I cannot simply leave her. She has put herself in a completely vulnerable position."
"And you with her," Henry added. He sighed and moved away from the front of the fire, where he was beginning to be uncomfortable. He sat down and fished his pipe out of his jacket pocket. He knocked the pipe against the fireplace, cleaned out the bowl, then filled it with tobacco again. He put it in his mouth and lit it. It went out almost immediately, but he did not seem to care.
"We must see what can be salvaged out of the situation." He looked steadily at Oliver. "I don"t think you appreciate how deeply people"s feelings run in this sort of issue."
"Slander?" Oliver asked with surprise. "I doubt it. And if murder is proved, then she will to some extent be justified." He was comfortable in his usual chair at the other side of the fire. He slid down a little farther in it. "I think that is the thrust I must take, prove that there is sufficient evidence to believe that a crime has been committed. Possibly in the emotion, the shock and outrage of learning that Friedrich was murdered, albeit for political reasons, they will overlook Zorah"s charge against Gisela." His spirits lifted a little as he said it. It was the beginning of a sensible approach instead of the blank wall he had faced even a few minutes ago.
"No, I did not mean slander," Henry replied, taking his pipe out of his mouth but not bothering to relight it. He held it by the bowl, pointing with it as he spoke. "I meant the challenging of people"s preconceptions of certain events and characters, their beliefs, which have become part of how they see the world and their own value in it. If you force people to change their minds too quickly, they cannot readjust everything, and they will blame you for their discomfort, the sense of confusion and loss of balance."
"I think you are overstating the case," Oliver said firmly. "There are very few people so unsophisticated as to imagine women never kill their husbands, or that minor European royal families are so very different from the rest of us very fallible human beings. Certainly I will not have many on my jury. They will be men of the world, by definition." He found himself smiling. "The average juror is a man of property and experience, Father. He may be very sober in his appearance, even pompous in his manner, but he has few illusions about the realities of life, of pa.s.sion and greed and occasionally of violence."
Henry sighed. "He is also a man with a vested interest in the social order as it is, Oliver. He respects his betters and aspires to be like them, even to become one of them, should fortune allow. He does not like the challenging of the good and the decent, which form the framework of the order he knows and give him his place and his value, which makes sure his inferiors respect him in the same way."
"Therefore, he will not like murder," Oliver said reasonably. "Most particularly, he will not accept the murder of a prince. He will want to see it exposed and avenged."
Henry relit his pipe absentmindedly. His brow was furrowed with anxiety. "He will not like lawyers who defend people who make such charges against a great romantic heroine," he corrected. "He will not like women, such as Zorah Rostova, who defy convention by not marrying, by traveling alone in all sorts of foreign lands; who dress inappropriately and ride astride a horse and smoke cigars."
"How do you know she does those things?" Oliver was startled.
"Because people are already beginning to talk about it." Henry leaned forward, the pipe going out again. "For heaven"s sake, don"t you suppose the gossip is running around London like s.m.u.ts from a chimney in a high wind? People have believed in the love story of Friedrich and Gisela for over a decade. They don"t want to think they have been deluded, and they will resent anyone who tries to tell them so."
Oliver felt the warmth of his earlier optimism begin to drain out of him.
"Attacking royalty is a very dangerous thing," Henry went on. "I know a great many people do it, especially in newspapers and broadsheets, and always have, but it has seldom made them liked among the sort of people you care about. Her Majesty has just recognized your services to justice. You are a knight, and a Queen"s Counsel, not a political pamphleteer."
"That is all the more reason why I cannot allow a murder to go unquestioned," Oliver said grimly, "simply because I shall not be popular for drawing everyone"s attention to it." He had placed himself in a position from which it was impossible to withdraw with any grace at all. And his father was only making it worse. He looked across at the older man"s earnest face and knew that his father was afraid for him, struggling to see an escape and unable to.
Oliver sighed. His anger evaporated, leaving only fear.
"Monk is going to Felzburg. He thinks it was probably a political a.s.sa.s.sination, perhaps by Klaus von Seidlitz, in order to prevent Friedrich from returning to lead the struggle for independence, which could very easily end in war."
"Then let"s hope he brings proof of it," Henry replied. "And that Zorah will then apologize, and you can persuade a jury to be lenient with the damages they award,"
Oliver said nothing. The fire settled in a shower of sparks, and he found he was cold.
Hester was now sure beyond all but the slimmest hope that Robert Ollenheim would not walk again. The doctor had not said so to Bernd or Dagmar, but he had not argued when Hester had challenged him in the brief moment they had alone.
She wanted to escape from the house for a while to compose her thoughts before she faced their recognition of the truth. She knew their pain would be profound, and she felt inadequate to help. All the words she thought of sounded condescending, because in the end she could not share the hurt. What is there to say to a mother whose son will not stand or walk or run again, who will never dance or ride a horse, who will never even leave his bedroom unaided? What do you say to a man whose son will not follow in his footsteps, who will never be independent, who will never have sons of his own to carry on the name and the line?
She asked permission to leave on a personal errand, and when willingly granted it, she took a hansom east across the city to Vere Street and asked Simms if she might see Sir Oliver, if he had a few moments to spare.
She did not have long to wait; within twenty minutes she was shown in. Rathbone was standing in the middle of the room. There were several large books open on the desk, as if he had been searching for some reference. He looked tired. There were lines of stress around his eyes and mouth, and his fair hair was combed a little crookedly, a most unusual occurrence for him. His clothes were as immaculate as always, and as perfectly tailored, but he did not stand as straight.
"My dear Hester, how delightful to see you," he said with a pleasure which caught her with a sudden warmth. He closed the book in his hand and set it on the desk with the others. "How is your patient?"
"Much recovered in his health," she replied truthfully enough. "But I fear he will not walk again. How is your case?"
His face was filled with concern. "Not walk again! Then his recovery is only very partial?"
"I am afraid that is almost certainly so. But please, I should prefer not to speak of it. We cannot help. How is your case going? Have you heard from Venice? Is Monk learning anything useful?"
"If he has, I am afraid he is so far keeping it to himself." He indicated the chair opposite, and then sat at the corner of the desk himself, swinging his leg a trifle, as if he were too restless to sit properly.
"But he has written?" she urged.
"Three times, in none of them telling me anything I could use in court. Now he is off to Felzburg to see what he can learn there."
It was not only the total lack of any helpful news which worried her, but the anxiety in Rathbone"s eyes, the way his fingers played with the corner of a sheaf of papers. It was not like him to fiddle pointlessly with things. He was probably not even aware he was doing it. She was unexpectedly angry with Monk for not having found anything helpful, for not being there to share the worry and the mounting sense of helplessness. But panic would not serve anyone. She must keep a calm head and think rationally.
"Do you believe Countess Rostova is honest in her charge?" she asked.
He hesitated only a moment. "Yes, I do."
"Could she be correct that Gisela murdered her husband?"
"No." He shook his head. "She is the one person who did not have the opportunity. She never left his side after his accident."
"Never?" she said with surprise.
"Apparently not. She nursed him herself. I imagine one does not leave a seriously ill patient alone?"
"As ill as he was, I would have someone in to be with him while I slept," she replied. "And I might well go to the kitchens to prepare his food myself or to make distillations of herbs to ease him. There are many things one can do to help certain kinds of distress once a patient is conscious."
He still looked slightly dubious.
"Meadowsweet," she elaborated. "Compresses are excellent for both pain and swelling. Cowslip is also good. Rosemary will lift the spirits. Cinnamon and ginger will help a sick headache. Marigold rinse will a.s.sist healing of the skin. Chamomile tea is good for digestive troubles and aids sleeping. A little vervain tea for stress and anxiety, which she might well have benefited from herself." She smiled, watching his face. "And there is always Four Thieves" Vinegar against general infection, which is the great danger after injury."
A ghost of a smile crossed his face. "I have to ask," he admitted. "What is Four Thieves" Vinegar?"
"Four healthy thieves were caught during a plague," she replied. "They were offered their freedom in return for their recipe for their remedy."
"Vinegar?" he said with surprise.
"Garlic, lavender, rosemary, sage, mint with a specific amount of mugwort and rue," she answered. "It has to be measured very exactly and made in a precise way, with cider vinegar. A few drops are sufficient, taken in water."
"Thank you," he said gravely. "But according to Monk"s information, Gisela did not leave their rooms at all...for anything. Whatever preparations there were came up from the kitchen or were brought by the doctor. And it is stretching the bounds of belief too far to suppose she kept a distillation of yew with her beforehand just in case she might have a need for it!"
"Obviously, you have told the Countess this-and advised her to withdraw and apologize." She did not make it a question; it would have been insulting. For all his present vulnerability, she would not have dared imply she knew something of his skill that he had omitted. The balance between them was delicate, the slightest clumsiness might damage it.
"I have." He looked at his fingers, not at her. "She refuses," he went on before she could ask. "I cannot abandon her, in spite of her foolishness. I have given my undertaking that I will do what I can to protect her interests."
She hesitated a moment, afraid to ask in case he had no answer. But then the omission would have made it obvious that that was what she thought. She saw it in his eyes, steady and gentle on hers, waiting.
"What can you do?" she said deliberately.
"Not enough," he replied with the ghost of a smile, self-mockery in it.
"Anything?" She had to pursue it. He expected her to. Perhaps he needed to share the sense of defeat. Sometimes fear put into words become manageable. She had found it with men on the battlefield. The longer it remained unsaid, the larger it grew. Turned and faced, the proportions defined, one could muster forces to fight it. The nightmare quality was contained. And this could not be as bad as battle. She still remembered the b.l.o.o.d.y fields afterwards with sick horror and a pity which she needed to forget if she were to live and be useful now. Nothing in this case could compare with the past. But she could not say that to Rathbone. For him this was the struggle, and the disaster.
He was collecting his thoughts. He still sat sideways on the edge of the desk, but he had stopped fiddling with the papers.
"If we can prove it was murder, perhaps we can divert people"s attention from the fact that she accused the wrong person," he said slowly. "I don"t know a great deal about the Princess Gisela. I think perhaps I need to know their relationship in the past, and her present financial arrangements, in order to estimate what reparations she is likely to seek." He bit his lip. "If she hates Zorah as much as Zorah hates her, then she is very likely to want to ruin her."
"I will see if I can learn anything," Hester said quickly, glad of the chance to do something herself. "Baron and Baroness Ollenheim knew them both quite well. If I ask the right way, she may tell me quite a lot about Gisela. After all, it is possible she has no great feelings about Zorah. She won, and apparently easily."
"Won?" He frowned.
"The battle between them," she said impatiently. "Zorah was his mistress before Gisela came-at least, she was one of them. Afterwards he never looked at anyone else. Zorah has plenty of reason to hate Gisela. Gisela has none to hate her. Probably she is so devastated by Friedrich"s death she has no interest in revenge for the slander. Once she is proved innocent, she may be quite happy simply to retire from the public scene as a heroine again-even a merciful one. She will be even more admired for it. People will adore her..."
Suddenly his expression quickened. The light returned to his eyes as he grasped an idea.
"Hester, you are remarkably perceptive! If I could persuade Gisela that mercy would be in her own best interest, that it would paint her the greater heroine even than before, that may be our only answer!" He slipped down off the desk and started to pace back and forth across the floor, but this time it was not from tension but nervous energy as his brain raced. "Of course, I shall have no direct communication with her. It will all have to be implied in open court. I must make it double-p.r.o.nged."
He waved his hands, held apart to ill.u.s.trate his idea. "On the one side, make mercy seem so appealing she will be drawn to it. Show how she will be remembered always for her grace and dignity, her compa.s.sion, the great qualities of womanhood that will make the whole world understand why Friedrich gave up a crown for her. And on the other, show how ugly revenge would be upon a woman who has already lost once to her and who has been shown to be mistaken-but a loyal patriot in that she was willing to risk everything to bring to light the fact that Friedrich really was indeed murdered and did not die a natural death, as everyone had supposed."
He increased his pace as his mind grasped more ideas. "And I can very subtly show that not to be grateful to her for that, at least, would suggest to some that possibly she would rather his murderer escape. She cannot allow anyone to think that." His fist clenched. "Yes! I believe at last we have the beginning of some kind of strategy." He stopped in front of her. "Thank you, my dear." His eyes were bright and gentle. "I am most grateful. You have helped immensely."
She found herself blushing under his gaze, suddenly unsure how to respond. She must remember this was only grat.i.tude. Nothing had really changed.
"Hester...I..."
There was a knock on the door.
Simms put his head in. "Major Bartlett is here to see you, Sir Oliver. He has been waiting some ten minutes. What shall I tell him?"
"Tell him I want another ten," Rathbone said. Then he looked at Simms"s startled face and sighed. "No, don"t tell him that. Miss Latterly is leaving. Tell Major Bartlett I apologize for keeping him waiting. I have just received urgent information on another case, but I am now ready to see him."
"Yes, Sir Oliver." Simms withdrew with a look of restored confidence. He was a man with a profound respect for the proprieties.
Hester smiled in spite of a sense of both relief and disappointment.
"Thank you for seeing me without notice," she said gravely. "I shall let you know of anything I am able to learn." And she turned to leave.
He moved past her to open the door, standing so close to her she could smell the faint aromas of wool and clean linen-and sense the warmth of his skin. She walked out into the open office, and he turned to speak to Major Bartlett.
Hester returned to Hill Street determined to face the truth regarding Robert as soon as an opportunity arose, and if it did not, she would have to create one.
As it happened, she had very little time to wait. The doctor called again early that evening, and after he had seen Robert, he asked to speak to Hester alone. There was a boudoir on the second floor which was readily available. She closed the door.
He looked grave, but he did not avoid her eyes, nor did he try to smooth over with false optimism the bitterness of what he had to say.
"I am afraid I can do no more for him," he said quietly. "It would be unjustified, and I think cruel, to hold out any real hope that he will walk again, or..." This time he did hesitate, trying to find a delicate way of phrasing what he needed to explain.
She helped him. "I understand. He will be able to use no part of his lower body. Only the automatic muscles of digestion will work."
"I am afraid that is true. I"m sorry."
Even though she had known it, to have it spoken made her aware that some foolish part of her had hoped she was wrong, and that hope was now dead. She felt a profound weight settle, hard and painful, inside her. It was as if a final light had gone out.
The doctor was looking at her with great gentleness. He must hate this as much as she did.
She forced herself to lift her head a fraction and keep her voice steady.
"I shall do all I can to help them accept it," she promised. "Have you told the Baroness, or do you wish me to?"
"I have not told anyone else yet. I would like you to be there when I do. She may find it very difficult."
"And Robert?"
"I have not told him, but I believe he knows. This young woman he mentions, Miss Stanhope, seems to have prepared him to some extent. Even so, hearing it from me will be different from merely thinking of it. You know him better than I do. From whom will it be least difficult for him?"
"That depends upon how his parents react," she replied, not knowing how real their hope may have been. She feared Bernd would fight against it, and that would make it far more difficult. Dagmar would have to face reality for both of them. "Perhaps we should allow them to choose, unless that proves impossible."
"Very well. Shall we go downstairs?"
Bernd and Dagmar were waiting for them in the huge, high-ceilinged withdrawing room, standing close together in front of the fire. They were not touching each other, but Bernd put his arm around his wife as Hester and the doctor came in. He faced them squarely, hope and fear struggling in his eyes.
Dagmar looked at them and read it in their expressions. She gulped.
"It is bad...isn"t it?" she said with a catch in her voice.
Hester started to say that it was not as bad as it might have been, there would be no pain, then realized that was not what they would be able to hear. For them this was as bad as they could conceive.
"Yes," the doctor answered for her. "I am afraid it is unrealistic to believe now that he will walk again. I...I am very sorry." His nerve failed him, and he did not add the other facts Hester had deduced. Perhaps he saw in Bernd"s face that they would be too much to bear.
"Can"t you do...anything?" Bernd demanded. "Perhaps a colleague? I don"t mean to insult you, but if we were to try another opinion? A surgeon? Now that you can anesthetize a person while you operate, surely you can...can mend what is broken? I-" He stopped.
Dagmar had moved closer to him, was holding on to his arm more tightly.