A Breach of Promise

chapter 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."

"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 have 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," Sachev-erall 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 discover 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.

Henry took a pipe out of his pocket but did not bother even to pretend to light it. He seemed to like just to hold it by the bowl, waving it to emphasize a point as he spoke.

"Well, are you going to tell me about it?" he asked. He gestured towards a clump of wood anemones. "Self-seeded," he observed. "Can't think how they got there. Really want them in the orchard. What sort of case?"

"Breach of promise," Oliver replied.

Henry looked at him sharply, his face full of surprise, but he made no comment.

Oliver explained anyway. "At first I refused. Then the same evening I went to a ball, and I was so aware of the matrons parading their daughters, vying with one another for any available unmarried man, I felt like a quarry before the pack myself. I could imagine how one might be cornered, unable to extricate oneself with any grace or dignity, or the poor girl either."

Henry merely nodded, putting the pipe stem in his mouth for a moment and closing his teeth on it.

"Too much is expected of marriage," Oliver went on as they came to the end of the grass and stepped across the terrace to the door. He held it open while Henry went inside, then followed him in and closed it.

"Draw the curtains, will you?" Henry requested, going over to the fire and taking away the guard, then placing several more coals on it and watching it flame up satisfactorily.

Oliver walked over towards the warmth and sat down, making himself comfortable. There was always something relaxing about this room, a familiarity, books and odd pieces of furniture he remembered all his life.

"I'm not decrying it, of course," he went on. "But one shouldn't expect someone else to fill all the expectations in our lives, answer all the loneliness or the dreams, provide us with a social status, a roof over our heads, daily bread, clothes for our backs, and a purpose for living as well, not to mention laughter and hope and love, someone to justify our aspirations and decide our moral judgments."

"Good gracious!" Henry was smiling but there was a shadow of anxiety in his eyes. "Where did you gather this impression?"

Oliver retracted immediately. "Well, all right, I am exaggerating. But the way these girls spoke, they hoped everything from marriage. I can understand why Melville panicked. No one could fill such a measure."

"And did he also believe that was expected of him?" Henry enquired.

"Yes." Oliver recalled it vividly, seeing Zillah in his mind. "I met his betrothed. Her face was shining, her eyes full of dreams. One would have thought she was about to enter heaven itself."

"Perhaps," Henry conceded. "But being in love can be quite consuming at times, and quite absurd in the cold light of others' eyes. I think you are stating a fear of commitment which is not uncommon, but nevertheless neither is it admirable. Society cannot exist if we do not keep the promises we have made, that one above most others." He regarded him gently, but not without a very clear perception. "Are you certain it is not your rather fastidious nature, and unwillingness to forgo your own independence, which you are projecting onto this young man?"

"I'm not unwilling to commit myself!" Oliver defended, thinking with sharp regret of the evening not long before when he had very nearly asked Hester Latterly to marry him. He would have, had he not been aware that she would refuse him and it would leave them hesitant with each other. A friendship they both valued would be changed and perhaps not recap-turable with the trust and the ease it had had before. At times he was relieved she had forestalled him. He did value his privacy, his complete personal freedom, the fact that he could do as he pleased without reference to anyone, without hurt or offense. At other times he felt a loneliness without her. He thought of her more often than he intended to, and found her not there, not where he could assume she could listen to him, believe in him. There were times when he deeply missed her presence to share an idea, a thing of beauty, something that made him laugh.

Henry merely nodded. Did he know? Or guess? Hester was extraordinarily fond of him. Oliver had even wondered sometimes if part of his own attraction for her was the regard she had for Henry, the wider sense of belonging she would have as part of his family. That was something William Monk could not give her! He had lost his memory in a carriage accident just after the end of the Crimean War, and everything in his life before that was fragments pieced together from observation and deduction, albeit far more complete now than even a year ago. Still, there was no one in Monk's background like Henry Rathbone.

Could that be it? Was it not Zillah who was unacceptable but someone else in her family? Barton Lambert? Delphine? No, that was unlikely in the extreme. Barton Lambert had been Melville's friend far more than most men could expect of a father-in-law. And Delphi ne was proud of her daughter, ambitious, possibly overprotective, but then was that not usual, and what one expected, even admired, in a mother? If she disliked Melville now, she certainly had ample cause.

"There seems to be no defense," he said aloud.

"What does he say?" Henry asked, taking the pipe out of his mouth and knocking the bowl sharply against the fireplace. He looked enquiringly at Oliver as he cleaned out the pipe and refilled it with tobacco. He seldom actually smoked it, but fiddling with it seemed to give him satisfaction.

"That's it," Oliver replied with exasperation. "Nothing! Simply that he did not ask her in the first place and he cannot bear the thought of marrying anyone at all. He states emphatically that he knows nothing to her discredit, and has no impediment to marriage himself, and trusts in me to defend him as well as may be done."

"Then surely there is something he is not telling you," Henry observed, putting the pipe between his teeth again but still not bothering to light it.

"I know that," Oliver agreed. "But I have no idea what it is. Every moment in court I dread Sacheverall facing him with it. I imagine he is going to produce it, like a conjurer, and any hope I have will evaporate."

"Is that Wystan Sacheverall?" Henry asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Yes. Why?"

Henry shrugged. "Knew his father. Always thought him very ambitious socially, something of an opportunist. Big man with fair hair and large ears."

Oliver smiled. "Definitely his son," he agreed. "But he is a very competent man. I shall not make the error of underrating him simply because he has a clownish face. I think he is extremely serious beneath it."

"Then you had better find out for yourself what your client will not tell you," Henry stated. "Have you told Hester about this situation? A feminine point of view might help."

"I hadn't thought of it," Oliver admitted. She had been in his mind on many occasions, but not as a possible source of help. "Actually, I have not been in touch with her for a few weeks. She will almost certainly be with a new patient."

"Then you can ask Lady Callandra Daviot," Henry pointed out. "She will know where Hester is."

"Callandra is in Scotland," Oliver replied stubbornly. "Traveling around from place to place. I had a letter from her posted from Ballachulish. I believe that is somewhere on the west coast, a little short of Fort William in Inverness-shire."

"I know where Fort William is," Henry said patiently. "Then you will have to enquire from Monk. It should not be beyond his ability to find her. He is an excellent detective... assuming he does not already know."

Oliver loathed the idea of going to Monk to ask him where Hester was. He would feel so vulnerable. It would entirely expose his disadvantage that he did not know himself, and yet he assumed Monk would. His only satisfaction would be if Monk did not know either. But then he would be no further forward. Now that Henry had suggested it, he realized how much he wanted to consult Hester. In fact, this case could provide the perfect reason to go to her again without their personal emotions intruding so much that the whole meeting would be impossibly awkward. On reflection, it had been a mistake not to see her more often in the intervening time. It would then have been so much easier.

Now he was reduced to going to Monk, of all people, for help.

Henry was watching him reflectively.

"I suppose it would be quite a good idea," Oliver conceded. "I may even end up employing him myself!" He meant it as a joke. He could not use a detective against his own client, but he was tempted to do it simply to have the weapon of knowledge in his hand.

"What will happen to him if you lose?" Henry asked after another few moments of thoughtful silence by the fire.

"Financial penalty and social ruin," Rathbone answered.

"And considering his profession, probably professional catastrophe as well."

"Does he realize that?" Henry frowned.

"I've told him."

"Then you must find out the truth, Oliver." Henry leaned forward, his face very grave, worry creasing his brow. "What you have told me so far does not make any sense. No man would throw away a brilliant career, about which he obviously cares passionately, for such a reason."

"I know," Oliver agreed. He sat a little lower in his chair. It was soft and extremely comfortable. The whole room had a familiar feeling that was far more than mere warmth; it was a deep sense of safety, of belonging, of values which did not change. "I'll ask Monk. Tomorrow."

Monk was startled to see Rathbone on his step at half past eight the following morning. He opened the door dressed in shirtsleeves, his dark hair smoothed back off his brow and still damp. He surveyed Rathbone's immaculate striped trousers and plain coat, his high hat and furled umbrella.

"I can't guess," he said with a shrug. "I cannot think of anything whatever which would bring you, dressed like that, to my door at this hour on a Saturday morning."

"I don't expect you to guess," Rathbone replied waspishly. "If you allow me in, I shall tell you."

Monk smiled. He had a high-cheekboned face with steady gray eyes, a broad-bridged aquiline nose and a wide, thin mouth. It was the countenance of a man who was clever, as ruthless with himself as with others, possessed of courage and humor, who hid his weaknesses behind a mask of wit-and sometimes of affected coldness.

Rathbone knew all this, and part of him admired Monk, part of him even liked him. He trusted him unquestioningly.

Monk stood back and invited him in. The room where he received his prospective clients was already warm with the fire bright in the hearth, the curtains drawn wide and a clock ticking agreeably on the mantel. That was new since the last time Rathbone had been there. He wondered if it had been Hester's idea, then dismissed the thought forcibly. The rest of the room was filled with her suggestions. Why not this, and what did it matter if it were?

Monk waved to him to sit down. "Is this professional?" he asked, standing by the fire and looking down at Rathbone.

Rathbone leaned back and crossed his legs, to show how at ease he was.

"Of course it is. I don't make social calls at this hour."

"You must have an appalling case." Monk was still amused, but now he was also interested.

Rathbone wanted to make sure Monk understood it was professional, and not that he wanted to find Hester for personal motives. For him to believe that would be intolerable. In his own way he would never allow Rathbone to forget it.

"I have," he said candidly. "I am out of my depth, because of the nature of it, and I know I am being lied to. I need a sound judgment on it, one from a very different point of view." He saw Monk's interest increase.

"If I can be of help," Monk offered. "What is the case? Tell me about it. What is your client accused of? Murder?"

"Breach of promise."

"What?" Monk could hardly believe it. "Breach of promise? To marry?" He laughed in spite of himself. "And you don't understand it?" It was not quite contempt in his voice, but almost.

"That's right," Rathbone agreed. He was a past master at keeping his temper. Better men, more skilled at these tactics than Monk, had tried to provoke him and failed. "My client stands to forfeit not only money but his professional reputation if he loses. And he has a brilliant career. Some might even say he has genius."

The humor vanished from Monk's face. He stared at Rathbone with gravity, and the curiosity returned.

"So why did he court someone and then break the engagement?" he asked. "What did he discover about her?"

"He says there was nothing," Rathbone replied. Now that it had come to it, he might as well hear Monk's opinion as well. Whatever his emotions towards Monk, and they were wildly varied, he respected Monk's intelligence and his judgment. They had fought too many issues side by side, embraced too many causes together passionately, at any cost, not to know each other in a way few people are privileged to share.

"Then either he is lying," Monk responded, watching Rathbone closely, "or there is something about himself he is not telling you."

"Precisely," Rathbone agreed. "But I have no idea which it is or what the something may be."

"Are you employing me to find out... against your own client?" Monk asked. "He'll hardly pay you for that! Or thank you, either."

"No, I'm not," Rathbone said sharply. "I would like a woman's judgment on the situation. Callandra is in Scotland. I want to ask Hester." He searched Monk's face and saw his eyes widen very slightly but no more. Whatever Monk thought, he kept it concealed. "I don't know her present case. I thought you might."

"No, I don't," Monk answered without a flicker. "But I know how to find out. If you wish I shall do so." He glanced at the clock. "I assume it is urgent?"

"Are you expecting someone?" Rathbone misunderstood deliberately.

Monk shrugged very slightly and stepped forward from the mantel. The half smile touched his lips again. "Not for breakfast," he answered, crossing the room. He managed to move with the grace of suppressed energy. Always, even when weary or seeming beaten, he gave the air of one who might be dangerous to antagonize. Rathbone had never tested his physical strength, but he knew that not even the despair or the defeats of the past, the close and terrible personal danger which had plumbed the bottom of his emotional power, had broken him. The last dreadful moments of the affair in Mecklenburg Square must have come close. Hester had seen the worst extreme, but she had not betrayed it, and he knew she never would-just as she would never have told Monk anything about the moments between herself and Rathbone.

"I suppose you have eaten?" Monk asked with assumption of the answer in his voice. "I haven't. If you want to join me for at least a cup of tea, you're welcome. Tell me a little bit more about this life-and-death case of yours... for breach of promise, hurt feelings and questioned reputation. Business must be hard for you to be reduced to this!"

It was nearly noon before Monk arrived at Rathbone's rooms and simply handed him a slip of paper on which was written an address and the name "Gabriel Sheldon." He passed it to Rathbone with a slight smile.

Rathbone glanced at it. "Thank you," he said simply. He did not know what else to add. It was a strangely artificial situation. They knew each other in some ways so well. Rathbone knew far more of Monk than anyone else except Hester-and possibly Callandra Daviot and John Evan, the sergeant who had worked with Monk before Monk left the police force following a violent quarrel with his superior. But Evan had seen him only intermittently since then; Rathbone had worked with him every few months. They had stood together in victory and despair, in mental and physical exhaustion, in the elation of triumph and the strange, acute pain of pity. Even if they had never voiced it, they each understood what the other felt.

Rathbone knew that Monk had lost his past, everything, until four years ago. He had discovered himself as a man in his forties, not a man he always liked, sometimes a man he despised, even feared. Rathbone had watched Monk struggle to regain his memory, and had seen the courage it required of Monk to look at what he had been: the occasional cruelty, the hasty judgments, made too often in ignorance and from fear. Monk had hesitated at times, flinching from what he would find, but in the end he had never refused to look.

Rathbone admired him for it. Indeed, he would have protected him and defended him were it possible. A part of him liked Monk quite naturally, despite their widely differing backgrounds. Rathbone was born to comfort and had received an excellent education with all the grace and social status which such an eduction afforded. Monk was the son of a fisherman from the far northeast, on the Scottish borders. His education had been struggled for, given as charity by the local vicar, who appreciated a boy of intellectual promise and driving will, and was prepared to tutor him for nothing. He had come south to London to make his fortune, assisted quickly by a man of wealth who had trained him in merchant banking until his own unjust prosecution and ruin.

Then, burning with indignation, Monk had joined the police, driven by anger and filled with passion to right the intolerable wrongs he saw.

That was so unlike Rathbone, who had studied law at Cambridge and risen easily from one position to another assisted by a mixture of patronage and his own brilliance.

Only his sense of purpose was similar, his ambition to achieve the highest, and perhaps his love of the beautiful things of life, of elegance and good taste. In Rathbone it was natural to dress perfectly. He looked and sounded the gentleman he was. It took no effort whatever.

For Monk it was an extravagance which had to be paid for by going without other things, but he never hesitated. Rathbone could not accuse him of vanity, but someone else might have, possibly even Hester herself, certainly Callandra Daviot. Rathbone had never known a woman who gave less considered thought to her appearance. But for all Monk's natural elegance and carefully attentive grooming, he would never have the assurance Rathbone did, because it came with breeding and could not be acquired.

"Thank you," he repeated. "I'm obliged. If you will excuse me, I will go and see her immediately. I have no time to lose."

Monk nodded, a very slight smile on his lips. "But everything else," he said dryly. "Let me know if I can help with your case, but it sounds hopeless to me. What is she like, this jilted lady?"

"Young, pretty, even-tempered, sufficiently intelligent to be interesting and not enough to be daunting, and an heiress," Rathbone replied, putting on his coat and opening the door for Monk, satisfied at the surprise in Monk's face. "She also has a spotless reputation," he added. "And she does not drink nor is she extravagant, sharp-tongued nor given to gossip. Have you a hansom waiting, or would you care to share one?"

"I have one waiting," Monk replied. "I assume you would like to share it with me?"

"I would," Rathbone agreed, and strode out briskly.

The door of the Sheldon house was opened by a very young footman and Rathbone gave his name but did not offer him a card. He did not wish to make it appear a professional call.

"I am a friend of Miss Latterly, who I believe is staying here temporarily," he said. "I realize it is probably not a convenient time to call, but the matter is of some urgency, and I am prepared to wait, should that be necessary. Would you tell her this and ask Mr. Sheldon if it is permissible for one to interrupt Miss Latterly?" Then he offered the card.

The footman took it, glanced at its expensive lettering and noted the title.

"Yes, Sir Oliver, I'll take it straightaway. Would you care to wait in the library, sir?"

"Thank you, that would be excellent," Rathbone accepted, and followed the man across a modest hallway to a most agreeable room lined on two sides with books and overlooking a small, rather exuberant garden, now full of lots of narcissi and early leaves of lupines. The stone wall he could see was festooned with the bare branches of honeysuckle and climbing roses, all greatly in need of pruning.

The fire was not lit and the air was chilly. The house had the small signs of a family home acknowledging certain financial restrictions-not stringent, but there in the background. Resources were not unlimited. There was also a certain recent inattention to detail, as if the mind of the mistress had been upon other things. He was forcibly reminded of Hester's occupation, and with it came an unwelcome understanding of how important it was to her. He had never before known a woman who had any profound interest outside the home and family. He admired it-wholeheartedly and with an instinctive emotion he could not deny. It brought them closer together. It made her in many ways more like a man, less alien, less mysterious. It meant she could understand his devotion to his work, his dedication of time and energy to it. She would know why at times he had to cancel social engagements, why he would stay up all night pursuing a thought, a solution, why every other normal routine of life had to be bent, or even broken, when a case was urgent. It made her so much easier to talk to. She grasped logic almost without seeming effort.

It also made her quite unlike the women whose lives were familiar to him, his own female relatives, the women he had courted in the past, or been drawn to, the wives of his friends and acquaintances. It made her somehow in another way unknown, even unknowable. It was not entirely a comfortable emotion.

The door opened and a large, ebullient man came in. He was dressed in a Norfolk tweed jacket of an indeterminate brown, and brownish gray trousers. His stance, his expression, everything about him was full of energy.

"Athol Sheldon!" he announced, holding out his hand. "I understand you've come to see Miss Latterly? Excellent woman. Sure she'll care extremely well for my brother. Hideous experience, losing an arm. Don't really know what to say to help." For a moment he looked confused. Then by force of will and belief he assumed an air of confidence again. "Best a day at a time, what? Courage! Don't meet tomorrow's problems before they're here. Too easy to get morbid. Good thing to have a nurse, I think. Family's too close, at times." He stood in the middle of the room, seeming to fill it with his presence. "Do you know Miss Latterly well?"

"Yes," Rathbone said without hesitation. "We have been friends for some years." Actually it was not as long as it seemed, if one counted the actual span of time rather than the hectic events which had crowded it. There were many other people he had known far longer but with whom he had shared little of depth or meaning. Time was a peculiarly elastic measurement It was an empty space, given meaning only by what it contained, and afterwards distorted in memory.

"Ah... good." Athol obviously wanted to say something else, but could find no satisfactory words. "Remarkable thing for a woman, what? Going out to the Crimea."

"Yes," Rathbone agreed, waiting for Athol to add whatever it was he really wanted to say.

"Don't suppose it's easy to settle down when you come back," Athol continued, glancing at Rathbone curiously. He had very round, very direct eyes. "Not sure it's entirely a good thing."

Rathbone knew exactly what he meant, and thought so too. It had forced Hester to see and hear horror that no person should have to know, to experience violence and deprivation, and to find within herself not only strength but intelligence, skill and courage she might not have conceived, let alone exercised, at home in England. She had proved herself the equal of many men whose authority she would never have questioned in normal circumstances. Sometimes she had even shown herself superior, when the crisis had been great enough. It upset the natural, accepted order of things. One could not unlearn knowledge so gained. And she could not and would not pretend.

Rathbone agreed, but he found himself resenting the fact that Athol Sheldon should remark it. Instantly he was defensive.

"Not entirely painless, certainly; but if you consider the work of someone like Miss Nightingale, you cannot but be enormously grateful for the difference she will make to medical care. We may never count the millions of lives her methods will save, not to mention the sheer suffering relieved."

"Yes..." Athol nodded, but there was no easing of the expression in his face. He pushed his hands into his pockets and then took them out again. "Of course. Admirable. But it changes one."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Changes one," Athol repeated, moving restlessly around the room before turning to face Rathbone. "A woman is designed by God and by nature to create a gentle and safe place, a place of inner peace and a certain innocence, if you like, for those who are obliged to face horror or evil." He frowned, looking intensely at Rathbone. "It changes a person, you know, the sight of real evil. We should protect women from it... so they in turn can protect us from ourselves." He spread his large hands wide. "So they can renew us, revive our spirits, and keep a haven worth striving for, worth... fighting or dying in order to-to protect!"

"Has Miss Latterly done something that disturbs you, Mr. Sheldon?" Rathbone asked anxiously.

"Well..." Athol bit his lip. "You see, Sir Oliver, my brother Gabriel has seen some appalling sights in India, quite shocking." He frowned and lowered his voice confidentially. "Unfortunately he cannot put them from his mind. He has spoken of them to Miss Latterly, and she is of the opinion that my sister-in-law, Mrs. Sheldon, should learn a little of Indian history, and then of this wretched Mutiny, in order to be able to understand what Gabriel has experienced. So he can share his feelings with her, you understand?" He watched Rathbone's expression closely. "You see? Quite inappropriate. Perdita should never have to know about such things. And poor Gabriel will recover far more rapidly, and more completely, if he can spend his time with people who won't keep reminding him. It is amazing, Sir Oliver, what an effort of will a man can make to live up to a woman's expectations of him, and what he can do in his determination to guard her from ugly and degrading knowledge." He shook his head, pursing his lips. "Miss Latterly does not seem persuaded of it. And of course I do not have the authority to command her."

Rathbone laughed. "Neither do I, believe me, Mr. Sheldon. But I shall certainly put the point to her, if you wish me to."

Athol's face cleared. "Would you? I should be most obliged. Perhaps you had better come up and meet my brother. Miss Latterly will be with him. She is very good reading to him, and the like. An excellent woman, please never think that I mean otherwise!"

"Of course not." Rathbone smiled to himself and followed Athol out of the library, up the stairs and into a large bedroom where Hester was sitting in a rocking chair with a book open on her lap, and in the freshly made bed a young man was propped up on pillows, turned towards her. Rathbone did not immediately notice his empty sleeve; his nightgown almost camouflaged it. But the disfigurement to the left side of his face was horrifying and it took all the effort of will of which he was capable to keep it from showing in his expression, or even in his voice.

He realized as the young man swung around at the entrance of a stranger how insensitive it was of Athol not to have asked first if he was welcome and to have warned them both, Gabriel of the intrusion, and Rathbone of what he would see.

Anger flickered across Hester's face and was disguised only with difficulty, and perhaps because it was superseded by surprise at recognizing Rathbone. Apparently it was Athol to whom the footman had delivered his message, and possibly Perdita.

After the first shock, Hester seized the initiative. She rose to her feet, smiled briefly at Rathbone, then turned to the man in the bed.

"Gabriel, this is my friend Sir Oliver Rathbone." She looked at Rathbone, ignoring Athol. "Oliver, I should like to introduce you to Lieutenant Gabriel Sheldon. He was one of the four survivors of the siege of Cawnpore and was subsequently wounded while still serving in the Indian army. He has only been home a very short time."

"How do you do, Lieutenant Sheldon," Rathbone said gravely. "It is very good of you to allow me to call upon Miss Latterly in your home and without the slightest warning. I would not have taken such a liberty were it not a matter of urgency to me, and to my present client, who may face ruin if I cannot defend him successfully."

Gabriel was still overcoming his self-consciousness and sense of vulnerability. This was the first time since his return that he had been faced with a stranger.

"You are welcome," he said a little hoarsely, then coughed and cleared his throat. "It sounds a most serious matter." It was not a question. He would not have been so inquisitive.

"I am a barrister," Rathbone replied, determined to keep a normal conversation going. "And in this have a present case of which I should like a woman's view. I admit I am utterly confused."

Gabriel was interested. His eyes were intelligent and direct and Rathbone found himself meeting them very easily, without having to make a deliberate effort to avoid staring at the appalling scar and the lips pulled awry by it.

"Is it a capital case?" Gabriel asked, then instantly apologized. "I'm sorry; I have no business to intrude. Forgive me."

"Not at all," Rathbone replied quite spontaneously. "It is serious only in the damages if my client loses, but the offense is relatively slight. It is a suit for breach of promise."

"Oh!" Gabriel looked surprised and Rathbone felt as if he had disappointed him by dealing with anything so trivial. In comparison with what Gabriel had experienced, which Rathbone had read about only in newspapers, no doubt robbed of much of its horror and detail, a broken romance seemed an insult even to mention. It was certainly painful, but a common affliction of mankind. Surely everyone suffered such disappointment, in some degree or another, if they were capable of love at all?

He looked at Hester to see what she might feel. Would she consider it absurd too?

"Breach of promise?" she said slowly, staring back at him.

Suddenly he was aware of how much of her he did not know. Why had she gone to the Crimea in the beginning? Had someone let her down, just as Melville had Zillah Lambert?

Had she felt that humiliation, the laughter of friends, the sense of utter rejection, the whole of her certain and happy world shattered at a blow?

Now, instead of with Melville, his whole sympathy was with Zillah. He saw Hester in her place, and burned with anger for her and with shame for his own clumsiness.

"Yes..." He fumbled for the words to try to mend things. "I think it arises out of misunderstanding rather than intentional callousness. He swears that he did not even ask her to marry him. It was merely assumed. That is the reason I was prepared to accept the case. Now I find I cannot comprehend his motive at all, and I cannot help believing that he is concealing something of the utmost importance, but I have no idea what."

Athol shook his head. "A man of no honor," he said, speaking for the first time since they had entered the room. "Once you have given your word you must abide by it, regardless of what you may then wish. A man's word should bind him for life... even to death, if need be." He glanced at his brother. "Of course, if circumstances change, then you say so, and offer to set a woman free. That is a different thing." He frowned at Rathbone. "Was she changed, this woman? Has she had to lie about something? You said she was virtuous, didn't you? Or did I assume it?"

"So far as I know she is perfectly virtuous," Rathbone replied. "She seems in every way all that one could wish. And my client swears she has no faults that he is aware of."

"Then he is a bounder, sir, a complete outsider," Athol pronounced. "You cannot defend him; he is indefensible. Your clearest duty is to persuade him to honor his promise, with the utmost apology."

"She would be unlikely to want him now," Hester pointed out. "I certainly shouldn't. It might make me feel better to have him offer, but I would most certainly decline."

"I suggested that," Rathbone explained. "He was afraid she might not decline and then he would be back in his present situation, and he refuses absolutely to go through with it, but he will not tell me why."

Hester burst into laughter, then controlled herself again instantly.

"How marvelously arrogant!" she exclaimed. "She would be quite mad to accept him in those circumstances. All it would do would be to give her the opportunity to be the one to turn him down. There has to be more to it than you have been told."

"Perhaps he is already married?" Gabriel suggested. "Perhaps it is unhappy, an arrangement over which he had little control, a family obligation, and he has run away from it, fallen in love with her, but now realizes he cannot commit bigamy. Only he does not tell anyone, because he does not wish his wife to find out." He looked pleased with himself, forgetting to be conscious of his disfigurement.

"That is quite plausible," Rathbone thought aloud. "Providing his family are some considerable distance away, perhaps Scotland or Ireland. He is bent on making a name for himself in London."

"Has his eye on someone higher," Athol said dismissively. "More money, better connected family."

"Well, he is ruining his chances completely by losing a suit for breach of promise," Gabriel pointed out. He looked at Rathbone. "Didn't you say this young lady is an heiress?"

"Yes, very considerable," Rathbone agreed. He turned back to Hester. "And I have the strong impression that his emotion is fear, even panic, rather than greed. He is quite aware that this girl's father is ideally placed to assist him in his career, and has done so already. No, he is definitely a man caught in a situation which is intolerable to him, but I don't know why!"

Athol snorted. "If he won't tell you, then it is something he is ashamed of! An honorable man would explain himself."

It was a very bald statement, without sensitivity or allowance, and yet before Rathbone could frame a contradiction, he realized it was true. Were there not something profoundly wrong, real or imaginary, Melville would have explained his situation to Rathbone, if not to Zillah Lambert.

"Perhaps he is in love with somebody else?" Hester suggested.

"Then why doesn't he simply tell me?" Rathbone continued. "It is a plain enough thing to understand. I might not agree, but I would know what arguments I was facing."

Hester thought for a moment.

"Cannot always have what you want just because you want it," Athol observed sourly. "There is such a thing as duty."

"Maybe it is someone he cannot approach?" Hester looked up at Rathbone, who was still standing, as Athol was, because there was no suitable place to sit.

"Cannot approach?" Rathbone repeated. "Why not? You mean someone already married? Perhaps a close friend of-" He stopped just before he mentioned the Lamberts' name.

"Why not?" she agreed. "Or..."

"It happens," he said, shaking his head. "That is not anything to be ashamed of. It is simply awkward, possibly embarrassing, but not worth this public disgrace."

"What about her mother?"

"What?" Rathbone was incredulous. The idea was inconceivable.

Athol misunderstood completely. "Don't suppose the poor woman knows," he put in. "Wouldn't have brought the action if she did." He shook his head, his face still bland and certain.

"Hester means what if the man is in love with the girl's mother," Gabriel enlightened him. "And even if she did know, it wouldn't stop her bringing the suit, because she will hardly be likely to tell the father, will she?"

"Good God!" Athol was astounded.

Rathbone collected his wits. "I suppose it's possible," he said slowly, remembering Delphine's lovely face, her delicacy, the grace with which she moved. Melville would not be the first young man to fall in love with an older woman. It had never entered Rathbone's thoughts, and even now he found it exceedingly difficult. Delphine had seemed so genuinely betrayed. But then maybe she had no idea.

Hester's mind was racing ahead. "Or perhaps the girl is in love with someone else and your client knows it," she suggested. "It could be a matter of honor with him, the greatest gift to her he could give... and she dare not tell her parents, if this other person is unsuitable. Or on the other hand, it might be pride-he could not marry a woman he knew did not love him but did love someone else. I wouldn't! No matter how willing he was to go through with it."

Rathbone smiled. "I'm sure you wouldn't. But there is an optimism, or an arrogance, in many of us which makes us believe we can teach someone to love us if only we have the chance." Then he wondered immediately if he should have said that. Was it not too close to the unspoken, vulnerable core of what lay inside himself? Did he not dream that with the chance, the time, the intimacy, Hester would learn to love him with the passion of her nature, not merely the abiding friendship? It had never occurred to him before that he might have anything in common with Melville beyond a terror of being trapped into a marriage he did not want. But perhaps he had?

He found himself unable to meet her eyes. He looked away, at the curtains, through the window at the trees, then at Gabriel.

He saw a flash of something in Gabriel's face which could have been understanding. Gabriel was intelligent, sensitive, and before his injury he must have been remarkably handsome. His was a world of loss which made Melville's situation, and even Zillah Lambert's hurt feelings, seem so trivial, so easy to settle with a word or two of goodwill and an ability to forgive. If they were to smile and remain friends, society would talk about it for a brief while, but only until the next scandal broke.

"I shall put it to him." He turned to Hester at last. "Thank you for helping me to clarify my mind. I feel as if I have the case in better perspective." He smiled at her, then looked again at Gabriel. "Thank you for your indulgence, Lieutenant Sheldon. You have been most gracious. I wish you a speedy return of health."

Gabriel bade him good-bye, as did Athol, and Hester rose and went with him to the door. Out on the landing, she looked at him gravely, studying his face. Was she imagining something personal rather than professional in his coming? He would very much rather she did not. He was not ready to commit himself again.

"Thank you," he repeated."I-I find myself at a loss to understand the case, and I am afraid I shall be of little help to my client until I do. It all seems like needless pain at the moment. I have no defense to offer for him."

"There must be something vital that you don't know," she said seriously. There was no disappointment in her face that he could see, and certainly no withdrawing, or sense of criticism, or hope deferred. The knot of anxiety eased inside him. He found himself smiling at nothing.

"I think you need to know what it is," she went on. "It may be... physical."

"I have thought of that," he said truthfully. "But how do you ask a man such a thing? Most men would suffer anything, even imprisonment, rather than admit it."

"I know," she answered so softly it was little more than a whisper. "But there are euphemisms which could be used, white lies. A doctor could be found to swear he had some illness which would make marriage impossible. Her father would understand that, even if she did not."

"Of course... thank you for clarifying the thought so well. I..." He bit his lip ruefully. "I admit I had not known how to phrase it to ask him. Although I am not at all sure that is the answer."

"Well, if it is not, you need to learn what is." She was perfectly direct. "You cannot afford to lose the case because you were unaware of the personal facts."

"I know. Of course you are right. I suppose I shall have to learn them for myself"-he smiled suddenly, widely-"and charge my client accordingly. In which case I had better win!"

She smiled back and put out her hand to touch his with quick warmth, then started down the stairs to introduce him to Perdita Sheldon, who was standing at the bottom looking puzzled.