“Hear, hear!” a man called from the gallery, and was met with immediate applause.
The judge gave the audience a warning look, but he did not intervene.
Rathbone’s jaw tightened. His best hope might have been a strong and subtle judge. But perhaps he was being foolish to believe he had a hope at all. The Lord Chancellor’s words rang in his ears. Was this discretion or simply absolute surrender?
Beside him, Zorah was impassive. Maybe she still did not realize her position.
“From those who knew her, of course,” Wellborough said, still answering the question. “And from a great many who did not. But there were those who repeated it, and the ignorant began to question. There were servants who spread tittle-tattle. It caused much distress.”
“To whom?” Harvester said quietly.
“To many people, but the Princess Gisela in particular,” Wellborough said slowly.
“Did you meet anyone personally for whom her reputation had suffered?” Harvester pressed.
Wellborough shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
“Yes, I did. I heard ugly remarks on several occasions, and when the Princess wished to return to England for a short stay, it became impossible to employ acceptable staff to look after a small house for her.”
“How very unpleasant,” Harvester sympathized. “Have you reason to believe this occurred as a result of these accusations by the Countess Rostova?”
“I am quite sure it did,” Wellborough replied coldly. “My butler attempted to employ a household so she could stay peacefully for a few months during the summer, to get away from the heat of Venice. She wished to retire here away from public life, quite naturally in the circumstances. This fearful business has made it impossible. We were unable to obtain a satisfactory staff. Rumor had already spread by word of mouth of the ignorant.”
There was a murmur of sympathy from the gallery.
“How distressing.” Harvester shook his head. “So the Princess was unable to come?”
“She was obliged to stay with friends, which did not offer her either the privacy or the seclusion which she had desired in her bereavement.”
“Thank you, Lord Wellborough. If you could remain where you are, my learned friend may have questions to ask you.”
Rathbone rose to his feet. He could almost feel the tension crackle in the air around him. He had racked his brain to think of anything to say to Wellborough, but everything that came to his tongue could only have made matters worse.
The judge looked at him inquiringly.
“No questions, thank you, my lord,” he said with a dry mouth, and resumed his seat.
Lord Wellborough moved down the steps, walked smartly to the door and went out.
Harvester called Lady Wellborough.
She took the stand nervously. She was dressed in a mixture of dark brown and black, as if she could not make up her mind whether she should be in mourning or not. A death was being discussed, a murder was being denied.
“Lady Wellborough,” Harvester began gently, “I do not have many questions to ask you, and they all concern what may have been said by Countess Rostova and what effect it had.”
“I understand,” she replied in a small voice. She stood with her hands folded in front of her and her eyes wandering to Gisela, then to Zorah. She did not look at the jury.
“Very well. May I begin by taking your mind back to the dinner party you and Lord Wellborough attended at Lady Easton’s house in London? Do you recall that occasion?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Did you hear the Countess Rostova make the reference to Princess Gisela and Prince Friedrich’s death?”
“Yes. She said that the Princess had murdered him.”
Rathbone looked across to where Gisela sat. He tried to read the expression in her face and found himself unable to. She appeared unmoved, almost as if she did not understand what was being said. Or perhaps it was that she did not care. Everything that had passion or meaning for her was already irretrievably in the past, had died with the only man she had loved. What was being played out in the courtroom barely impinged on her consciousness—a farce with no reality.
“Did she say it once or several times?” Harvester’s voice brought Rathbone’s attention back.
“She repeated it again on at least three other occasions that I know of,” Lady Wellborough answered. “I heard it all over London, so heaven knows how many times she said it altogether.”
“You mean it became a subject of discussion—of gossip, if you like?” Harvester prompted.
Her eyes widened. “Of course. You can hardly hear something like that and not react to it.”
“So people repeated it whether they believed it or not?”
“Yes … yes, I don’t think anyone believed it. I mean … of course they didn’t.” She colored. “It’s preposterous!”
“But they still repeated it?” he insisted.
“Well … yes.”
“Do you know where the Princess was at the time, Lady Wellborough?”
“Yes, she was in Venice.”
“Was she aware of what was being said about her?”
She colored faintly. “Yes … I … I wrote and told her. I felt she should know.” She bit her lip. “I hated doing it. It took me over an hour to compose a letter, but I could not allow this to be said and go uncontested. I could defend her by denying it, but I could not initiate any proceedings.” She stared at Harvester as she said it, a slight frown on her brow.
Rathbone thought she seemed very concerned that Harvester should understand her reasons, and it occurred to him
that perhaps he had coached her to give this answer, and she was watching him to see if she had done so correctly. But it was a fact that was of no use. There was nothing he could make of it to help Zorah.
“You gave her the opportunity to defend herself in law,” Harvester concluded. “Which she is now taking. Did you receive a reply to your letter?”
“Yes, I did.”
There was a murmur of approval from the gallery. One of the jurors nodded gravely.
Harvester produced a piece of pale blue paper and offered it to the usher.
“My lord, may I place this letter into evidence and ask the witness to identify it?”
“You may,” the judge agreed.
Lady Wellborough said that it was the letter she had received, and in a slightly husky voice, she read it aloud to the court, quoting the date and the plantiff’s address in Venice. She glanced at Gisela only once and met with the merest acknowledgment.
“ ’My dear Emma,’ ” she began in an uncertain voice “ ’Your letter shocked and grieved me beyond words. I hardly knew how to set pen to paper to write you a sensible answer.’ ”
She stopped and cleared her throat without looking up from the paper.
“ ’First may I thank you for being such a true friend to me as to tell me this terrible news. It cannot have been easy even to think how to say it. Sometimes the cruelty of life seems beyond bearing.
“ ’I thought when my beloved Friedrich died there was nothing else left to hope or fear. For me it was the end of everything that was happy or beautiful or precious in any way. I truly did not think any other blow could wound me. How very wrong I was. I cannot begin to describe how this hurts. To imagine that anyone at all, any human being with a heart or a
soul, could think that I could have injured the man who was the love and core of my life, is a pain I do not think I can bear. I am beside myself with grief.
“ ’If she does not withdraw absolutely, and confess she was intoxicated or mad, I shall have to take her to court. I shall loathe every second of it, but I have no choice. I will not have Friedrich spoken of so—I will not have our love defiled. To my everlasting grief and loneliness, I could not save his life, but I will save his reputation as the man I loved and adored above all others. I will not, I will not have the world suppose I betrayed him.
“ ’I remain your indebted friend, Gisela.’ ”
She let the paper rest on the railing and looked up at Harvester, her face white, struggling to keep her composure.
No one was looking at her; almost every eye was on Gisela, even if all they could see was her profile. Several women in the gallery sniffed audibly, and one juror sat staring fixedly and blinking rapidly. Another blew his nose unnecessarily hard.
Harvester cleared his throat.
“I think we can safely assume that Princess Gisela was deeply distressed by this turn of events, and it caused her even greater pain above that which she already suffered in her bereavement.”
Lady Wellborough nodded.
Harvester invited Rathbone to question the witness.
Rathbone declined. He heard the rustle of surprise from the gallery, and his eye caught the movement of a juror and the disbelief in his face. But there was nothing at all he could do. In such a desperate situation anything he said would only give Lady Wellborough the opportunity to repeat her evidence.
The judge adjourned the court for luncheon, and Rathbone strode past Harvester and went immediately to the private room where he could speak to Zorah alone, almost dragging her with him, leaving the ugly mutters or grumbles of the crowd as the gallery was cleared.
“Gisela did not kill Friedrich,” he said the moment the door was closed. “I have no evidence to make your charge even seem reasonable, let alone true! For heaven’s sake, withdraw now. Admit you spoke out of emotion and were mistaken—”
“I was not mistaken,” she said flatly, her green eyes calm and perfectly level. “I will not abandon the truth simply because it has become uncomfortable. I am surprised that you think I might. Is this the courage in the face of fire which earned you an empire?”
“Charging into the enemy’s guns may make you a name in history,” he said acidly. “But it is an idiotic sacrifice of life. It’s all very poetic, but the reality is death, agony, crippled bodies and widows weeping at home, mothers who never see their sons again. It is more than time you stopped dreaming and looked at life as it is.” He heard his voice growing higher and louder and he could not help it. He was clenching his fists until his muscles ached, and without being aware of it, he chopped his hand up and down in the air. “Did you not hear that letter? Didn’t you look at the jurors’ faces? Gisela is a heroine, the ideal of their romantic imagination! You have attacked her with a charge you cannot prove, and that makes you a villain. Nothing I can say is going to change that. If I counterattack it will make it worse.”
She stood quite still, her face pale, her shoulders squared, her voice low and a little shaky.
“You give up too easily. We have barely begun. No sensible person makes a decision when he has heard only one side of a story. And sensible or not, the jury is obliged to wait and hear us as well. Is that not what the law is for, to allow both sides to put forward their case?”
“You have no case!” he shouted, then instantly regretted losing his self-control. It was undignified and served no purpose whatever. He should never have allowed himself to become so uncontrolled. “You have no case,” he repeated in a calmer voice. ’The very best we can do is present evidence
indicating that Friedrich was murdered by someone, but we cannot possibly prove it was Gisela! You will have to withdraw and apologize sooner or later, or suffer the full punishment the law may decide, and it may be very high indeed. You will lose your reputation …”
“Reputation.” She laughed a little nervously. “Do you not think I have lost that already, Sir Oliver? All I have left now is what little money my family settled on me, and if she takes that, she is welcome. She cannot take my integrity or wit, or my beliefs.”
Rathbone opened his mouth to argue, and then conceded the total pointlessness of it. She was not listening. Maybe she had never really listened to him.
“Then …” he began, and realized that what he was about to suggest was futile also.
“Yes?” she inquired.
He had been going to advise her to keep her bearing modest, but that would no doubt be a wasted request. It was not in her nature.
The first witness of the afternoon was Florent Barberini. Rathbone was curious to see him. He was extremely handsome in a Latin fashion, somewhat melodramatic for Rathbone’s taste. He was inclined not to like the man.
“Were you at Wellborough Hall at the time of Prince Friedrich’s death, Mr. Barberini?” Harvester began quite casually. He chose to use an English form of address, rather than the Italian or German forms.
“Yes, I was,” Florent replied.
“Did you remain in England afterwards for some time?”
“No, I returned to Venice for Prince Friedrich’s memorial service. I did not come back to England for about six months.”
“You were devoted to Prince Friedrich?”
“I am Venetian. It is my home,” he corrected.
Harvester was unruffled.
“But you did return to England?”
“Yes.”
“Why, if Venice is your home?”
“Because I had heard word that the Countess Rostova had made an accusation of murder against Princess Gisela. I wished to know if that were so, and if it was, to persuade her to withdraw it immediately.”
“I see.” Harvester folded his hands behind his back. “And when you arrived in London, what did you hear?”
Florent looked down, his brow furrowed. He must have expected the question, but obviously it made him unhappy.
“That apparently the Countess Rostova had quite openly made the charge of which I had heard,” he answered.
“Once?” Harvester pressed, moving a step or two to face the witness from a slightly different direction. “Several times? Did you hear her make it yourself, or only hear of it from others?”
“I heard her myself,” Florent admitted. He looked up, his eyes wide and dark. “But I did not meet anyone who believed it.”
“How do you know that, Mr. Barberini?” Harvester raised his eyebrows.
“They said so.”
“And you are sure that was the truth?” Harvester sounded incredulous but still polite, if only just. “They disclaimed in public, as is only civil, perhaps only to be expected. But are you as sure they still thought the same in private? Did not the vaguest of doubts enter their minds?”
“I know only what they said,” Florent replied.
Rathbone rose to his feet.