Weighed in the Balance

chapter 11
Rathbone began his defense of Zorah Rostova with a kind of despair. At the beginning, his worst fear had been that he would not be able to save her from disgrace and possibly a considerable financial punishment. He had hoped to be able to mitigate it by showing that her intention had been mistaken but honorable.

Now he was struggling to save her from the rope.

The court was packed till the room seemed airless, the people so tightly crammed together one could hear the rub of fabric on fabric, the squeak of boots, the creak of whalebone as women breathed. He could smell damp wool from a thousand coats come in from the rain. The floor was slippery with drips and puddles. Every scrap of air seemed already to have been breathed before. The windows steamed up with the exhalation.

Pressmen sat elbow to elbow, hardly able to move sufficiently to write. Pencils were sharp, licked ready. Paper was damp in shaking hands.

The jury was somber. One man with white whiskers fidgeted constantly with his handkerchief. Another smiled fleet-ingly at Gisela and then looked quickly away again. None looked at Zorah.

The judge instructed Rathbone to begin.

Rathbone rose to his feet and called Stephan von Emden.

The usher repeated the name, and his voice was swallowed by the thick, crowded room. There was no echo.

Everyone waited, necks craned. Their eyes followed him as he came in, crossed the floor and climbed the steps to the stand. Since he had been called for the defense, it was assumed he was in Zorah's favor. The animosity could be felt in a wave of anger from the gallery.

He was sworn in.

Rathbone moved forward, feeling more vulnerable than he could ever remember in all the countless times he had done this. He had had bad cases before, clients about whom he felt dubious, clients in whom he believed but felt inadequate to defend. Never before had he been so aware of his own mis-judgments and his own fallibility. He did not even feel confident he would not add to them today. The only thing he believed in totally was Hester's loyalty to him, not that she thought he was right but that she would be there at his side to support him regardless, whatever the nature or degree of his defeat. How blind of him to have taken so long to see that beauty in her - or to realize its worth.

"Sir Oliver?" the judge prompted.

The court was waiting. He must begin, whatever he had to say, of how much or how little use. Had they any idea how lost he was? Looking at Harvester's lean face and the expression on it, he was sure the other lawyer knew very well. There was even a kind of pity in him, though without the slightest suggestion he would stay his hand.

"Baron von Emden" - Rathbone cleared his throat - "you were staying at Wellborough Hall when Prince Friedrich met with his accident, and during the time of his apparent convalescence, and then his death, were you not?"

"Yes sir, I was," Stephan agreed. He looked calm and very grave with his clear hazel eyes and the smooth tawny hair which fell a little forward over his right brow.

"Who else was there?" Rathbone asked. "Apart from the household staff, of course."

'The Baron and Baroness von Seidlitz, Count Rolf Lansdorff - "

"He is the brother of Queen Ulrike, is he not?" Rathbone interrupted. "The uncle of Prince Friedrich?"

"Yes."

"Who else?"

"Baroness Brigitte von Arlsbach, Florent Barberini and the Countess Rostova," Stephan finished.

"Please continue," Rathbone said.

Stephan went on. "Colonel and Mrs. Warboys from one of the neighboring houses were guests for dinner two or three times, and their three daughters, and Sir George and Lady Oldham, and one or two others whose names I forget."

Harvester was frowning, but he had not so far interrupted. Rathbone knew he would, if he did not make some relevant point soon.

"Did it surprise you to find Baroness von Arlsbach and Count Lansdorff invited to the same house party with Prince Friedrich and Princess Gisela?" he asked. "It was well known that when Prince Friedrich left his own country the feeling was not entirely kind towards him, especially from the royal household, and indeed from the Baroness, whom it is said the country would have liked for queen. Is that untrue?"

"No," Stephan answered with obvious reluctance. It was an embarrassing subject, one which for both personal and patriotic reasons he would rather not have discussed publicly, and his emotions showed in his face.

"Then were you surprised?" Rathbone pressed, some future scene with the Lord Chancellor playing itself out in his mind like an execution.

"I would have been, were the political situation not as it is," Stephan answered.

"Would you please explain that?"

Harvester rose to his feet. "My lord, the guest list is not an issue. There is no question as to who was present, or was not. Sir Oliver is desperate and wasting time."

The judge turned his bland face towards Harvester, "it is up to me to decide how the court may use its time, Mr. Harvester. I am disposed to allow Sir Oliver a little latitude in the matter, so long as he does not abuse it, given that this is an adversarial system. I am still primarily interested in establishing the truth as to whether Prince Friedrich was murdered, and if so, by whom. When we know that, we can then apportion blame appropriately to the Countess Rostova regarding her accusation."

But Harvester was far from satisfied. "My lord, we have already proved that the one person who could not be guilty is my client, the Princess Gisela. Quite apart from her devotion to her husband, her utter lack of motive, we have also demonstrated that she was the one person who had not the means or the opportunity."

"I have been present all the time the evidence has been given, Mr. Harvester," the judge replied. "Do you imagine I have not been directing my mind to it?"

There was a distinct mutter of amusement around the gallery, and several jurors smiled.

"No, my lord! Of course not!" Harvester was in some discomposure. It was the first time Rathbone could recall ever seeing him thus.

The judge smiled very slightly. "Good. Proceed, Sir Oliver."

Rathbone inclined his head in acknowledgment, but he was under no illusion that the latitude would be wide.

"Baron von Emden, would you explain to us the alteration in the political situation which made the guest list understandable to you?"

"Twelve years ago, when Friedrich abdicated in favor of his younger brother, Waldo, so he could marry Gisela Berentz, whom the royal family would not accept as crown princess, the feeling against him was strong. It was even stronger against her," Stephan said in a calm, level voice, but one in which the memory of pain and embarrassment was sharp. "The Queen, in particular, did not forgive the injury it did to the royal house. Her brother, Count Lansdorff, shared her feelings very deeply. So did the Baroness von Arlsbach. As you observed, many in the country had wished and expected Friedrich to marry her. It was embarrassing for her because there was every indication that she would have obeyed her duty and accepted him."

He looked unhappy, but he did not hesitate. "Baron and Baroness von Seidlitz, on the other hand, went frequently to Venice, where Prince Friedrich and Princess Gisela had made their principal home, with the result that they were not in any true sense accepted at court in Felzburg."

"Are you saying that the feelings of resentment, betrayal, or whatever you will, were so deep that even after twelve years, it is still impossible to be a true friend of both parties?" Rathbone asked.

Stephan thought for a moment.

The judge was watching him.

The room was almost silent. There was the occasional creak or rustle of shifting in seats.

Gisela sat rigid. For once there was emotion in her face, as if mention of that old humiliation still tore open a wound. There was tightening of her lips. Her gloved hands clenched. But there was no way of knowing whether it was her rejection or Friedrich's which she remembered.

"It was not entirely a matter of feelings from the past," Stephan answered, looking directly at Rathbone. "New political situations have arisen which make all the old issues of very urgent, current importance."

Harvester moved uncomfortably, but he knew it was useless to object. He would only mark it more clearly in the mind.

"Would you explain, please?" Rathbone pressed.

"My country is one of a large number of German states, principalities, and electorates." Stephan addressed the court in general. "We have a language and a culture in common, and there is a movement gathering strength for us to unite under one king and one government. Naturally, in all the separate entities there are those who can see the benefits such a unity would bring and those who will fight with all they possess to retain their individual character and independence. My own country is as divided as any. Even the royal family is divided."

Now he had their total attention. Several jurors were shaking their heads. As citizens of an island nation, they could understand, at least with their heads, the passion for independence. With their hearts, they had no concept of the fear of being swallowed. It had not happened to them in fifty generations.

"Yes?" Rathbone prompted him.

Stephan obviously disliked having to expose the division in public, but he knew there was no alternative.

"The Queen and Count Rolf are passionately for independence," he replied. "Crown Prince Waldo is for unification."

"And the Baroness von Arlsbach?"

"Independence."

"Baron von Seidlitz?"

"Unification."

"How do you know this?"

"He has made no secret of it."

"He has advocated it?"

"Not openly, not as far as that. But he has argued its possible merits. He has become friends with many of those who are highly placed in Prussia."

There was a murmur of disapproval in the court. It was perhaps emotional rather than a matter of considered thought.

"And what were Prince Friedrich's feelings on the subject?" Rathbone asked. "Did he express any that you are aware of?"

"He was for independence."

"Sufficiently so to act towards that end?"

Stephan bit his lip. "I don't know. But I do know that this is why Count Lansdorff came to Wellborough Hall to speak to him. Otherwise he would normally have declined any invitation to be in the same house with Friedrich."

The judge's face pinched with concern, and he looked very steadily at Rathbone as if he were on the brink of interrupting him, but he did not.

"Did he initiate the meeting or did Prince Friedrich, do you know?" Rathbone asked, acutely aware of what he was doing.

"I believe it was Count Lansdorff."

"You say you believe it. Do you not know?"

"No, I don't know, not beyond doubt."

"And Baron von Seidlitz, why was he there, if his views were opposite? Was some kind of debate planned, an open discussion?"

Stephan smiled briefly. "Of course not. It is all only speculation. I don't know if any talks took place at all... which is probably why Klaus von Seidlitz was there... in order to conceal the political aspects of the occasion."

"What about Countess Rostova and Mr. Barberini?"

"They are both for independence," Stephan replied. "But Barberini is half Venetian, so he appeared a natural person to invite since Friedrich and Gisela live in Venice. It gave it the appearance of an ordinary spring house party."

"But it was - in reality, beneath the festivities, the parties and picnics, the hunting, the theatrical evenings, the music and the dinner parties - a deeply political gathering?"

"Yes."

He knew Stephan could not say any offer had been made to Friedrich, or any plea, so he did not ask.

"Thank you, Baron von Emden." He turned to Harvester.

Harvester rose, his expression a curious mixture of anger and anxiety. He strode onto the floor as if he had intense purpose, his shoulders hunched.

"Baron, were you party to these conspiracies to invite Prince Friedrich to return to his country and usurp his brother?"

Rathbone could not object. The language was pejorative, but he had laid the foundation for it himself.

Stephan smiled. "Mr. Harvester, if there was a plan to ask Prince Friedrich to return and lead a battle for retaining our independence, I was not a party to it. But providing it was to do that, and that only, had I known, I would gladly have joined. If you think it was a question of usurping, then you have demonstrated that you do not understand the issues. Prince Waldo is prepared to abdicate his throne and his country's independence and have us be swallowed up as part of a larger state."

He leaned forward on the railing, addressing Harvester as if he were the only other person in the room. "There would be no throne left in Felzburg, no crown to argue over. We should be a province of Prussia, or Hannover, or whatever the resulting conglomerate of states was called. No one knows who would be king, or president, or emperor. If Friedrich was indeed asked to come home, and he had accepted, it would be to preserve a throne in Felzburg, whoever sat on it. Perhaps he would not have wished to. Perhaps he would have lost the battle anyway, and we would still have been swallowed into a greater whole. Perhaps it would have meant war, and we would have been conquered. Or possibly the other minor liberal states would have allied with us rather than be consumed by the reactionaries. Now we will never know, because he is dead."

Harvester smiled bleakly.

"Baron, if this was the purpose of the visit to Wellborough Hall, and I am sure that you believe it was, then perhaps you will answer a few questions which arise from that supposition. If Friedrich had declined the invitation, would that have given anyone motive to wish him dead?'

"Not so far as I am aware."

"And if he had accepted?"

Stephan's mouth tightened with distaste at being forced to express his beliefs aloud, but he would not equivocate.

"Possibly Baron von Seidlitz."

"Because he was for unification?" Harvester's eyebrows rose. "Is it so likely Prince Friedrich, single-handedly, could have achieved that end? You made it sound far more difficult, problematical, in your earlier answers. I had not realized he still commanded such power."

"He might not have achieved our continued independence," Stephan said patiently. "He might well have achieved a war for it, and war is what von Seidlitz dreads. He has far too much to lose."

Harvester looked amazed. "And have not you all?" He half turned towards the gallery, as if to include them in his surprise.

"Of course." Stephan took a deep breath. "The difference is that many of us also believe that we have something to gain. Or perhaps I should say, more correctly, to preserve."

"Your identity as an independent state?" Harvester's voice was not mocking, not even disrespectful, but it did probe with a hard, unrelenting realism. "Is that truly worth a war to you, Baron von Emden? And in this war, who will fight?" He gestured in angry bewilderment. "Who will lose their homes and their lands? Who will die? I do not see it as an ignoble thing to wish your country to avoid war, even if it is a horrific thing to murder your prince in that cause. At least most of us here could understand that, I find it easy to believe."

"Possibly," Stephan agreed, his face suddenly alight with a passion he had kept tightly in control until now. "But then you all live in England, where there is a constitutional monarchy, a Parliament in which to debate, a franchise in which men can vote for the government they wish. You have the freedom to read and write what you wish." He did not move his hands, but his words embraced everyone in the room. "You are free to assemble to discuss, even to criticize, your betters and the laws they make. You may question without fear of reprisal. You may form a political party for any cause you like. You may worship any God in any manner you choose. Your army obeys your politicians, and not your politicians the army. Your queen would never take orders from her generals. They are there to protect you from invasion, to conquer weaker and less fortunate nations, but not to govern you and suppress you should you threaten to assemble in numbers or protest your state or your labor laws, your wages or your conditions."

There was not a murmur in the gallery. Hundreds of faces stared at him in amazement - and in silence.

"Perhaps if you lived in some of the German states," he went on, his voice now raw with sadness, "and could remember the armies marching in the streets a decade ago, see the people manning the barricades as suddenly hope flared that we too might have the liberties you take so lightly, and then afterwards see the dead, and the hope ended in despair, all the promises broken, you would be prepared to fight to keep the small privileges Felzburg has." He leaned forward. "And in memory of those who fought and died elsewhere, you would offer your life too, for your children and your children's children ... or even just for your country, your friends, for the future, whether you see them, know them, or not, simply because you believe in these things."

The silence prickled in the ears.

"Bravo!" someone cried from the gallery. "Bravo, sir!"

"Bravo!" A dozen more shouted, and they began to stand up one by one, then a dozen, then a score, hands held up, faces alight with emotion. "Bravo!"

"God save the Queen!" a woman called out, and another echoed her.

The judge did not bang his gavel or make the slightest attempt to restore order. He allowed it to run its course and subside on its own. Once watched, the wave of passion had spent itself, emotion had passed.

"Mr. Harvester?" he said inquiringly. "Have you further points to ask of Baron von Emden?"

Harvester's face was puzzled and unhappy. Obviously, Stephan's evidence had opened up a vehemence the lawyer had not foreseen. The issue had ceased to be political in any dry and objective sense and became a thing of raging urgency which touched everyone. The emotional balance had been altered irrevocably. He was not yet sure where it would lead.

"No, my lord, thank you," he answered. "I think the Baron has demonstrated most admirably that feelings ran very high during the meeting at Wellborough Hall, and many may have believed that the fate of a nation hung on the return, or not, of Prince Friedrich." He shook his head. "None of which has the slightest relevance to the Countess Rostova's accusation against Princess Gisela and its demonstrable untruth." He looked for a moment towards Rathbone, and then returned to his seat.

It was perfectly timed. Rathbone knew it as well as Harvester did. He had not defended Zorah from the charge of slander, he had not even defended her from the unspoken charge of murder. If anything, Stephan might unwittingly have made things worse. He had shown how very much was at stake and sworn that Zorah believed in independence. She could never have wished Friedrich dead, but she might very easily have tried to kill Gisela and counted it an act of supreme patriotism. That was now believable to everyone in the room.

"What the devil are you doing, Rathbone?" Harvester demanded as they passed each other when leaving for the luncheon adjournment. He looked confused. "Your client is as likely to be guilty of a mistake in victim as anybody." His voice dropped in genuine concern. "Are you sure she is sane? In her own interests, can you not prevail upon her to withdraw? The court will pursue the truth now, whatever she says or does. At least protect her by persuading her to keep silent, before she incriminates herself ... and, incidentally, drags you down with her. You have too many rogue witnesses, Rathbone."

"I have a rogue case," Rathbone agreed ruefully, falling into step with Harvester.

"I can imagine the Lord Chancellor's face!" Harvester skirted around a group of clerks in intense discussion and rejoined Rathbone as they went down the steps into the raw, late October wind.

"So can I." Rathbone meant it only too truthfully. "But I have no alternative. She is adamant that Gisela killed him, and short of abandoning the case, for which I have no grounds, I have to follow her instructions."

Harvester shook his head. "I'm sorry." It was commiseration, not apology. He would not stay his hand, nor would Rathbone had their roles been reversed, as he profoundly wished they were.

When they returned in the afternoon, Rathbone called Klaus von Seidlitz, who was obliged to substantiate what Stephan had said. He was reluctant to concede it at first, but he could not deny that he was for unification. When Rathbone pressed him, he argued the case against war and its destruction, and his large, crooked face filled with growing passion as he described the ruin created by marching armies, the death, the waste of the land, the confusion and loss to the border regions, the maimed and bereaved. There was something dignified in his shambling figure as he told of his lands and his love for the little villages, fte fields and the lanes.

Rathbone did not interrupt him. Nor, when Klaus had finished, did he make any implication that he might have murdered Friedrich to prevent him from returning home and plunging their country into just such a war.

If there was anything good in this, it was that there would be no question that there were abundant reasons for Friedrich's murder, or the mischance which had killed Friedrich rather than Gisela. There were passions and issues involved which anyone could understand, perhaps even identify with.

But it was far from enough to help Zorah yet. He must make it last as long as he could, and hope that in probing he unearthed something specific, something which pointed unar-guably to someone else.

He glanced to where she sat beside him, pale-faced but at least outwardly composed. He would be the only one who saw her hands clenched in her lap. He had never been aware of knowing so little of the true mind of a client. Of course, he had been duped before. He had been convinced of innocence, only to find the ugliest, most callous guilt.

Was it so with Zorah Rostova?

He looked at her now, at her turbulent face, so easily ugly or beautiful as the light or the mood caught it. He found her fascinating. He did not want her to be guilty, or even deluded. Perhaps that was part of her skill? She had made herself matter to him. He had not the faintest idea what was passing through her mind.

He asked to recall Florent Barberini to the witness stand. The judge made no demur, and his single look in Harvester's direction silenced any objection. The jury were sitting bolt upright, waiting for every word.

"Mr. Barberini," Rathbone began, walking slowly out onto the floor. "I formed the opinion from your previous testimony that you are aware of the political situation both in the German states and in Venice. Since you were on the stand before, many further facts have come to light which make the politics of the situation relevant to the death of Prince Friedrich and to our attempt to discover exactly who brought that about, either intentionally or in a tragic and criminal accident - when, in fact, they had meant to murder Princess Gisela instead..."

There was a gasp around the room. Someone in the gallery stifled a scream.

Gisela winced, and Harvester put out his hand as if to steady her, then, at the last moment, changed his mind. She was not an approachable woman. She sat as if an invisible cordon of isolation were wrapped around her. She seemed only peripherally aware of the drama playing itself out in the thronged room. She wore her grief more visibly than simply clothes of black, mourning jewelry or a black-veiled hat. She had retreated to some unreachable place within herself. Rathbone knew the jury was acutely sensitive to it In a way, it was a louder proclamation of her injury than anyone else's words could have been. Harvester had an ideal client.

Zorah was at the opposite pole. She was full of turbulent color and energy, completely alien, challenging far too many of the assumptions upon which society rested its beliefs.

Rathbone returned to Florent as the murmuring died down.

"Mr. Barberini, the crux of this case hangs on the question of whether there was indeed a plan to ask Prince Friedrich to return to his country to lead a party to fight to retain its independence from any proposed unification into a greater Germany. Was there such a plan?"

Florent did not hesitate or demur.

"Yes."

There were a hundred gasps in the gallery. Even the judge tensed and moved forward a little, staring at Florent. Zorah let out a long sigh.

Rathbone felt the relief flood through him like a blast of warmth after an icy journey. He did not mean to smile, but he could not help it. He found his hands shaking, and for a moment he could not move, his legs were weak.

"And..." He cleared his throat. "And who was involved in this concern?"

"Count Lansdorff principally," Florent replied. "Assisted by the Baroness von Arlsbach and myself."

"Whose idea was it?"

This time Florent did hesitate.

"If that is politically compromising," Rathbone interjected, "or if honor forbids you to mention names, may I ask you if you believe the Queen would have approved your cause?"

Florent smiled. He was extraordinarily handsome. "She would have approved Friedrich's return to lead the party for independence," he replied. "Providing it met with her terms, which were absolute."

"Are you aware what they were?"

"Naturally. I would not be party to negotiating any arrangement which did not meet with her approval." His face relaxed into a kind of black humor. "Apart from any loyalty to her, no such plan could work."

Rathbone relaxed a little as well, giving a slight shrug. "I assume the Queen is a woman of great power?"

"Very great," Florent agreed. "Both political and personal."

"And what were her terms, Mr. Barberini?"

Florent answered intently, with no pause, no consciousness of the jury, the judge or the gallery listening.

"That he come alone," he said. "She would not tolerate the Princess Gisela's coming with him as his wife. She was to remain in exile and be put from him."

There was a gasp around the court and a sigh of exhaled breath.

Gisela lifted her head a little and closed her eyes, refusing to look at anyone.

Harvester's face was grim, but there was nothing for him to say. There was no legal objection.

Zorah remained expressionless.

Rathbone was again obliged to break all his own rules. He must ask a crucial question to which he did not know the answer, but there was no alternative open to him.

"And were these terms made known to him, Mr. Barberini?"

"They were."

Again there was a rustle from the crowd, and someone hissed disapproval.

"Are you certain of that?" Rathbone pressed. "Were you present?"

"Yes, I was."

"And what was Prince Friedrich's answer?"

The silence prickled the air. A man in the very last seat in the gallery moved, and the squeak of his boots was audible from where Rathbone stood.

The bleakest of smiles flickered over Florent's face and disappeared.

"He did not answer."

Rathbone felt the sweat break out on his skin.

"Not at all?"

"He argued," Florent elaborated. "He asked a great many questions. But the accident happened before the discussions were concluded irrevocably."

"So he did not refuse outright?" Rathbone demanded, his voice rising in spite of his efforts to control it.

"No, he put forward his own counterproposals."

"Which were?"

'That he should come and bring Gisela with him." Unconsciously, Florent omitted the courtesy title of Princess, betraying his thoughts of her. To him she would always be a commoner.

"And did Count Lansdorff accept that?" Rathbone asked.

"No." It was said without hesitation.

Rathbone raised his eyebrows. "It was not open to negotiation?"

"No, it was not."

"Do you know why? If the Queen, and the Count Lansdorff, feel as passionately about the freedoms of which you spoke, and if those who would form any political fighting force do also, surely the acceptance of Princess Gisela as Friedrich's wife is a small price to pay for his return as leader? He could rally the forces as no one else could. He is the King's eldest son, the natural heir to the throne, the natural leader."

Harvester did rise this time.

"My lord, Mr. Barberini is not competent to answer such a question - unless he makes some claim to speak for the Queen, and can demonstrate such authority."

"Sir Oliver" - the judge leaned forward - "do you propose to call Count Lansdorff to the stand? You cannot have Mr. Bar-berini answer for him. Such an answer will be hearsay, as you know."

"Yes, my lord," Rathbone replied gravely. "With your lordship's permission, I shall call Count Lansdorff to the stand. His aide informed me he is reluctant to appear, which is understandable, but I think Mr. Barberini's evidence has given us no choice in the matter. Reputations, and perhaps lives, depend upon our knowing the truth."

Harvester looked unhappy, but to object would make it appear that he believed Gisela could not afford the truth, and that was tantamount to defeat, in public opinion if not in law. And by now the law was only a small part of the issue. It hardly mattered what could be proved to a jury; it was what people believed.

The court adjourned for the night in a bedlam of noise. Newspapermen scrambled over each other, even knocking aside ordinary pedestrians, to make their way outside and clamber into hansoms, shouting the names of their newspapers and demanding to be taken there immediately. No one any longer knew what to think. Who was innocent? Who was guilty?

Rathbone took Zorah by the arm and hurried her, half pushing her bodily, past the front row of public seats, towards the door and out into the corridor. Then he paced as rapidly as he could towards a private room and a discreet exit. Only afterwards was he surprised that she could keep up with him.

He expected her to be exultant, but when he turned to face her he saw only a calm, guarded courage. He was confused.

"Is this not what you thought?" he said, then instantly wished he had not, but it was too late not to go on. "That Friedrich was invited home on condition he left her behind, and she was so afraid he would take the offer, she killed him rather than be put aside? It does begin to look conceivable that someone in her sympathy may have done it for her. Or that she may have connived with someone, each for his own purpose."

Her eyes filled with black humor, part self-mockery, part anger, part derision.

"Gisela and Klaus?" she said contemptuously. "She to keep her status as one of the world's great lovers, he to avoid a war and his own financial loss? Never L If I saw it with my own eyes I still wouldn't believe it."

He was dumbfounded. She was impossible.

"Then you have nothing!" He was almost shouting. "Klaus alone? Because she didn't do it... that has been proved! Is that what you want... or are you trying to bring down the Queen for murder?"

She burst into laughter, rich, deep-throated and totally sincere.

He could happily have hit her, were such a thing even thinkable.

"No," she said, controlling herself with difficulty. "No, I do not want to bring down the Queen. Nor could I. She didn't have anything to do with it. If she wanted Gisela dead she would have done it years ago, and done it more efficiently than this! Not that I think she mourns Friedrich's death as she might have thirteen or fourteen years ago. I think in her mind he has been dead since he chose Gisela before his duty and his people."

"Count Lansdorff?" he asked.

"No. I like you, Sir Oliver." She seemed to say it simply because it occurred to her. "She killed him," she went on. "Gisela killed him."

"No, she didn't!" He was totally exasperated with her. "She is the only person who could not have. Haven't you listened to the evidence at all?"

"Yes," she assured him. "I just don't believe it."

And he could achieve nothing more with her. He gave up, and went home in a furious temper.

In the morning, Count Rolf Lansdorff took the stand. He did so grimly, but without protest. To show his displeasure would have been beneath the dignity of a man who was not only a soldier and a statesman, but brother to the most formidable queen in the German states, if not in Europe. Looking at him as he stood upright, head high, shoulders back, eyes level and direct, one was not likely to mistake him.

"Count Lansdorff," Rathbone began with the utmost politeness. The man was already an enemy, simply by the act of Rathbone's having called him to stand witness and be questioned like a common man. He did not know whether it was a mitigating circumstance, or one which added to the offense, that it had not happened in the Count's own country. It was not the law which had compelled him to be here, but the necessity of answering public opinion, of defending himself, and then his dynasty, before the bar of Europe's history.

Rolf was listening.

"Mr. Barberini has told us that while you were at Well-borough Hall this spring you met a number of times with the late Prince Friedrich," Rathbone began again, "in order to discuss the possibility of his returning to his country to lead a fight to retain independence, rather than be swallowed up in a unified Germany. Is this substantially correct?"

Rolfs muscles tightened even more until he was standing rigid, like a soldier on parade in front of a general.

"It is ..." he conceded. "Substantially."

"Are there details in which it is ... inadequate or misleading?' Rathbone kept his tone almost casual.

There was not a sound in the room.

He turned and took a step or two, as though thinking.

Gisela sat with an expressionless face. Rathbone was startled how strong it was in repose, how pronounced the bones. There was no softness in her mouth, no vulnerability. He wondered what inner despair filled her that she could look so impervious to what was going on around her. It seemed as if truly, now that Friedrich was dead, nothing could touch her. Perhaps it was only for his sake, for his memory, that she had brought this action at all.

Rolfs lips closed in a thin, delicate line. He took a deep breath. His expression was one as of a man biting into something that had turned sour.

"The offer was conditional, not absolute," he replied.

"Upon what, Count Lansdorff?"

"That is a political matter, and a family matter, both of delicacy and confidentiality," Rolf replied coolly. "It would be crass to discuss it in public, and extremely insensitive."

"I am aware of that, sir," Rathbone said gravely. "And we all regret that it should be necessary ... absolutely necessary, in order that justice should prevail. If it is any service in sparing your feelings, may I ask you if the condition was that Prince Friedrich should divorce his wife and return alone?"

Rolfs face tightened till the light shone on the smooth planes of his cheeks and brow and his nose seemed like a blade.

The judge looked deeply unhappy. It occurred to Rathbone with a jolt that doubtless the Lord Chancellor had sent a word of warning to him, too.

"That was the condition," Rolf said icily.

"And did you have hopes that he would meet it?" Rathbone pressed relentlessly.

Rolf was startled. It was obviously not the question he had expected. It took him an instant to collect his thoughts and reply.

"I had hoped that I would be able to prevail upon whatever sense of honor he had left, sir." He did not look at Rathbone but at some point on the wooden paneling in the wall far above the lawyer's head.

"Had he given you indication of that before you came to England, Count Lansdorff? Or was there some other circumstance or event which led you to believe that he had changed his mind since his original abdication?" Rathbone pursued.

Rolf still stood like a soldier on parade, but now one who heard the steps of the firing squad come to a halt.

"Sometimes one's obsession with love subsides into something of better proportion with time," he replied with intense dislike. "I had hoped that when Friedrich learned of his country's need, he would set aside his personal feelings and follow the duty for which he was born and groomed, and whose privileges he was happy to accept for the first thirty years of his life."

"It would be a great sacrifice ..." Rathbone said tentatively.

Rolf glared at him. "All men make sacrifices for their country, sir! Does any Englishman whom you respect answer the call to arms by saying he would rather remain at home with his wife?" His voice almost choked it was so thick with disgust. "Damn the invader or the foreign army which would trample his land! Let someone else fight him. He would rather dance in Venice and float around in a gondola making love to some woman! Would you admire such a man, sir?"

"No, I would not," Rathbone replied with a sudden sense of the shame which burned in the man in front of him. Friedrich was not only his prince but his sister's son, his own blood. And Rathbone had forced him to this conclusion in front of a courtroom of ordinary people of the street - a foreign street at that. "Did you put this to him at Wellborough Hall, Count Lansdorff?"

"I did."

"And his reply?"

"That if we needed him so profoundly in order to fight to retain our independence, then we should make the allowance and accept that woman as his wife."

There was a wave of emotion around the room like the backwash of a tide.

For once Gisela too reacted. She winced as if she had been threatened with a blow to the face.

"And considering how much might ride on his return, were you willing to accept those terms?" Rathbone asked in the silence.

Rolfs chin rose a fraction. "No sir, we were not."

There was a sigh across the gallery.

"You say 'we,' " Rathbone said. "Who else do you mean, Count Lansdorff?"

"Those of us who believe the best future for our country lies in our continued independence and the laws and privileges which we presently enjoy," Rolf answered. "Those who believe that the alliance with other German states, in particular Prussia or Austria, will be a step back into a darker and more repressive age."

"And have they declined you as their leader?" Rathbone inquired.

Rolf looked at him as if he had spoken in an unintelligible language.

Rathbone moved a little across the floor, to command his attention again.

"Is your sister, Queen Ulrike, of that conviction, Count Lansdorff?"

"She is."

"And your nephew, Crown Prince Waldo?"

Rolfs face remained almost expressionless, only an increased rigidity in his shoulders betraying his feelings.

"He is not."

"Naturally, or he would lead the party and Friedrich's return would not be necessary. I understand the health of His Majesty the King gives cause for great concern?"

"The King is extremely ill. He is failing," Rolf agreed.

Rathbone turned again, facing slightly the other way.

"Your motives for wishing Prince Friedrich's return are very easily understandable, sir. Indeed, I imagine almost every man or woman here could sympathize with you and, given the same circumstances, would probably do as you have done. What is far harder to understands - in fact, for me it is impossible - is why your hatred of Princess Gisela ran so deeply as to make her abandonment a condition of Prince Friedrich's return. It does not seem to make sense."

He turned his head to glance momentarily at Gisela. "She is a charming and attractive woman, and has proved an excellent wife to Prince Friedrich - loyal, dignified, witty, one of the most successful hostesses in Europe. There has never been a word even whispered against her reputation in any sense. Why were you prepared to jeopardize your battle for independence simply to see that she did not return home with her husband?"

Rolf stood stiffly in the box. He did not move his hands from his sides but remained at attention.

"Sir, the situation is an old one, of some twelve-odd years. You know nothing of it except the last few months. For you to assume that you could possibly understand it is ridiculous."

"I need to understand it," Rathbone assured him. "The court needs to."

"You do not!" Rolf contradicted. "It has nothing to do with Friedrich's death or with the Countess Rostova's slander."

The judge looked at Rolf, a slight frown creasing his forehead, but when he spoke his voice was still infinitely polite.

"You are not the jury in this matter, Count Lansdorff. You are in an English court now, and I will decide what is necessary and what is not, according to the law. And those twelve gentlemen" - he indicated the jury - "will deliberate and decide what they believe to be true. I cannot force you to answer Sir Oliver's questions. I can only advise you that should you fail to do so, you will invite an adverse opinion as to the reason for your silence. And murder is a capital crime. This particular murder was committed on English soil and is subject to English law, whoever the man or woman who committed it may be."

Rolf looked ashen.

"I have no idea who killed Friedrich or why. Ask your questions." He did not add "and be damned," but it was in his face.

"Thank you, my lord," Rathbone acknowledged, then turned back to Rolf.

"Was the Princess Gisela aware of your negotiations, Count Lansdorff?"

"Not from me. Whether Friedrich told her or not, I don't know."

"You could not deduce from her behavior?" Rathbone said with surprise.

"She is not a woman whose thoughts or feelings are readily visible in her expression," Rolf answered coldly and without even glancing towards Gisela. "Whether her continued" - he searched for the word - "enjoyment of the party was due to ignorance of our mission or to confidence that Friedrich would never leave her, I have no way of knowing."

"Had you ever joined such a party before, Count Lansdorff?'

"Not if Friedrich was there, no. I am the Queen's brother. Friedrich chose to go into exile rather than fulfill his destiny." The damnation was complete in his expression and in the tone of his hard, precise voice.

"So we may deduce that Gisela believed Friedrich would not leave her?"

"You may deduce what you please, sir."

Harvester smiled bleakly. Rathbone caught it out of the comer of his eye. He tried another approach.

"Were you empowered to make any decisions regarding terms or concessions to Prince Friedrich, Count Lansdorff? Or did you have to refer back to the Queen?"

"There were no concessions to make," Rolf answered with a frown. "I thought I had made that plain, sir. Her Majesty would not countenance the return of Gisela Berentz, either as crown princess or as consort. If Friedrich did not accept those terms, then another leader for the cause would be sought." " "Who?"

"I do not know."

Rathbone thought that was a lie, but he could see from Rolfs face that it was the only answer he would receive.

"It is a very extreme hatred the Queen has for the Princess Gisela," he said thoughtfully. "It seems contrary to the best interests of her country to allow such a personal emotion to govern her actions." It was not really a question, but he hoped it would sting Rolf into a defensive response.

He was successful.

"It is not a personal hatred!" Rolf said. "The woman was unacceptable as Friedrich's wife... for many reasons, none of which are merely personal." He used the term with the utmost derision.

Rathbone deliberately turned and stared at Gisela as she sat beside Harvester. She was a picture of grief, a perfect victim. Harvester did not need to defend her from Rolf, her own demeanor did it better than any words of his could have. He looked angry, but satisfied.

Zorah was sitting upright, tense, her face white.

Rathbone turned back to Rolf.

"She seems eminently suitable to me," he said innocently. "She has dignity, presence, the admiration, even the love or the envy, of half the world. What more could you wish?"

Rolf's mouth twisted with an emotion which was as much pain as scorn.

"She has the art to seduce men, the wit to make herself the center of attention, and the style to dress well. That is all."

There was a hiss from the gallery. One of the jurors let out an exclamation of horror.

"Oh, come sir ..." Rathbone protested, his pulse suddenly racing, his mouth dry. "That seems, at the very kindest, ungallant and highly prejudiced - at the worst, as if founded in some acutely personal hatreds - "

Rolf lost his temper. At last he unbent and leaned forward over the railing, glaring across at Rathbone.

"That you should be ignorant of her nature, sir, is hardly your fault. Most of Europe is ignorant of it, thank God. I would that they could have remained so, but you force my hand. Like any other royal house, we need an heir. Waldo will not provide one, through no fault of his own. That is not a matter I can or will discuss. Gisela is childless of her own choice - "

There was a wave of reaction from the gallery.

Harvester half rose in his seat, but his protest was lost in a general noise.

The judge banged his gavel for silence and a return to order.

Rathbone looked at Rolf, then at Gisela. She seemed almost bloodless, her eyes huge and hollow, but he had no idea whether it was fear, horror, mortification at such public disclosure, or an old grief reawakened.

The noise still had not subsided. He turned to Zorah.

She seemed as surprised and confused as anyone.

The judge banged his gavel again. Order returned.

"Count Lansdorff?" Rathbone said distinctly.

Rolf would not now be stopped. "Had Friedrich put her aside, he could have married a more suitable woman, one who would have given the country an heir," he continued. "There are many young women of noble birth and spotless reputation, pleasing enough in manner and appearance." He did not look away from Rathbone, but his face tightened in reluctance. "The Baroness von Arlsbach would have been perfect; she would always have been perfect. The Queen begged him to marry her. She had every virtue, and is deeply loved by the people. Her family is unblemished. Her own reputation grows higher by the month."

He ignored the people, even the jurors, every set of eyes scanning the benches to see if she was present. "She has dignity, honor, the loyalty of the people and the respect of all those who meet her, native and foreigner alike," he continued. "But he chose that woman instead." His eyes flickered for a moment to Gisela and away again. "And we are left barren!"

"That is a tragedy which has affected many dynasties, Count Lansdorff," Rathbone said sympathetically. "We are not unfamiliar with it here in England. You will have to amend your constitution so the crown may pass laterally through the female line." He ignored Rolf's expression of incredulity. "But you could not know when Prince Friedrich married Gisela that that union would be childless, and it is unjust to be so certain that it is Gisela's doing, and willfully so."

He lowered his voice a little. "Many women long desperately to have a child, and when they do not have one, they put a brave face to the world and hide their grief by pretending it is not there. It is a very private and deeply personal affliction. Why should anyone, even a princess, parade it for the public to see, or to pity?"

Rolf said with tense, almost sibilant bitterness, "Gisela's barrenness is of her own choosing. Do not ask me how I know it!"

"I must ask you," Rathbone insisted. "It is a harsh charge, Count Lansdorff. You cannot expect the court, or anyone, to believe you unless you can substantiate it!" He smiled a trifle wryly at the irony.

Rolf remained silent.

Harvester rose to his feet, his face flushed. "My lord... this is iniquitous! I..."

"Yes, Mr. Harvester," the judge said quietly. "Count Lansdorff, you will either retract your remarks about the Princess Gisela, and admit them to be untrue, or you will explain your grounds for making them and allow the court to decide whether they believe you or not."

Rolf stood to attention again, straightening up and squaring his shoulders. He looked beyond Rathbone and the plaintiff's and defendant's tables to somewhere in the gallery, and without thinking, Rathbone turned and looked also. The judge followed Rolf's eyes, and the jury swiveled to stare.

Rathbone saw Hester, and next to her a young man in a wheelchair, his fair brown hair catching the light. Behind him, also in the aisle, were an older man and woman of unusually handsome appearance. Presumably, from the way they regarded him, they were his parents. This was the patient Hester had spoken of. She had said they were from Felzburg. It was not unnatural they should feel compelled to come to the trial, after what the newspapers had said.

Rathbone turned back to the witness stand.

"Count Lansdorff?"

"Gisela is not barren," Rolf said between his teeth. "She had a child from an illicit affair many years before she married Friedrich - "

There was a gasp of indrawn breath around the room so sharp it was a hiss. Harvester shot to his feet, then found he had no idea what to say. Beside him, Gisela was as white as paper.

One of the jurors coughed and choked.

Rathbone was too stunned to speak.

"She did not want it," Rolf went on, his voice stinging with contempt. "She wanted to get rid of it, abort it - " Again he was forced to stop by the noise in the courtroom. The gallery erupted in anger, revulsion and distress. A woman screamed. Someone called out curses, random, indiscriminate.

The judge banged his gavel, his eyes puckered with distress.

Harvester looked as if he had been struck in the face.

Rolf's voice, harsh and loud, cut across them all.

"But the father wanted the child, and told her he would expose her if she destroyed it, but if she bore it, alive, he would take it and love it."

There was sobbing in the gallery.

The jurors were ashen-faced.

"She gave birth to a son," Rolf said. "The father took it. He struggled for a year to care for the boy himself, then he fell in love with a woman of his own rank and station, a woman of gentleness and nobility who was prepared to raise the boy as her own. Conceivably, the boy has never known he was not hers."

Rathbone had to clear his throat before he could find his voice.

"Can you prove that, Count Lansdorff? These are terrible charges."

"Of course!" Rolfs lips curled in scorn. "Do you imagine I would make them from the witness stand if I could not? Zorah Rostova may be a fool... but I am not!

"Her second child was not so fortunate," he continued, his voice like breaking ice. "She conceived to Friedrich, and this one she succeeded in aborting herself. Apparently, she had some knowledge of herbs. It is an art some women choose to cultivate - for health or cosmetic reasons, among others. And to concoct aphrodisiacs or procure abortions. She was ill after this, and was attended for a short time by a doctor. I do not know if you can force him to testify, but he would not lie to you under oath. The matter distressed him profoundly." His face was contorted with emotion. "But if his profession seals his tongue, ask Florent Barberini. He will swear to it, if you press him. He has no such binding loyalties." He stopped abruptly.

Rathbone had no alternative. The court was hanging on a breath.

"But the child you say she bore, Count Lansdorff? Gisela's son! That is surely provable?"

Rolf looked one more time at the judge.

The judge's face was filled with regret but unyielding.

"I am sorry, Count Lansdorff, but the charge you make is too terrible to go unproved, true or false. You must answer if you can."

"The affair was with Baron Bernd Ollenheim," Rolf said huskily. "He took his child, and when he married, his wife loved the boy as her own."

He had nothing else to say, but the emotion of the court would not have jjermitted him to speak anyway. As suddenly as the breaking of a storm, their adoration for Gisela had turned to hatred.

Harvester looked like a man who had witnessed a fatal accident. His face was bereft of color, and he made half movements and then changed his mind, opened his mouth as though to speak and found he had no words.

Gisela herself sat like a woman turned to stone. Whatever she felt, there was no reflection of it written on her features. There was nothing that seemed like regret. Not once did she turn to see if she could recognize Bernd Ollenheim in the gallery, and she could hardly have failed to realize he was there - from Rolf's steady gaze, filled with pity, and from the movement of the crowd as it too realized at whom he had gazed.

Rathbone looked at Zorah. Had she known this? Had she been waiting for Rolf to expose it, hoping, trusting it would come?

From the motionless amazement in her face he could only deduce that it was as shocking to her as it was to everyone else, except Gisela herself.

It was seconds, minutes, before the hubbub died down sufficiently for Rathbone to be heard.

"Thank you, Count Lansdorff," he said at length. "We appreciate that must have been painful for you to have to reveal, in your regard for the innocent. However, it explains Queen Ulrike's undying contempt for Gisela ..." He too almost unconsciously omitted her title. "And the reason she could not, in any circumstances, permit her to return to Felzburg and become queen. Were this to become public knowledge after that event, the scandal would be devastating. It could bring down the throne. It was not possible that she should permit that."

He took a step back, turned, and then faced Rolf again. "Count Lansdorff, was Prince Friedrich aware of this past tragedy and of Gisela's son?"

"Of course," Rolf said bleakly. "We told him when he first sought to marry her. He disregarded it. He had an ability not to see what he did not wish to."

"And the later abortion? I presume that is why she has not since conceived a child?"

"You presume correctly. She now cannot. I doubt you will get the doctor to testify to that, but it is true."

"And was Prince Friedrich aware that his child was killed in the womb?"

There was a gasp around the room. In the center of the gallery, a woman was weeping. The jurors were like a row of men at an execution.

Rolf blanched even further.

"I don't know. I did not tell him, although I knew it then. I doubt she told him. Unless Barberini did. I think that unlikely."

"You did not use it to persuade him to leave his wife? I confess, I believe I would have."

"I would have too, Sir Oliver," Rolf said grimly. "But only as a last resort. I did not want a broken man. As it happened, I did not have the opportunity, and after his accident it would have been brutal. It might have killed him. Whether I would have told him later, had he recovered, I cannot tell you. I do not know."

"Thank you, Count Lansdorff. I have no further questions for you. Please remain, in case Mr. Harvester has."

Harvester rose, swayed a little, as if caught in a great wind, and cleared his throat.

"I... I assume, Count Lansdorff, that this monstrous story is one you could, and would, prove in this court if required to?" He attempted to sound brave, even defiant, but his ability failed him. He was obviously as appalled as anyone in the room. He was a man quietly devoted to his own wife and daughters, and his emotions had been too profoundly outraged for him to conceal it.

"Of course," Rolf said dryly.

"You may be required to do so. Naturally, I shall take instruction." There was nothing he could say to rebut the charge, and to have spoken now of its irrelevance to Zorah's slander would have been ridiculous. No one cared. No one was even listening. He sat down again a changed man.

The judge looked at Rathbone, his face pinched with sadness.

"Sir Oliver, I feel, regrettably, that you had better provide whatever substantiation is open to you. We do not impugn Count Lansdorff 's testimony, but so far it is still only his word. I think it were better the issue were closed now, if that is a chance available to us."

Rathbone nodded. "I call Baron Bernd Ollenheim to the stand."

"Baron Bernd Ollenheim!" the usher repeated.

Very slowly, Bernd rose to his feet and made his way forward from the gallery, across the floor and up the steps of the witness stand till he turned at the top and faced the court. He was white, his eyes sick with distress. He looked over Rathbone's head towards Gisela as if she were something that had crept out of a cesspool.

"Would you like a glass of water, sir?" the judge asked him gently. "I can send an usher for one with no difficulty."

Bernd recalled himself. "No ... no, thank you, my lord. I shall be quite in command of myself."

"If you wish for assistance, you may request it," the judge assured him.

Rathbone felt like a man stripping another naked. He did it only because the question must be answered now, and finally.

"Baron Ollenheim, I shall not keep you long." He took a deep breath. "I regret the necessity for calling you at all. I simply wish to ask you either to substantiate or to deny the testimony of Count Lansdorff regarding your son. Is he indeed also the son of Gisela Berentz?"

Bernd had difficulty in speaking. His throat seemed to have closed. He struggled to fill his lungs with air, and then to master the anguish which overwhelmed him.

The entire courtroom was silent in shared distress.

"Yes ..." he said at last. "Yes, he is. But my wife ... my wife has always loved him... not only for my sake, but for his own. No ..." He gasped again, his face twisted with the pain of memory - and fear for her now. "No woman could love a child more."

"We do not doubt it, sir," Rathbone said quietly. "Nor the agony this must have cost you, both then and now. Is Count Lansdorff also correct that Gisela Berentz wished to destroy the child" - he used the word intentionally, but having seen Robert Ollenheim through Hester's eyes, it came easily - "but that you forced her to carry it to term and to give birth?"

The silence deafened the room.

"Yes..." Bernd whispered.

"I ask your pardon for the intrusion into what should have been able to remain a purely personal grief," Rathbone apologized. "And I assure you of our respect for you and your family. I have nothing further I need to ask you. Unless Mr. Harvester has, that is all."

Harvester rose. He looked wretched.

"No, thank you. I do not believe that Baron Ollenheim has anything relevant to the issue at hand which he could tell us."

It was a brave attempt to remind the court that the case was one of slander between Zorah and Gisela, but no one cared anymore. The issue was abandonment, abortion and murder.

The day ended in uproar. Police had to be called in to escort Gisela to the carriage and protect her from the fury of the crowd, now surging in on her with an even fiercer rage and potential for violence than they had showed towards Zorah just two days before. They were shouting, pelting Gisela with refuse; some of them even hurled stones. One rock clattered against the carriage roof and ricocheted against the wall beyond. The cabby shouted back at the crowd, afraid for himself and his horse, and lashed his whip over their heads.

Rathbone stood on the outside of Zorah and hustled her away, fearing that she too would be a focus for their wrath. It was she who had instigated this entire collapse of dreams, and she would be hated for it.

Robert Ollenheim had asked his parents for privacy, at least for an hour, and it was Hester who sat in the carriage next to him on the way home to Hill Street. Bernd and Dagmar had stood by helplessly as the footman assisted him up and then Hester after him, but they made no attempt to argue or remonstrate.

He sat immobile, staring ahead as the horses picked up speed. The footman rode on the box. The young man and Hester were alone, moving through the milling, jostling streets.

"It's not true!" he said over and over again, grating the words between his teeth. "It's not true! That... woman ... is not my ..." He could not even bring himself to say the word mother.

Hester put her hand over his, and felt it balled into a fist under the blanket which covered his knees. It was extremely cold in the carriage, and for once he did not resent being tucked up.

"No, she isn't," she agreed.

"What?" He turned to look at her, his face puzzled and slack with disbelief. "Didn't you hear what my father said? He said that woman ... that woman ..." He took a difficult, jerky breath. "Even before I was born, she didn't want me! She wanted to have me... destroyed!"

"She isn't your mother in any sense that matters," Hester said gravely. "She gave up that right. Dagmar Ollenfaeim is your mother. She is the one who reared you, who loved you and wanted you. You are the only child she has. You simply have to think of her at any time during all the years you have been alive to know how deeply she loves you. Have you ever doubted it before?"

"No ..." He was still having difficulty catching his breath, as if something were crushing his chest. "But that... that other woman is still my mother! I'm part of her!" He glanced at Hester with wide, agonizing eyes. "That's who I am! I can't get away from it, I can't forget it! I came from her body! From her mind!"

"Her body," Hester corrected. "Not her mind. Your mind and your soul are your own."

A new horror dawned on him.

"Oh, God! What will Victoria think of me? She'll know! She'll read it on some... some sandwich board, hear it from a newsboy in the street. Someone will tell her! Hester ... I've got to tell her first!" His words tumbled over each other. "Take me to where she lives! I've got to be the one to tell her. I can't let her find out from anyone else. Where does she live? I never even asked her!"

"She has lodgings in Bloomsbury. But you can't go there now. You must wait for her to come to you - "

"No! I must tell her. I can't bear..."

"You must," she said firmly. "Think of your mother ... I mean Dagmar, not that other woman, who has no claim on you at all. Think how Dagmar must be feeling now. Think of your father, who loved you even before you were born, who fought for your life! They need your support. They need to know that you are all right and that you understand."

"But I must tell Victoria before - "

She held his hands hard. "Robert! Do you not think Victoria would most want you to do what is right, what is gentle and honorable and loving to those who have loved you all your life?"

It was minutes before he relaxed. They lurched and swayed through the darkening streets. The level of light in the carriage flickered as they passed the lampposts and moved into the mist and shadows between.

"Yes... I suppose so," he conceded at last. "But I must see her tonight. I must send a message to her. I must see her before she hears it somewhere else. Otherwise I may never have the chance to tell her I love her. She will know my mother is ... God knows what! I am... I am part of that woman and I don't want to be, so desperately I almost wish I had never been born. How can it happen, Hester? How can it be that you can be born part of someone you loathe and abhor? It is so unfair it is unbearable."

"You are not part of her," Hester said firmly. "You are you ... whatever you choose to be. Whatever she has done, it is not your fault. It is wretched for you, because people can judge cruelly - and you are right, it is unfair. But you should know better than to blame yourself."

She waited a moment while a dray rattled past them. "Nothing she is has anything to do with who you are, unless you want it to," she went on. "Sin is not an inherited disease. You cannot pass it from parent to child. Nor can you pass the blame. That is one thing about responsibility ... you cannot ever take anyone else's, no matter how you love them, and no one can give you theirs. We each stand alone. Whatever Gisela did, and she couldn't have killed Friedrich, you are not answerable to anyone for it... not to society, not to Victoria, and not to yourself."

Her grip tightened on his arm. "But listen to me, Robert! You are responsible for what you do now, for how you treat your father, or Dagmar. You are responsible if you think now only of your own pain and confusion, and turn away from theirs."

He bent his head in total weariness, and she put her arms around him, holding him as tightly as she could, reaching up and touching his hair with her hand, gently, as if he had still been ill, or a child.

She told the coachman to go slowly, so Bernd and Dagmar would get to Hill Street before them.

When they arrived and pulled up, Robert was ready. The door was flung open and Bernd stood there, white-faced, Dagmar a step behind him.

"Hello, Father," Robert said calmly, the ravages of emotion not visible in his face in the rain-spattered lamplight. "Would you give me a hand down? It's fearfully cold in here, in spite of the rug. I hope there's a decent fire in the withdrawing room."

Bernd hesitated, searching Robert's eyes as if he could barely believe it. Then he almost fell forward and put his arms out to lift him, awkwardly at first, trying to look as if he were only helping him, but in the coach light the tears were bright on his cheeks and his hands trembled.

Robert looked beyond him at Dagmar.

"You'd better go inside, Mother," he said clearly. "You'll freeze standing out here. There's a fog rising." He forced himself to smile at her, then gradually it became real, filled with light, memories of all the tenderness he had known as surely as he knew anything at all.

Hester climbed out after him and followed them up the steps and inside. She was unaware of the night air, chill around her, or of the facts that the edge of her skirt was wet from the gutter and her feet were numb with cold.

Victoria left for Robert's side as soon as she received the letter - in fact, she returned with the coach the footman had taken to deliver it. Robert saw her alone. For once the door was closed, and Hester waited in the withdrawing room with Bernd and Dagmar.

Bernd paced the floor, turning at either end of the room, his face pale, his eyes returning each time to the door.

"What will she do?" he demanded, staring at Hester. "What will she say to him? Will she be able to accept him or speak of his ... parentage?" He too could not bring himself to call Gisela the boy's mother.

"Considering who her father was, she of all people will understand," Hester said quietly but with total assurance. "Will Robert be able to accept that?"

"Yes," Dagmar said quickly, but she was smiling. "One is not answerable for one's father's sins. And he loves her, more than he ever would an ordinary woman who had no trials or sorrows of her own. I hope he has the courage to ask her to marry him. And I hope she will have the faith to accept him. Will she, do you think?" She did not even glance at Bernd to see if he approved. She had no intention of allowing him to disapprove.

"Yes," Hester said firmly. "I believe she will of her own accord. I think he will persuade her. But if she should doubt, then we shall give her the strength."

"Of course we shall," Dagmar agreed. "They will have a different kind of happiness from most people's, but it will be every bit as profound ... perhaps more so." She looked up at Bernd and held out her hand.

He stopped pacing and took it, holding it hard, so tightly she winced, but she did not move to withdraw it. He smiled at Hester and nodded his head a little jerkily.

"Thank you..."