A Breach of Promise (11 page)

His face was full of the sharpness of the regret and the sense of betrayal he felt. “I can see them clear in my mind’s eye even as I stand here, heads bent together, talking and
laughing, looking in each other’s eyes. You can’t tell me he wasn’t courting her, because I was there!” His look defied Rathbone, or anyone, to contradict him.

Rathbone had nothing to fight with, and he knew it. It angered him more than he had expected that all this distress could have been avoided. The rows of avid faces in the gallery need never have witnessed these people’s humiliation. Their private quarrels and griefs should have remained exactly that, known only to their own circle. It was no one else’s concern. He hated what he was doing, what they were all doing here. The whole forced performance of grooming every young woman for marriage and parading her before what amounted to the market, judging her human worth by her marriageability, was offensive.

“Mr. Lambert,” he said, rather more brusquely than he had meant to, “when did Mr. Melville ask you for your daughter’s hand in marriage?”

Lambert looked startled.

Rathbone waited.

“Well … he didn’t,” Lambert admitted. “Not in so many words. He should have, I grant you. It was an omission of good manners I was willing to overlook.”

“Possibly it was an omission of good manners,” Rathbone agreed. “Or possibly it was an omission of intent? Is it possible he was very fond of Miss Lambert, but in a brotherly way, rather than as a suitor, and his affection was misinterpreted … with the best of intentions, and in all innocence?”

“By a man of our age, perhaps, Sir Oliver,” Lambert said dryly. “Although I doubt it. A man of Melville’s years does not normally feel like a brother towards a handsome and good-natured young woman.”

There was a faint titter around the room, almost like the rustle of leaves.

Rathbone kept his composure with difficulty. He did not like being taken for Lambert’s age—and was startled by how much it offended him. Lambert must be at least fifty.

“There are many young ladies I admire and find pleasant
company,” he said rather stiffly, “but I do not wish to marry them.”

Lambert said nothing.

Rathbone was obliged to continue. He was not serving Melville’s cause.

“So Mr. Melville did not ask you for your daughter’s hand, and yet it was assumed by you all that he wished to marry her, and arrangements were made, announcements were given and so forth. By whom, sir?”

“My wife and myself, of course. We are the bride’s parents.” Lambert looked at him with raised eyebrows. He had a very broad, blunt face. “That is customary!”

“I know it is,” Rathbone conceded. “I am only trying to establish that Mr. Melville took no part in it. It could have been conducted without his awareness of just how seriously his relationship with Miss Lambert was being viewed.”

“Only if he was a complete fool!” Lambert snorted.

“Perhaps he was.” Rathbone smiled. “He would not be the first young man to behave like a fool where a young lady is concerned.”

There was a burst of laughter in the gallery, and even the judge had a smile on his face.

“Is my learned friend saying that his client is a fool, my lord?” Sacheverall enquired.

“I rather think I am,” Rathbone acknowledged. “But not a knave, my lord.”

The judge’s bright blue eyes were very wide, very innocent. The light shone on the bald crown of his head, making a halo of his white hair.

“An unusual defense, Sir Oliver, but not unique. I hope your client will thank you for it, should you succeed.”

Rathbone smiled ruefully. He was thinking the same thing. He turned to Lambert again.

“You say, sir, that the breaking of the betrothal came without any warning at all. Was that to you, Mr. Lambert, or to everyone?”

“I beg your pardon?” Lambert looked confused.

“Is it not possible that Mr. Melville, when he realized how far arrangements had progressed, spoke to Miss Lambert and tried to tell her that matters had proceeded further than he was happy with, but that she did not tell you that? Perhaps she did not believe he was serious, or thought he was only suffering a nervousness which would pass with time?”

“Well …”

“It is possible, is it not?”

“Possible,” Lambert conceded. “But I don’t believe it.”

“Naturally.” Rathbone nodded. “Thank you. I don’t think I have anything more to ask you.”

Sacheverall declined to pursue the subject. He was in a strong position, and he was thoroughly aware of it.

Rathbone wondered why he had not asked Lambert about the damage done to his daughter’s reputation, and why indeed he was pursuing this case instead of allowing the matter to remain at least somewhat more private. The omission was not one he would have made himself.

The answer came immediately.

Sacheverall, looking extremely pleased with himself, called Delphine Lambert to the stand.

She came in looking harassed and distressed, but with a supreme dignity. She was a small woman, but carried herself so superbly she gave the impression of regality. She was dressed in deep blue, which flattered her complexion, and the huge skirts with their crinoline hoops emphasized her still-tiny waist. She mounted the witness-box with difficulty, because of the narrowness of the steps, and turned to face the clerk who swore her in.

Sacheverall apologized for the distress he would cause her in having to speak to her on so delicate a matter, with the implication that this too was Melville’s fault, then proceeded with his first question.

“Mrs. Lambert, were you present during most of the growing relationship between Mr. Melville and your daughter?”

“Naturally!” Her eyes widened. “It is usual for a mother to
chaperone her daughter at such times. I have only the one daughter, so it was easy for me.”

“So you observed everything that took place?” Sacheverall asked.

“Yes.” She nodded. “And I assure you there was never anything in the least out of order. I thought myself a good judge of character, but I was completely duped.” She looked lost, and innocent, as if she still did not fully understand what had happened.

Rathbone wondered if Sacheverall had schooled her brilliantly or if he had simply been given the perfect witness.

Sacheverall was too astute to belabor the point. The jurors had seen her. He even forbore from glancing at Rathbone.

“Mrs. Lambert,” he continued, “would you be good enough to describe for us a typical encounter between Miss Lambert and Mr. Melville, one as like many others as you may be able to recall.”

“Certainly, if you wish.” She straightened her shoulders even more, but without the slightest exaggeration. She was not doing it for effect. This truly was an ordeal for her. Her bearing and her voice were full of fear, and she understood the darkness this cast over her daughter’s future.

Again Rathbone felt himself cold with anger that Melville had allowed this to happen. He was not merely a fool, he was irresponsible. Rathbone had been instinctively sorry for him in the beginning, but now he was annoyed that Melville had not somehow managed to make his feelings plain enough that the Lamberts would have withdrawn from the betrothal themselves and avoided this fiasco. He looked at his client, in the chair next to him, avoiding Rathbone’s eyes, staring at nothing. He seemed closed in a world of his own.

The court was waiting.

Delphine Lambert selected her occasion and began. “Mr. Melville had been to speak to my husband about some architectural matter—something to do with oriel windows, I believe. My husband went out, and Mr. Melville came down into the withdrawing room to take tea with Zillah and myself.
This was last autumn. It was one of those late, golden days when everything looks so beautiful and you know it cannot last….”

She blinked and made an effort to control emotions which were obviously raw.

Sacheverall waited sympathetically.

“We talked of all sorts of slight things, of no consequence,” Delphine continued. “I remember Killian—Mr. Melville—sat in the chair next to the sofa. Zillah sat on the sofa, her skirts all swirled around her. She was wearing pink and she looked wonderful.” Her eyes were soft with memory. “He remarked on it. Anyone would have. When you see her you will understand. We talked and laughed. He was interested in everything.” She said it with the pleasure of surprise still in her voice. “Every detail seemed to please him. Zillah was telling him about a party she had been to and recounting several anecdotes which really were very funny indeed. I am afraid we were a trifle critical, and our amusement was sometimes not altogether kind … but we laughed so hard we had tears running down our cheeks.” She smiled and blinked as if the tears came again, but this time of sorrow. “Zillah has a delicious turn of phrase, and Killian so enjoyed her observations. She was a perfect mimic! Perhaps it is not very ladylike,” she apologized. “But we had such fun.”

Sacheverall nodded in satisfaction. Even the jurors were smiling.

Rathbone glanced at Melville.

Melville bit his lip and moved his head an inch in acknowledgment. He looked wretched. Perhaps it was the look of innocence, but it had all the air of guilt. The jury could not have missed it.

“Please continue,” Sacheverall prompted.

“We had tea,” Delphine resumed. “Hot crumpets with melted butter. They are not easy to eat delicately. We laughed at ourselves over that as well. And toasted tea cakes. They were delicious.” She made a little gesture of deprecation. “We ate them all. We were so happy we did not even notice.
Then Killian and Zillah got up and went for a walk in the garden. The leaves were turning color and the very first few had fallen. The chrysanthemums were in bloom.” She glanced at the judge, then back to Sacheverall. “Such a wonderful perfume they have, earthy and warm. They always make me think of everything that is lovely … rich but never vulgar. If only we could always have such perfect taste.” She sighed. “Anyway, Killian and Zillah remained outside for some time, but I was in every proper sense still a chaperone. Zillah told me afterwards they were discussing their ideas for a future home, all the things they would most like to have, and how it would be … colors, styles, furniture … everything two people in love would plan for their future.”

Rathbone looked at Melville again. Could any man really be such a complete fool as to have spoken to a woman of such things and not know perfectly well she would take it as a prelude to a proposal of marriage?

“Is that true?” he demanded under his breath.

Melville turned to him. His face was deep pink with the rush of blood to his cheeks, his eyes were hot, but he did not avoid looking straight back.

“Yes … and no …”

“That won’t do!” Rathbone said between his teeth. “If you are not honest with me I cannot help you, and believe me, you are going to need every ounce of help I can think of—and more!”

“That may be how she saw it,” Melville answered, looking down now, not at Rathbone. His voice was low and tense. “We did talk about houses and furnishings. But it wasn’t for us! I’m an architect … houses are not only my profession, they are my love. I’ll talk about design to anyone! I was making suggestions to her about the things she wanted in a home and how they could be achieved. I told her of new ways of creating more warmth, more light and color, of bringing to life the dreams she had. But it was for her—not for both of us!” He turned to face Rathbone again. “I would have spoken the same way to anyone. Yes, of course we laughed
together—we were friends….” His eyes were full of distress. Rathbone could have sworn he held that friendship dear and the loss of it hurt him.

Delphine Lambert was still talking, describing other occasions when Melville and Zillah Lambert had been together, their easy companionship, their quick understanding of each other’s thoughts, their shared laughter at a score of little things.

Rathbone looked across at the jurors’ faces. Their sympathy was unmistakable. To change their minds it would take a revelation about Zillah Lambert so powerful and so shocking it would shatter any emotion they felt now so that they would be left angry and betrayed. And Melville had sworn there was no such secret. Was it conceivable he knew something of her which made it impossible to marry her, yet he still cared for her too deeply to expose it—even to save himself?

It would have to be something her parents did not know, or they would never have risked his revealing it. They could not rely on Melville’s self-sacrifice.

And Zillah herself would not dare to tell them, even to save Melville, and thus this whole tragic farce.

Rathbone would have to press Melville harder, until he at last spoke of whatever it was he was still hiding. And Rathbone had felt certain from the first that there was something.

He turned his attention back to the court.

Delphine was describing some grand social event, a ball or a dinner party. Her face was alight with remembered excitement.

“All the girls were simply lovely,” she said, her voice soft, her slender hands on the rail in front of her, lightly touching it, not gripping. She might have held a dancing partner so. “The gowns were exquisite.” She smiled as she spoke. “Like so many flowers blown in the wind as they swirled around the floor. The chandeliers blazed and were reflected on jewels and hair. The young men were all so dashing. Perhaps it was happiness which made everything seem so glamorous, but I don’t think so. I believe it was real. And Killian danced the whole
evening with Zillah. He barely spoke with anyone else at all. He sat a few dances out, but I swear I did not see him pay the slightest heed to any other lady, no matter how beautiful or how charming.” She gave a little shrug of her shoulders. “And there were many titled ladies there, and heiresses to considerable fortunes. On that particular occasion Lady—”

Sacheverall held up his hand. “I am sure a great many people of note were there, Mrs. Lambert. What is important is that Mr. Melville paid very obvious court to your daughter, for everyone to see, and his intent could hardly be mistaken or misinterpreted. Now, madam, I must bring you to a far more painful area, for which I apologize. I most truly wish I could avoid it, but there is no way in which it is possible.”