Weighed in the Balance

chapter 6
Rathbone seized the letter Simms was holding and tore it open. It was from Venice, and that had to mean Monk. It was not as long as he had hoped.

Dear Rathbone,

I believe I have exhausted the opportunity to gain information here in Italy. Everyone speaks well of the devotion between Friedrich and Gisela, even those who did not care for them, or specifically for her. The further I examine the evidence, the less does there appear to be any motive for her to have killed him. She had everything to lose. No one believes he would have left her, even to go home and lead the fight for independence.

However, it does seem possible that others may have wished him dead for political reasons. Klaus von Seidlitz is an obvious choice, since apparently he had personal and financial interests in unification, which Friedrich's return might have jeopardized. Although no one seems to think Friedrich would have gone without Gisela, and the Queen would not have had Gisela back even if it were to save the country's independence. I should like to know why the Queen nurtures such a passionate hatred after more than a decade. I am told it is out of her character to allow any personal emotion to stand in the way of her devotion to duty and patriotism.

I am going to Felzburg to see if I can learn more there. It may all hang on whether there actually was a plot to bring Friedrich back or not. Naturally, I shall let you know anything I discover, whether it is to Zorah's benefit or not. At present I fear it may well be of no service to her at all.

What I hear of her is only partially to her credit. Tf you can persuade her to withdraw her accusation, that may be the greatest service you can do for her, as her legal adviser. If Friedrich was murdered, and that does seem possible, it may have been by one of a number of people, but they do not include Gisela.

I wish you luck.

Monk

Rathbone swore and threw the letter down on his desk. Perhaps it was foolish, but he had hoped Monk would discover something which would show a new aspect of Gisela, perhaps a lover, a younger man, a brief obsession which had led her to long for her freedom. Or perhaps Friedrich had discovered her indiscretion and threatened to make it public, and leave her.

But Monk was right. It was almost certainly a political crime, if there were a crime at all, and Zorah's accusation was motivated more by jealousy than any basis in fact. The only legal advice he could honestly give her was to withdraw her charge and apologize unreservedly. Perhaps if she pleaded distress at Friedrich's death, and deep disappointment that he could not lead the battle for independence, there might be some compassion towards her. Damages might be moderated. Even so, she would almost certainly have ruined herself.

"Apologize?" she said incredulously when Rathbone was shown into her room with its exotic shawl and red leather sofa. "I will not!" The weather was considerably colder than when he had first come, and there was a huge fire roaring in the grate, flames leaping, throwing a red light into the bearskins on the floor and giving the room a barbaric look, curiously warming.

"You have no other reasonable choice," he said vehemently. "We have found no proof whatever of your charge. We are left with suppositions, which may well be true, but we cannot demonstrate them, and even if we could, they are no defense."

"Then I shall have to make an unreasonable choice," she said flatly. "Do I assume this is your very proper way of retreating from my case?" Her eyes were level and cold, a flare of challenge in them, and acute disappointment.

Rathbone was irritated, and if he were honest, a little stung. "If you do assume it, madam, you do so wrongly," he snapped. "It is my duty to advise you as to facts and my considered opinion as to what they may mean. Then I shall take your instructions, providing they do not require me to say or do anything that is contrary to the law."

"How terribly English." There was both laughter and contempt in her face. "It must make you feel impossibly safe - and comfortable. You live in the heart of an empire which stretches all 'round the world." She was angry now. "Name a continent and your British redcoats have fought there, carried by your British navy, subdued the natives and taught them Christianity, whether they wished to learn it or not, and instructed their princes how to behave like Englishmen."

What she said was true, and it startled him and made him feel suddenly artificial, violated and rather pompous.

Her voice was charged with emotion, deep and husky in her throat.

"You've forgotten what it is like to be frightened," she went on. 'To look at your neighbors and wonder when they are going to swallow you. Oh, I know you read about it in your history books! You learn about Napoleon and King Philip of Spain - and how you were on the brink of invasion, with your backs against the wall. But you beat them, didn't you! You always won." Her body was tight under its silk gown, and her face twisted with anger. "Well, we won't win, Sir Oliver. We shall lose. It may be immediately, it may be in ten years, or even twenty, but in the end we shall lose. It is the manner of our losing that we may be able to control, that's all. Have you the faintest idea what that feels like? I think not!"

"On the contrary," Rathbone said sardonically, although his words were only a defense against his own misjudgment and vulnerability. "I am imagining losing very vividly, and I am about to experience it in the courtroom." He knew as he said it that his own small personal defeat did not compare with the defeat of nations, the loss of centuries-old identity and concepts of freedom, however illusionary.

"You've given up!" she said with a lift of surprise which was contempt rather than question.

In spite of determining not to be, he was provoked. He would not let her see it. "I have faced reality," he contradicted. "That is a different side of the same coin. We have no alternative. It lies with me to tell you the facts and give you the best chance I can; and with you to choose."

Her eyebrows rose sharply. "Whether I surrender before the battle or fight until I may be beaten? What a nice irony. That is exactly the dilemma my country faces. For my country I think I do not choose assimilation, even though we cannot win. For myself I choose war."

"You cannot win either, madam," he said reluctantly. He hated having to tell her. She was stubborn, foolish, arrogant and self-indulgent, but she had courage and, after her own fashion, a kind of honor. Above all, she cared passionately. She would be hurt, and that knowledge pained him.

"Are you saying I should withdraw my charge, say that I lied, and ask that creature's pardon for it?" she demanded.

"You will have to eventually. Do you want to do it privately now, or publicly, when she proves you incapable of supporting your charge?"

"It would not be private," she pointed out. "Giseia would make sure everyone knew or there would be no purpose. Not that it matters. I will not withdraw. She murdered him. The fact that you cannot find the proof of it alters nothing."

He was galled that she should place the responsibility upon him.

"It alters everything in the law!" he retorted. "What can I say to make you understand?" He heard desperation rising in his voice. "It seems very likely that we may be able to give serious evidence to the theory that Friedrich was murdered. His symptoms are closer to yew poison than internal bleeding. We may even be able to force an exhumation of his body and an autopsy." He saw her wince of distaste with satisfaction. "But even if that proves us correct, Giseia was the one person who had no access to yew leaves. She never left his side. For heaven's sake, ma'am, if you believe he was assassinated for some political reason, say so! Don't sacrifice your own reputation by making a charge against the one person who cannot be guilty, simply in order to force the matter to justice!"

"What do you suggest?" she asked, her voice tense, cracking a little under the strain of effort to be light. "That I accuse Klaus von Seidlitz? But he is not guilty!"

She was still standing, the firelight reflecting red on her skirt. It was growing dark outside.

"You know it was not Klaus. You have no proof it was Giseia." Hope suddenly lifted inside him. "Then withdraw the charge, and we will investigate until we have enough evidence, then we'll take it to the police! Tell the truth! Say you believe he was murdered but you don't know by whom. You named Giseia simply to make someone listen to you and investigate. Apologize to her. Say you now realize you were wrong to suspect her, and you hope she will forgive your error of judgment and join with everyone to discover the truth. She can hardly refuse to do that. Or she will indeed look as if she may have colluded. I will draw up a statement for you."

"You will not!" she said fiercely, her eyes hot and stubborn. "We shall go to trial."

"But we don't have to!" Why was the woman so obtuse? She was going to cause such unnecessary pain to herself! "Monk will learn everything he can - "

"Good!" She swung around and stared towards the window. "Then let him do it by the time we meet in court, and he can testify for me."

"That may not be in time..."

"Then tell him to hurry!"

"Withdraw the charge against Gisela. Then the trial will not take place. She may ask damages, but I can plead on your behalf so that - "

She jerked back to glare at him. "Are you refusing to take my instructions, Sir Oliver? That is the right term, is it not? Instructions."

"I am trying to advise you - " he said desperately.

"And I have heard your advice and declined it," she cut across him. "I do not seem able to make you understand that I believe Gisela killed Friedrich and I am not going to accuse someone else as a device. A device, I may add, which I do not believe would work."

"But she did not kill him." His voice was getting louder and more strident than he wished, but she was trying him to exasperation. "You cannot prove something which is not true! And I will not be party to trying."

"I believe it is true," she said inflexibly, her face set, body rigid. "And it is not your calling to be judge as well as counsel, is it?"

He took a deep breath. "It is my obligation to tell you the truth... which is that if Friedrich was indeed murdered, by the use of yew leaves, then Gisela is the one person whose actions and whereabouts are accounted for at all times, and she could not have killed him."

She stared at him defiantly, her chin high, her eyes wide. But she had no answer to his logic. It beat her, and she had to acknowledge it.

"If you wish to be excused, Sir Oliver, then I excuse you. You need not consider your honor stained. I seem to have asked of you more than is just."

He felt an overwhelming relief, and was ashamed of it.

"What will you do?" he asked gently, the tension and the sense of doom skipping away from him, but in their place was a whisper of failure, as if some opportunity had been lost, and even a sort of loneliness.

"If you see the situation as you have said, no doubt any other barrister of like skill and honor will see it the same way," she answered. "They will advise me as you have. And then I shall have to reply to them as I have to you, so I shall have gained nothing. There is only one person who believes in the necessity of pursuing the case."

"Who is that?" He was surprised. He could imagine no one.

"I, of course."

"You cannot represent yourself!" he protested.

"There is no alternative that I am prepared to accept." She stared at him with a very slight smile, irony and amusement mixed in it - and behind it, fear.

"Then I shall continue to represent you, unless you prefer me not to." He was horrified as he heard his own voice. It was rash to a degree. But he could hardly abandon her to her fate, even if she had brought it upon herself.

She smiled ruefully, full of gratitude.

"Thank you, Sir Oliver."

"That was most unwise," Henry Rathbone said gravely. He was leaning against the mantelshelf in his sitting room. The French doors were no longer open onto the garden, and there was a brisk fire burning in the hearth. He looked unhappy. Oliver had just told him of his decision to defend Zorah in spite of the fact that she refused absolutely to withdraw her accusation or to make any sort of accommodation to sense, or even to her own social survival, possibly to her financial survival also.

Oliver did not want to repeat the details of the discussion. It sounded, in retrospect, as if he had been precipitate, governed far more by emotion than intelligence, a fault he deplored in others.

"I don't see any honorable alternative," he said stubbornly. "I cannot simply leave her. She has put herself in a completely vulnerable position."

"And you with her," Henry added. He sighed and moved away from the front of the fire, where he was beginning to be uncomfortable. He sat down and fished his pipe out of his jacket pocket He knocked the pipe against the fireplace, cleaned out the bowl, then filled it with tobacco again. He put it in his mouth and lit it. It went out almost immediately, but he did not seem to care.

"We must see what can be salvaged out of the situation." He looked steadily at Oliver. "I don't think you appreciate how deeply people's feelings run in this sort of issue."

"Slander?" Oliver asked with surprise. "I doubt it. And if murder is proved, then she will to some extent be justified." He was comfortable in his usual chair at the other side of the fire. He slid down a little farther in it. "I think that is the thrust I must take, prove that there is sufficient evidence to believe that a crime has been committed. Possibly in the emotion, the shock and outrage of learning that Friedrich was murdered, albeit for political reasons, they will overlook Zorah's charge against Gisela." His spirits lifted a little as he said it. It was the beginning of a sensible approach instead of the blank wall he had faced even a few minutes ago.

"No, I did not mean slander," Henry replied, taking his pipe out of his mouth but not bothering to relight it. He held it by the bowl, pointing with it as he spoke. "I meant the challenging of people's preconceptions of certain events and characters, their beliefs, which have become part of how they see the world and their own value in it. If you force people to change their minds too quickly, they cannot readjust everything, and they will blame you for their discomfort, the sense of confusion and loss of balance."

"I think you are overstating the case," Oliver said firmly. "There are very few people so unsophisticated as to imagine women never kill their husbands, or that minor European royal families are so very different from the rest of us very fallible human beings. Certainly I will not have many on my jury. They will be men of the world, by definition." He found himself smiling. "The average juror is a man of property and experience, Father. He may be very sober in his appearance, even pompous in his manner, but he has few illusions about the realities of life, of passion and greed and occasionally of violence."

Henry sighed. "He is also a man with a vested interest in the social order as it is, Oliver. He respects his betters and aspires to be like them, even to become one of them, should fortune allow. He does not like the challenging of the good and the decent, which form the framework of the order he knows and give him his place and his value, which makes sure his inferiors respect him in the same way."

"Therefore, he will not like murder," Oliver said reasonably. "Most particularly, he will not accept the murder of a prince. He will want to see it exposed and avenged."

Henry relit his pipe absentmindedly. His brow was furrowed with anxiety. "He will not like lawyers who defend people who make such charges against a great romantic heroine," he corrected. "He will not like women, such as Zorah Rostova, who defy convention by not marrying, by traveling alone in all sorts of foreign lands; who dress inappropriately and ride astride a horse and smoke cigars."

"How do you know she does those things?" Oliver was startled.

"Because people are already beginning to talk about it." Henry leaned forward, the pipe going out again. "For heaven's sake, don't you suppose the gossip is running around London like smuts from a chimney in a high wind? People have believed in the love story of Friedrich and Gisela for over a decade. They don't want to think they have been deluded, and they will resent anyone who tries to tell them so."

Oliver felt the warmth of his earlier optimism begin to drain out of him.

"Attacking royalty is a very dangerous thing," Henry went on. "I know a great many people do it, especially in newspapers and broadsheets, and always have, but it has seldom made them liked among the sort of people you care about. Her Majesty has just recognized your services to justice. You are a knight, and a Queen's Counsel, not a political pamphleteer."

"That is all the more reason why I cannot allow a murder to go unquestioned," Oliver said grimly, "simply because I shall not be popular for drawing everyone's attention to it." He had placed himself in a position from which it was impossible to withdraw with any grace at all. And his father was only making it worse. He looked across at the older man's earnest face and knew that his father was afraid for him, struggling to see an escape and unable to.

Oliver sighed. His anger evaporated, leaving only fear.

"Monk is going to Felzburg. He thinks it was probably a political assassination, perhaps by Klaus von Seidlitz, in order to prevent Friedrich from returning to lead the struggle for independence, which could very easily end in war."

"Then let's hope he brings proof of it," Henry replied. "And that Zorah will men apologize, and you can persuade a jury to be lenient with the damages they award."

Oliver said nothing. The fire settled in a shower of spades, and he found he was cold.

Hester was now sure beyond all but the slimmest hope that Robert Ollenheim would not walk again. The doctor had not said so to Bernd or Dagmar, but he had not argued when Hester had challenged him in the brief moment they had alone.

She wanted to escape from the house for a while to compose her thoughts before she faced their recognition of the truth. She knew their pain would be profound, and she felt inadequate to help. All the words she thought of sounded condescending, because in the end she could not share the hurt. What is there to say to a mother whose son will not stand or walk or run again, who will never dance or ride a horse, who will never even leave his bedroom unaided? What do you say to a man whose son will not follow in his footsteps, who will never be independent, who will never have sons of his own to carry on the name and the line?

She asked permission to leave on a personal errand, and when willingly granted it, she took a hansom east across the city to Vere Street and asked Simms if she might see Sir Oliver, if he had a few moments to spare.

She did not have long to wait; within twenty minutes she was shown in. Rathbone was standing in the middle of the room. There were several large books open on the desk, as if he had been searching for some reference. He looked tired. There were lines of stress around his eyes and mouth, and his fair hair was combed a little crookedly, a most unusual occurrence for him. His clothes were as immaculate as always, and as perfectly tailored, but he did not stand as straight.

"My dear Hester, how delightful to see you," he said with a pleasure which caught her with a sudden warmth. He closed the book in his hand and set it on the desk with the others. "How is your patient?"

"Much recovered in his health," she replied truthfully enough. "But I fear he will not walk again. How is your case?"

His face was filled with concern. "Not walk again! Then his recovery is only very partial?"

"I am afraid that is almost certainly so. But please, I should prefer not to speak of it. We cannot help. How is your case going? Have you heard from Venice? Is Monk learning anything useful?"

"If he has, I am afraid he is so far keeping it to himself." He indicated the chair opposite, and then sat at the corner of the desk himself, swinging his leg a trifle, as if he were too restless to sit properly.

"But he has written?" she urged.

"Three times, in none of them telling me anything I could use in court. Now he is off to Felzburg to see what he can learn there."

It was not only the total lack of any helpful news which worried her, but the anxiety in Rathbone's eyes, the way his fingers played with the comer of a sheaf of papers. It was not like him to fiddle pointlessly with things. He was probably not even aware he was doing it. She was unexpectedly angry with Monk for not having found anything helpful, for not being there to share the worry and the mounting sense of helplessness. But panic would not serve anyone. She must keep a calm head and think rationally.

"Do you believe Countess Rostova is honest in her charge?' she asked.

He hesitated only a moment. "Yes, I do."

"Could she be correct that Gisela murdered her husband?"

"No." He shook his head. "She is the one person who did not have the opportunity. She never left his side after his accident."

"Never?" she said with surprise.

"Apparently not. She nursed him herself. I imagine one does not leave a seriously ill patient alone?"

"As ill as he was, I would have someone in to be with him while I slept," she replied. "And I might well go to the kitchens to prepare his food myself or to make distillations of herbs to ease him. There are many things one can do to help certain kinds of distress once a patient is conscious."

He still looked slightly dubious.

"Meadowsweet," she elaborated. "Compresses are excellent for both pain and swelling. Cowslip is also good. Rosemary will lift the spirits. Cinnamon and ginger will help a sick headache. Marigold rinse will assist healing of the skin. Chamomile tea is good for digestive troubles and aids sleeping. A little vervain tea for stress and anxiety, which she might well have benefited from herself." She smiled, watching his face. "And there is always Four Thieves' Vinegar against general infection, which is the great danger after injury."

A ghost of a smile crossed his face. "I have to ask," he admitted. "What is Four Thieves' Vinegar?"

"Four healthy thieves were caught during a plague," she replied. "They were offered their freedom in return for their recipe for their remedy."

"Vinegar?" he said with surprise.

"Garlic, lavender, rosemary, sage, mint with a specific amount of mugwort and rue," she answered. "It has to be measured very exactly and made in a precise way, with cider vinegar. A few drops are sufficient, taken in water."

"Thank you," he said gravely. "But according to Monk's information, Gisela did not leave their rooms at all... for anything. Whatever preparations there were came up from the kitchen or were brought by the doctor. And it is stretching the bounds of belief too far to suppose she kept a distillation of yew with her beforehand just in case she might have a need for it!"

"Obviously, you have told the Countess this - and advised her to withdraw and apologize." She did not make it a question; it would have been insulting. For all his present vulnerability, she would not have dared imply she knew something of his skill that he had omitted. The balance between them was delicate, the slightest clumsiness might damage it.

"I have." He looked at his fingers, not at her. "She refuses," he went on before she could ask. "I cannot abandon her, in spite of her foolishness. I have given my undertaking that I will do what I can to protect her interests."

She hesitated a moment, afraid to ask in case he had no answer. But then the omission would have made it obvious that that was what she thought. She saw it in his eyes, steady and gentle on hers, waiting.

"What can you do?" she said deliberately.

"Not enough," he replied with the ghost of a smile, self-mockery in it.

"Anything?" She had to pursue it. He expected her to. Perhaps he needed to share the sense of defeat. Sometimes fear put into words become manageable. She had found it with men on the battlefield. The longer it remained unsaid, the larger it grew. Turned and faced, the proportions defined, one could muster forces to fight it. The nightmare quality was contained. And this could not be as bad as battle. She still remembered the bloody fields afterwards with sick horror and a pity which she needed to forget if she were to live and be useful now. Nothing in this case could compare with the past. But she could not say that to Rathbone. For him this was the struggle, and the disaster.

He was collecting his thoughts. He still sat sideways on the edge of the desk, but he had stopped fiddling with the papers.

"If we can prove it was murder, perhaps we can divert people's attention from the fact that she accused the wrong person," he said slowly. "I don't know a great deal about the Princess Gisela. I think perhaps I need to know their relationship in the past, and her present financial arrangements, in order to estimate what reparations she is likely to seek." He bit his lip. "If she hates Zorah as much as Zorah hates her, then she is very likely to want to ruin her."

"I will see if I can learn anything," Hester said quickly, glad of the chance to do something herself. "Baron and Baroness Ollenheim knew them both quite well. If I ask the right way, she may tell me quite a lot about Gisela. After all, it is possible she has no great feelings about Zorah. She won, and apparently easily."

"Won?" He frowned.

"The battle between them," she said impatiently. "Zorah was his mistress before Gisela came - at least, she was one of them. Afterwards he never looked at anyone else. Zorah has plenty of reason to hate Gisela. Gisela has none to hate her. Probably she is so devastated by Friedrich's death she has no interest in revenge for the slander. Once she is proved innocent, she may be quite happy simply to retire from the public scene as a heroine again - even a merciful one. She will be even more admired for it. People will adore her..."

Suddenly his expression quickened. The light returned to his eyes as he grasped an idea.

"Hester, you are remarkably perceptive! If I could persuade Gisela that mercy would be in her own best interest, that it would paint her the greater heroine even than before, that may be our only answer!" He slipped down off the desk and started to pace back and forth across the floor, but this time it was not from tension but nervous energy as his brain raced. "Of course, I shall have no direct communication with her. It will all have to be implied in open court. I must make it double-pronged."

He waved his hands, held apart to illustrate his idea. "On the one side, make mercy seem so appealing she will be drawn to it. Show how she will be remembered always for her grace and dignity, her compassion, the great qualities of womanhood that will make the whole world understand why Friedrich gave up a crown for her. And on the other, show how ugly revenge would be upon a woman who has already lost once to her and who has been shown to be mistaken - but a loyal patriot in that she was willing to risk everything to bring to light the fact that Friedrich really was indeed murdered and did not die a natural death, as everyone had supposed."

He increased his pace as his mind grasped more ideas. "And I can very subtly show that not to be grateful to her for that, at least, would suggest to some that possibly she would rather his murderer escape. She cannot allow anyone to think that." His fist clenched. "Yes! I believe at last we have the beginning of some kind of strategy." He stopped in front of her. "Thank you, my dear." His eyes were bright and gentle. "I am most grateful. You have helped immensely."

She found herself blushing under his gaze, suddenly unsure how to respond. She must remember this was only gratitude. Nothing had really changed.

"Hester... I.

There was a knock on the door.

Simms put his head in. "Major Bartlett is here to see you, Sir Oliver. He has been waiting some ten minutes. What shall I tell him?"

"Tell him I want another ten," Rathbone said. Then he looked at Simms's startled face and sighed. "No, don't tell him that. Miss Latterly is leaving. Tell Major Bartlett I apologize for keeping him waiting. I have just received urgent information on another case, but I am now ready to see him."

"Yes, Sir Oliver." Simms withdrew with a look of restored confidence. He was a man with a profound respect for the proprieties.

Hester smiled in spite of a sense of both relief and disappointment.

"Thank you for seeing me without notice," she said gravely. "I shall let you know of anything I am able to learn." And she turned to leave.

He moved past her to open the door, standing so close to her she could smell the faint aromas of wool and clean linen - and sense the warmth of his skin. She walked out into the open office, and he turned to speak to Major Bartlett.

Hester returned to Hill Street determined to face the truth regarding Robert as soon as an opportunity arose, and if it did not, she would have to create one.

As it happened, she had very little time to wait. The doctor called again early that evening, and after he had seen Robert, he asked to speak to Hester alone. There was a boudoir on the second floor which was readily available. She closed the door.

He looked grave, but he did not avoid her eyes, nor did he try to smooth over with false optimism the bitterness of what he had to say.

"I am afraid I can do no more for him," he said quietly. "It would be unjustified, and I think cruel, to hold out any real hope that he will walk again, or..." This time he did hesitate, trying to find a delicate way of phrasing what he needed to explain.

She helped him. "I understand. He will be able to use no part of his lower body. Only the automatic muscles of digestion will work."

"I am afraid that is true. I'm sorry."

Even though she had known it, to have it spoken made her aware that some foolish part of her had hoped she was wrong, and that hope was now dead. She felt a profound weight settle, hard and painful, inside her. It was as if a final light had gone out.

The doctor was looking at her with great gentleness. He must hate this as much as she did.

She forced herself to lift her head a fraction and keep her voice steady.

"I shall do all I can to help them accept it," she promised. "Have you told the Baroness, or do you wish me to?"

"I have not told anyone else yet. I would like you to be there when I do. She may find it very difficult."

"And Robert?"

"I have not told him, but I believe he knows. This young woman he mentions, Miss Stanhope, seems to have prepared him to some extent. Even so, hearing it from me will be different from merely thinking of it. You know him better than I do. From whom will it be least difficult for him?"

'That depends upon how his parents react," she replied, not knowing how real their hope may have been. She feared Bernd would fight against it, and that would make it far more difficult. Dagmar would have to face reality for both of them. "Perhaps we should allow them to choose, unless that proves impossible."

"Very well. Shall we go downstairs?"

Bernd and Dagmar were waiting for them in the huge, high-ceilinged withdrawing room, standing close together in front of the fire. They were not touching each other, but Bernd put his arm around his wife as Hester and the doctor came in. He faced them squarely, hope and fear struggling in his eyes.

Dagmar looked at them and read it in their expressions. She gulped.

"It is bad ... isn't it?" she said with a catch in her voice.

Hester started to say that it was not as bad as it might have been, there would be no pain, then realized that was not what they would be able to hear. For them this was as bad as they could conceive.

"Yes," the doctor answered for her. "I am afraid it is unrealistic to believe now that he will walk again. I ... I am very sorry." His nerve failed him, and he did not add the other facts Hester had deduced. Perhaps he saw in Bernd's face that they would be too much to bear.

"Can't you do ... anything?" Bernd demanded. "Perhaps a colleague? I don't mean to insult you, but if we were to try another opinion? A surgeon? Now that you can anesthetize a person while you operate, surely you can... can mend what is broken? I - " He stopped.

Dagmar had moved closer to him, was holding on to his arm more tightly.

"It is not broken bones," the doctor said as calmly as he was able. "It is the nerves which give feeling."

'Then can't he walk without feeling?" Bernd demanded. "He can learn! I've known men with dead legs who managed to walk!" His face was growing dark with pain and anger at his own helplessness. He could not bear to believe what was being said. 'It will take time, but we shall accomplish it!"

"No." Hester spoke for the first time.

He glared at her. 'Thank you for your opinion, Miss Latterly, but at this time it is not appropriate. I will not give up hope for my son!" His voice broke, and he took refuge in anger. "Your place is to nurse him. You are not a doctor! You will please not venture medical opinions which are beyond your knowledge."

Dagmar winced as if she had been hit.

The doctor opened his mouth and then did not know what to say.

"It is not a medical opinion," Hester said gravely. "I have watched many men come to terms with the fact that an injury will not heal. Once they have accepted the truth, it is not a kindness to hold out a hope which cannot be realized. It is, in fact, making them carry your burden as well as their own."

"How dare you!" he said. "Your impertinence is intolerable! I shall - "

"It is not impertinence, Bernd," Dagmar interrupted him, touching his hand with hers even as she clung to him. "She is trying to help us to do what is best for Robert. If he will not walk again, it is kinder for us not to pretend that somehow he will."

He moved away, taking his arm from her grasp. In rejecting her he was also rejecting what she had said.

"Are you prepared to give up so easily? Well, I shall never give up! He is my son... I cannot give up! "He turned away to hide the emotion twisting his features.

Dagmar turned to Hester, her face bruised with pain.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, trying to control herself. "He doesn't mean it. I know you are saying what is best for Robert. We must face the truth, if that is what it is. Will you help me to tell him, please?"

"Of course." Hester nearly offered to do it for her, if she wished, then realized that if she did, afterwards Dagmar would feel as if she had let her son down out of her own weakness. It was necessary for Dagmar, whether it was for Robert or for her own peace of mind, to tell him herself.

Together they moved towards the door, and the doctor turned to follow them.

Bernd swung around as though to speak, then changed his mind. He knew his own emotions would only make it harder.

Upstairs, Dagmar knocked at Robert's door, and when she heard his voice, pushed the door open and went in, Hester behind her.

Robert was sitting up as usual, but his face was very white.

Dagmar stopped.

Hester ached to say it for her. She choked back the impulse, her throat tight.

Robert stared at Dagmar. For a moment there was hope in his eyes, then only fear.

"I'm sorry, my darling," Dagmar began, her words husky with tears. "It will not get better. We must plan what we can do as it is."

Robert opened his mouth, then clenched his hands and gazed at her in silence. For a moment it was beyond him to speak.

Dagmar took a step forward, then changed her mind.

Hester knew that nothing she could say would help. For the moment the pain was all-consuming. It would have to change, almost certainly be in part replaced by anger, at least for a while, then perhaps despair, self-pity, and finally acceptance, before the beginning of adjustment.

Dagmar moved forward again and sat down on the edge of the bed. She took Robert's hand in hers and held it. He tightened his grip, as if all his mind and his will were in that one part of him. His eyes stared straight ahead, seeing nothing.

Hester stepped back and pulled the door closed.

It was the middle of the next morning when Hester saw Bernd again. She was sitting in the green morning room in front of the fire writing letters, one or two of her own, but mostly to assist Dagmar in conveying apologies and explanations to friends, when Bernd came in.

"Good morning, Miss Latterly," he said stiffly. "I believe I owe you an apology for my words yesterday. They were not intended as any personal discourtesy. I am most... grateful ... for the care you have shown my son."

She smiled, putting down her pen. "I did not doubt that, sir. Your distress is natural. Anyone would have felt as you did. Please do not consider it necessary to think of it again."

"My wife tells me I was... rude..."

"I have forgotten it."

"Thank you. I ... I hope you will remain to look after Robert? He is going to need a great deal of assistance. Of course, in time we shall obtain an appropriate manservant, but until then..."

"He will learn to do far more than you think now," she assured him. "He is disabled; he is not ill. The greatest help would be a comfortable chair with wheels so that he can move around..."

Bernd winced. "He will hate it! People will be ... sorry for him. He will feel - " He stopped, unable to continue.

"He will feel some degree of independence," she finished for him. "The alternative is to remain in bed. There is no need for that. He is not an invalid. He has his hands, his brain and his senses."

"He will be a cripple!" He spoke of it in the future, as if to acknowledge it in the present made it more of a fact and he still could not bear that.

"He cannot use his legs," she said carefully. "You must help him to make all the use he can of everything else. And people may begin by being sorry for him, but they will only remain so if he is sorry for himself."

He stared at her. He looked exhausted; there were dark smudges around his eyes and his skin had a thin, papery quality.

"I would like to think you are correct, Miss Latterly," he said after a moment or two. "But you speak so easily. I know you have seen a great many young men disabled by war and injuries perhaps far worse than Robert's. But you see only the first terrible shock, then you move on to another patient You do not see the slow years that follow afterwards, the disappointed hopes, the imprisonment that closes in, that ruins the ... the pleasures, the achievements of life."

"I haven't nursed only soldiers, Baron Ollenheim," she said gently. "But please don't ever allow Robert to know that you believe life is so blighted for him, or you will crush him completely. You may even make your fears come true by your belief in them."

He stared at her, doubt, anger, amazement, and then comprehension passing across his face.

"Who are you writing to?" He glanced at the paper and pen in front of her. "My wife said you had agreed to assist her with some of the letters which have become necessary. Perhaps you would be good enough to thank Miss Stanhope and say that she will no longer be needed. Do you think it would be appropriate to offer her some recompense for her kindness? I understand she is of very restricted means."

"No, I do not think it would be appropriate," she said sharply. "Furthermore, I think it would be a serious mistake to tell her she is no longer needed. Someone must encourage Robert to go out, to learn new pastimes."

"Go out?" He was startled, and two spots of color stained his pale cheeks. "I hardly think he will wish to go out, Miss Latterly. That is a most insensitive remark."

"He is disabled, Baron Ollenheim, not disfigured," she pointed out. "He has nothing whatever of which to be ashamed - "

"Of course not." He was thoroughly angry now, perhaps because shame was precisely what he had felt that any member of his family should be less than whole, less than manly, and now dependent upon the help of others.

"I think it would be wise to encourage him to have Miss Stanhope visit," Hester repeated steadily. "She is already aware of his situation, and it would be easier for him than trusting someone new, at least to begin with."

He thought for several moments before replying. He looked appallingly tired.

"I do not want to be unfair to the girl," he said finally. "She has sufficient misfortune already, by her appearance and by what my wife tells me of her circumstances. We can offer her no permanent post. Robert will need a trained manservant, and naturally, in time, if he resumes his old friendships, those who are willing to make adjustments to his new state ..." His face pinched as he spoke. "Then she would find herself excluded. We must not take advantage of either her generosity or her vulnerable position."

His choice of words was not meant to hurt, but Hester saw reflected in them her own situation: hired to help in a time of pain and despair, leaned on, trusted, at the heart of things for a brief while; then, when the crisis was past, paid, thanked and dismissed. Neither she nor Victoria was part of permanent life; they were not socially equal, and were friends only in a very narrow and closely defined sense.

Except that Victoria was not to be paid, because her situation was so less well understood.

"Perhaps we should allow Robert to make the decision," she said with less dignity or control than she had wished. She felt angry for Victoria, and for herself, and very pointedly alone.

"Very well," he agreed reluctantly, totally unaware of her emotions. It had not even occurred to him that she might have any. "At least for the time being."

In fact, Victoria came the very next morning. Hester saw her before she went upstairs. She beckoned her to the landing, close to a huge Chinese vase planted with a potted palm. The sunlight streamed in through the windows, making bright squares on the polished wood of the floor.

Victoria was dressed in a dark plum-colored wool. The dress must be one left over from more fortunate days. It became her very well, lending a little color to her cheeks, and the white collar lightened her eyes, but it could not remove the anxiety or the quick flash of understanding.

"He knows, doesn't he?" she said before Hester had time to speak.

There was no point in evasion. "Yes."

"How about the Baron and Baroness? They must be very hurt."

"Yes. I... I think you may be able to help. You will be less closely caught up. In a sense, you have been there already. The shock and the anger have passed."

"Sometimes." Victoria smiled, but there was bleakness in her eyes. "There are mornings when I wake up, and for the first few minutes I've forgotten, and then it all comes back just as if it were new."

"I'm sorry." Hester felt ashamed. She thought of all the hopes and dreams any young girl would have - for parties and balls, romance, love and marriage, children of her own one day. To realize in one blow that that was never possible must be as bad as everything Robert could face. "That was a stupid thing for me to say," she apologized profoundly. "I meant that you have learned to control it, instead of it controlling you."

Victoria's smile became real for a moment, before it faded and the trouble came back to her eyes. "Will he see me, do you think?"

"Yes, although I am not sure what mood he will be in or what you should hope for, or say."

Victoria did not reply, but started across the landing, her back straight, swishing her skirts a little, the color rich where it caught the sunlight. She wanted to look pretty, graceful, and she moved awkwardly. Behind her, Hester could tell that it was a bad day for pain. Suddenly she almost hated Bernd for his dismissal of the girl as not a lasting friend for Robert, not someone who could have a place in his life once he was resigned to his dependence and had learned to live within it.

Victoria knocked, and when she heard Robert's voice, opened the door and went in. She left the door open, as propriety demanded.

"You look better," she said as soon as she was inside. "I was afraid you might feel ill again."

"Why?" he asked. "The disease is over."

She did not evade the issue. "Because you know you will not get better. Sometimes shock or grief can make you feel ill. It can certainly give you a headache or make you sick."

"I feel terrible," he said flatly. "If I knew how to die, as an act of will, I probably would ... except that Mama would be bound to feel as if it were her fault. So I'm caught."

"It's a beautiful day." Her voice was quite clear and matter-of-fact. "I think you should come downstairs and go out into the garden."

"In my imagination?" he asked with a hard edge of sarcasm. "Are you going to describe the garden for me? You don't need to. I know what it looks like, and I'd rather you didn't. That's like pouring vinegar in the wound."

"I can't tell you about it," she replied honestly. "I've never been in your garden. I've always come straight up here. I meant that you should get someone to carry you down. As you say, you are not ill. And it isn't cold. You could sit out there perfectly well and see for yourself. I should like to see the garden. You could show me."

"What, and have the butler carry me around while I tell you This is the rose bed, these are the Michaelmas daisies, there are the chrysanthemums!' " he said bitterly. "I don't think the butler is strong enough! Or do you envisage a couple of footmen, one on either side?"

"The footman could bring you down, and you could sit on a chair on the lawn," she replied, still refusing to respond emotionally, whatever hurt or anger was inside her. "From there you could point out the beds to me. I don't feel like walking very far today myself."

There was a minute's silence.

"Oh," he said at last, his tone different, subdued. "You have pain?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry. I didn't think."

"Will you show me the garden, please?"

"I should feel - " He stopped.

"Then stop thinking how you feel," she replied. "Just do it! Or are you going to spend the rest of your life here in bed?"

"Don't you dare speak..." His voice trailed off.

There was a long silence.

"Are you coming?" Victoria said at last.

The bell by Robert's bed rang, and Hester straightened her apron and knocked on the door.

"Come in," Robert replied.

She pushed the door wide.

"Would you be good enough to ask the footman to assist me downstairs, Hester?" Robert said, biting his lip and looking at her self-consciously, fear and self-mockery in his eyes. "Miss Stanhope wishes me to show her the garden."

Hester had promised Rathbone she would learn everything she could about Zorah and Gisela, or anything else which might help him. She was moved by curiosity to know what truth lay behind such wild charges, what emotions drove those two so different women and the prince who was between them. But far more urgently than that, she was afraid for Rathbone. He had undertaken the case in good conscience, only later to discover that the physical facts made it impossible Gisela could be guilty. There was no other possible defense for Zorah's behavior. Now the height of his career, which he had so recently achieved, looked like being short-lived and ending in disaster. Regardless of public opinion, his peers would not excuse him for such a breaking of ranks as to attack a foreign royal family with a charge he could not substantiate.

Zorah Rostova was a woman they would not ever forgive. She had defied all the rules. There was no way back for her, or for those who allied themselves with her ... unless she could be proved innocent - in intent, if not in fact.

It was not easy to choose a time when anyone would be receptive to a conversation about Zorah. Robert's tragedy overshadowed anything else. Hester found herself growing desperate. Rathbone was almost always on her mind, and the urgency of the case became greater with every day that passed. The trial was set for late October, less than two weeks away.

She was obliged to contrive a discussion, feeling awkward and sinkingly aware that she might, by clumsiness, make future questions impossible. Dagmar was sitting by the open window in the afternoon light, idly mending a piece of lace on the neck of a blouse. She did so only to keep her fingers busy. Hester sat a little distance from her, sewing in her hand also, one of Robert's nightshirts that needed repair where the sleeve was coming away from the armhole. She threaded a needle and put on her thimble and began to stitch.

She could not afford to hesitate any longer. "Will you go to the trial?"

Dagmar looked up, surprised.

'Trial? Oh, you mean Zorah Rostova? I hadn't thought of it." She glanced out of the window to where Robert was sitting in the garden in a wheelchair Bernd had purchased. He was reading. Victoria had not come, so he was alone. "I wonder if he's cold," she said anxiously.

"If he is, he has a rug," Hester replied, biting back her irritation. "And the chair moves really quite well. Please forgive me for saying so, but he will be better if you allow him to do things for himself. If you treat him as if he were helpless, then he will become helpless."

Dagmar smiled ruefully. "Yes. I'm sorry. Of course he will. You must think me very foolish."

"Not at all," Hester replied honestly. "Just hurt and not sure how best to help. I imagine the Baron will go?"

"Go?"

'To the trial." She could not give up. Rathbone's long, meticulous face, with its humorous eyes and precise mouth, was very sharp in her mind. She had never seen him doubting himself before. He had confronted defeat for others with resolution and skill and unflagging strength. But for himself it was different. She did not doubt his courage, but she knew that underneath the habitual composure he was profoundly disconcerted. He had discovered qualities in himself he did not care for, vulnerabilities, a certain complacency which had been shattered.

"Will he not?' she went on. "After all, it concerns not only the life and death of people you knew quite well but perhaps the murder of a man who could once have been your king."

Dagmar stopped even pretending to sew. The fabric slipped out of her hands.

"If anyone had told me three months ago that this could happen, I would have said they were ridiculous. It is so completely absurd!"

"Of course, you must have known Gisela," Hester prompted. "What was she like? Did you care for her?"

Dagmar thought for a moment. "I don't suppose I did know her, really," she said at length. "She was not the sort of woman one knows."

"I don't understand..." Hester said desperately.

Dagmar frowned. "She had admirers, people who enjoyed her company, but she did not seem to have close friends. If Friedrich liked someone, then she did; if he did not, then for her that person barely existed."

"But Friedrich did not dislike you," Hester said, hoping profoundly that was true.

"Oh, no," Dagmar agreed. "I think in a slight way we were friends, at least better than mere acquaintances, before Gisela came. But she could make him laugh, even when he had thought he was tired, or bored, or weary with duty. I could never do that. I have seen him at the kind of long banquets where politicians make endless speeches, and he was growing glassy-eyed pretending to listen." She smiled as she remembered, for once forgetting Robert in the garden below, or the slight breeze stirring the curtains.

"Then she would lean across and whisper something to him," she continued. "And his eyes would brighten, it would all matter again. It was as if she could touch his mind with just a word, or even a glance, and give him of her vitality and laughter. She believed in him. She saw everything that was good in him. She loved him so very much." She stared into the distance, her face soft with memory, and perhaps a touch of envy for such a perfect closeness of heart and mind.

"And he must have loved her," Hester prompted. She tried to imagine it. With the people she cared about most, she seemed to be always on the brink of some misunderstanding or other, if not a downright quarrel. Was it a shortcoming in her? Or did she choose the wrong people to be drawn to? There was some darkness in Monk which every so often would close her out. It seemed unbreachable. And yet there were moments when she knew, as surely as she knew anything on earth, that he wanted never to hurt her, whatever the cost to himself.

"Absolutely and without reservation," Dagmar said wistfully, cutting across Hester's thoughts. "He adored her. One always knew where she was in a room, because every now and then his eyes would go to her, even if he was talking to someone else.

"And he was so proud of her, her grace, and wit, and the way she carried herself, her elegance and style of dress. He expected everyone to like her. He was so happy if they did, and could not understand it if they did not."

"Were there many who did not?" Hester asked. "Why did the Queen dislike her so intensely? And, it seems, the Countess Rostova?"

"I don't know of any reason, except that, of course, the Queen wanted him to marry Brigitte von Arlsbach," Dagmar explained. "Gisela did encourage him to kick over the traces rather." She smiled at some memory. "He was very used to doing everything he was told. Royal protocol is pretty rigid. There was always some equerry or adviser to remind him of the proper attitude, the correct behavior, whom he should speak to, spend time with, compliment, and who should be ignored, what was improper. Gisela would just laugh and tell him to please himself. He was Crown Prince; he should do as he liked."

She shrugged. "Of course, that is not the way it is. The higher one's calling, the more one must obey one's duty. But she was not born even to aristocracy, let alone royalty, so she did not understand that. I think for him that was a great deal of her charm. She offered him a kind of freedom he had never known. She poked fun at the courtiers who ruled his life. She was witty and outrageous and full of fun." Dagmar took a deep breath and let it out in a snort. "To Ulrike she was only irresponsible, selfish and ultimately a danger to the throne."

"But would she not have grown out of such behavior were she to have married him?" Hester asked. "I mean, with the Queen's approval?"

"I don't know," Dagmar answered ruefully. "The approval was never given."

The leaves were falling gently in the garden. A swirl of wind carried a handful against the window. Dagmar looked anxiously towards Robert.

"Did Brigitte love FriedrichT' Hester said quickly.

Dagmar looked back. "I don't think so. But she would have married him, as her duty, and, I expect, made a good queen."

"The Countess Rostova must hate Gisela passionately to make such an accusation." Hester was learning nothing that was the slightest help. All this would make Rathbone's case worse, not better. "It must be more than merely envy. Do you think she is being prompted by someone else who has a deeper motive?" She leaned forward a little. "Who does she know who might receive some personal gain from making a charge which cannot possibly be proved?'

"I have wondered that myself," Dagmar said, frowning. "And I have racked my brain to think of an answer. Zorah was always an extraordinary creature, willful and eccentric. Once she was nearly killed trying to defend some quite mad revolutionary. It was in '48. The wretched man was making a ridiculous speech in the street, and a crowd attacked him. Zorah strode in shouting like a ... a barrack room soldier. Called them terrible names and fired a pistol over their heads. Heaven only knows where she got it from, or how she knew how to use it!" Her voice rose in incredulity. "The most absurd thing about it all was that she didn't even agree with what the man was saying." She shook her head. "And yet she can be most kind as well. I have known her to take time and trouble to care for people no one else would bother with, and do it so discreetly I knew only by accident."

Hester found herself liking Zorah in spite of herself. She did not wish to. Zorah had beguiled Rathbone into an impossible situation. Hester resented her doubly for having the skill to intrigue him so he lost his sense of judgment, something she had seen no one else do, and for the danger she had led him into. If she wished to ruin herself, that was her privilege, but to ruin someone else was inexcusable.

But Hester must concentrate on the present need. What she did or did not feel about Zorah personally was irrelevant.

"Could she be in love with someone who is using her in this?" she asked, regarding Dagmar with intelligent interest.

Dagmar considered. "It is the sort of thing she would do," she agreed after a moment. "In fact, some mistaken love, or misplaced idealism, is about the only thing which makes any sense. Perhaps she trusts him to come forward with some fact which will rescue her at the last moment." Her eyes softened. "Poor Zorah. What if he doesn't? What if he is merely using her?"

"To what purpose? Perhaps we are beginning at the wrong end. We should be considering who would benefit from this trial. Who will?"

Dagmar was silent for so long Hester thought she might not have heard.

"Who will benefit politically?" Hester asked again.

"I don't see how anyone can," Dagmar answered thoughtfully. "I have racked my head, but the situation doesn't seem to affect anything that I can think of. I am afraid it is just a stupid mistake made by a woman who has allowed her imagination and her envy to overrule her sense, and it will destroy her. I am very sorry about it."

Bemd's opinion was quite different, when Hester managed to speak to him alone and introduce the subject, this time a trifle more skillfully. She had just returned from an errand in the rain and was brushing the water off her skirt where her cloak had not covered it when Bernd crossed the hall, a newspaper in his hand.

"Oh, good afternoon, Miss Latterly. I see you got wet. There is a good fire in the withdrawing room if you wish to warm yourself. I am sure Polly would bring you some tea, and perhaps crumpets if you wish."

"Thank you," she accepted eagerly. "Will I not disturb you?" She glanced at the newspaper.

"No, not at all." He shook it absently. "I've finished. Full of scandal and speculation, mostly."

"I am afraid now that the trial is nearing, people are beginning to wonder a great deal," she said quickly. "The story is romantic, and although the charge seems unfounded, one cannot help wondering what is the truth behind it."

"I should imagine revenge," he replied with a frown.

"But how can she be revenged when she will lose the case?" Hester argued. "Could it have to do with the Queen?"

"In what way?" He looked puzzled.

"Well, apparently the Queen strongly dislikes Gisela. Is Zorah a great friend of the Queen's?"

Bernd's face hardened. "Not that I am aware." He started towards the withdrawing room as though to end the conversation.

"You don't think the Queen's dislike could be behind this, do you?" Hester asked, hurrying after him. It was an idea which had a glimmer of sense. Ulrike had apparently never forgiven Gisela, and perhaps now she felt Gisela was somehow to blame for Friedrich's death - if not directly, then indirectly. "After all," she continued aloud as they went into the withdrawing room and Bernd pulled the bell rope, rather hard, "he might never have had the accident in the first place if he had not been in exile. And even if he had, he would have received different treatment had he been at home. Maybe, in her mind, she had convinced herself from one step to another, until now she really believes Gisela capable of murder. Maybe ..." She swung around in front of him as he sat down, her wet skirts cold against her legs. "She has probably not seen Gisela for twelve years. She knows only what other people have told her and what she imagines."

The maid answered the summons of the bell, and Bemd ordered afternoon tea for two and hot buttered crumpets.

"I think it unlikely," he said when the maid had gone and closed the door. "It is a very unpleasant affair, but not one in which I have any part. I would prefer to discuss your opinion of how we may best help my son. He does appear in these last few days to be better in spirits ... although I do not wish him to become too dependent on the young woman, Miss Stanhope. She is not strong enough to employ on any permanent basis, and also, I think, not suitable."

"Why did the Queen hate Gisela even before she married FriedrichT Hester said desperately.

His face froze. "I do not know, Miss Latterly, nor do I care. I have sufficient grief in my own family not to be concerned with the self-inflicted misfortune of others. I should appreciate your advice upon what sort of person to employ to be with Robert permanently. I thought you might know of a young man of good character, gentle disposition, perhaps one with a leaning towards reading and study, who would like a position which offers him a home and agreeable company in return for such help as Robert needs."

"I shall make inquiries, if you wish," she replied with a sinking heart, not only for Rathbone but for Victoria. "There may well be someone the job would suit very nicely. Is that what Robert wishes?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Ts that what Robert wishes?" she repeated.

"What Robert wishes cannot be obtained," he said, his voice tight with pain. 'This is what he requires, Miss Latterly."

"Yes, Baron Ollenheim," she conceded. "I will make inquiries."