A Breach of Promise (14 page)

T
HE TRIAL RESUMED
the next morning with Sacheverall providing witnesses to Zillah’s blameless character, as Rathbone had known he would. It was hardly necessary—her own appearance had been sufficient—but then he could not be certain that Rathbone had no witness of his own in store, someone who could cast doubt on the innocence and charm they had seen.

The first was a Lady Lucinda Stoke-Harbury, a girl of Zillah’s own age who was newly betrothed to the second son of an earl, and impeccably respectable. She stood with her head high, her eyes straight ahead, and spoke clearly. Sacheverall could not have found anyone better, and the very slight swagger with which he walked to and fro on the open space of the floor showed his confidence. He smiled like an actor playing to the gallery, and seemed just as sure that the rest of the cast would respond as if according to a script.

“Lady Lucinda, please tell us how long you have been acquainted with Miss Lambert, if you would be so kind.”

“Oh, at least five years,” she replied cheerfully. “We have been great friends.”

Sacheverall was delighted; it was exactly the reply he wanted. He hesitated long enough to make sure the jury had fully digested the statement, then continued.

“Have you many friends in common?”

“Naturally. We attend all the same parties, dinners, balls and
so on. And we have often been to art galleries and lectures together.”

“So you know her well?”

“Yes, I do.”

It was all very predictable, and there was nothing Rathbone could do to affect it. To cast doubt on Lady Lucinda’s judgment, or her honesty in expressing it, would only play directly into Sacheverall’s hands. It could both turn the jury against him, and indirectly Melville, and show them his own desperation. If he had any evidence of his own he should produce it, not insult Lady Lucinda.

Sacheverall grew more and more enthusiastic, seeking praise and affirmation for Zillah with many new avenues of questioning.

Rathbone looked around the gallery. He saw the range of expressions on the faces as they craned forward, listening to every word. For a woman in black bombazine with a ribboned hat it was an avid interest showing in her eyes, her lips parted. For a man with gray side-whiskers it was more relaxed, even a trifle cynical, a half smile. A well-dressed young woman with straight brown hair under her bonnet looked at Melville with undisguised contempt. Her neighbor seemed more curious as to why a young man with such golden opportunities before him should risk losing it all for such an absurd reason. Rathbone could almost read the speculation in their eyes as to what was unsaid behind the polite words from the witness stand. What was the real reason behind this charade?

More than once he caught someone looking at him, speculation easily read as to what he could do, what he knew and would spring on them, when he was ready.

He wished there were something!

He saw several studying the jury, and perhaps trying to guess their thoughts, although at this point there seemed only one possible verdict.

Melville sat through it all sunk in unhappiness but without moving, except occasionally to put his fingers up to his mouth,
and then away again, but he did not speak. He did not offer any contradictions or suggestions of help.

Rathbone declined the offer to question Lady Lucinda. There was nothing whatever to ask.

The next witness was another young woman of impeccable reputation, and she reaffirmed everything that had already been said.

The judge looked enquiringly at Rathbone.

“No, thank you, my lord,” he said, rising briefly to his feet and then sitting down again.

Sacheverall was delighted. His contempt, not only for Melville but for Rathbone also, was vivid in his face and the entire attitude of his body.

He called the Honorable Timothy Tremaine and asked him for his opinion of the most admirable Miss Zillah Lambert. As Tremaine spoke, his own admiration for her grew more and more apparent. He smiled, he met her eyes, and his eager expression softened. He spoke of her with a warmth which was more than mere sympathy. An idea began to form in Rathbone’s mind, not clearly, and only a thread, but he had nothing else.

“Your witness, Sir Oliver,” Sacheverall said finally, with an ironic half bow towards Rathbone.

Rathbone rose to his feet. “Thank you, Mr. Sacheverall.” He was acutely aware of all eyes upon him. There was a hush as if awaiting a startling event. He would disappoint them, and it rankled with him more sharply than he had expected. He felt the defeat already.

“Mr. Tremaine,” he began quietly, “you spoke of Miss Lambert as if you are quite well acquainted with her. May I assume that is so?”

“Yes sir, you may,” Tremaine answered politely. He too must have been waiting for some retaliation at last.

Rathbone smiled. “And you expressed some regard for her yourself—indeed, some admiration?” It was not really a question.

“Yes sir.” Tremaine was more guarded now.

Rathbone’s smile widened. He knew what the gallery was waiting for, what Tremaine himself quite suddenly feared. It was there in his face. He drew in his breath as if to add something, then changed his mind.

“Yes?” Rathbone enquired helpfully.

“Nothing …”

“There is no need to apologize for your feelings,” Rathbone assured him. “It is only natural. She is most attractive. Indeed, Mr. Sacheverall himself has been unable to conceal a very considerable”—he hesitated delicately—“personal regard towards her….”

He heard Sacheverall’s indrawn breath behind him and ignored it.

“I …” Tremaine realized the trap and sidestepped it rather obviously. “Yes sir. I think we all feel a certain … friendship towards her which—” He stopped, uncertain how to complete the thought.

“Is your regard as … warm as Mr. Sacheverall’s?” Rathbone asked blandly.

“Well …” Tremaine looked at him squarely. “I could say I regard her more as a friend …”

Sacheverall stood up, his face only very slightly pink. “My lord, the depth of my regard for Miss Lambert is irrelevant. It is Mr. Melville’s behavior towards her which is at issue here. If Sir Oliver is trying to suggest that I have in any way overstepped the bounds of the strictest propriety, or that Miss Lambert has regarded me as other than her legal counsel, then I would warn him that he is not above the laws of slander either, and I will protect Miss Lambert’s good name with every skill at my disposal … and every weapon also!”

Rathbone laughed very lightly and swiveled to look at Sacheverall.

“My dear Sacheverall, you have spent the morning persuading me of Miss Lambert’s virtue, charm and total desirability. Is it really now slanderous for me to suggest that you are not immune to charm yourself? Surely it would be more so to suggest that you are? Then you might think I accused you of
being less than a natural man. Or at the very least of speaking insincerely, saying something which you yourself did not believe.”

“You are—” Sacheverall began.

But Rathbone overrode him. “Your sincerity seemed to ring through your words, your choice of adjectives to describe her, the very ardor of your tone and the grace of your gestures. You made your argument superbly.”

“What is your point?” Sacheverall snapped, his cheeks flushed. “There is nothing improper for you to find!” He gestured towards Melville, who was sitting staring at him. “That is where the fault lies. You ha ve paved the way for that yourself! Indeed, it would be an unusual man—perhaps, to borrow your own phrase, something less than a natural man—who would not admire Miss Lambert!” His face twisted into an expression suddenly far uglier than perhaps he knew. “Have you considered, Sir Oliver, that you do not know your own client as well as you imagine? You are the last man I would have supposed naive, but I could be mistaken.” His meaning was masked, but it was clear enough. There was a gasp around the room. One or two of the jurors looked taken aback. The remark was indelicate at best, at worst slanderous.

The judge looked expectantly at Rathbone.

Rathbone had turned immediately to Melville. Sacheverall was right in that he had not known his client as well as he wished to.

But the look on Melville’s face was one of bitter but quite honest laughter. No one could doubt he found the remark genuinely funny. There was no embarrassment in him, not a shred of shame or even discomfort.

The judge blinked.

One or two jurors looked at each other.

Sacheverall colored very slightly, as if aware he had stepped a little too far. For the first time he had lost the sympathy of the jury. But he would not retreat.

“There may be many reasons for a man to shrink from marriage,” he said rather loudly. “Reasons he would not be willing
to acknowledge to anyone. I make no accusations, please be clear; I speak only in general. He may be aware of disease in himself, or in his family.” He waved his arms in a gesture Rathbone had come to recognize was characteristic. “There may be a strain of madness. He may have a burden of debt he cannot meet, and therefore could not keep a wife. He may even be in danger of prosecution for some offense or other. He may already be married!”

There was a buzz of excited conversation as people in the gallery turned to whisper to one another.

“Silence!” Mr. Justice McKeever ordered, his voice surprisingly penetrating for one so soft. “Silence, or I shall clear the court!”

Obedience was instant. A man in the gallery cleared his throat, and it sounded like a minor explosion.

“Or he may be unable to consummate the union,” Sacheverall finished.

One of the jurors, an elderly man with thick white hair, clicked his teeth and shook his head disapprovingly. The remark obviously offended him as being in exceedingly poor taste. Gentlemen did not discuss such things.

Again Rathbone glanced at Melville, and saw only laughter in his light, sea-blue eyes.

“Of course,” Rathbone agreed, equally penetratingly. “And there may be many reasons why a man may decline to marry a particular lady, many of them disagreeable, coarse and offensive even to suggest, so I shall not.” He saw out of the corner of his eye one of the jurors nod. “I am loathe to have this already sad situation descend to such a level,” he finished.

McKeever smiled bleakly. He had seen too many civil cases to hold out any such hope.

“I am sure you would,” Sacheverall agreed sarcastically. “And I daresay your client even more so. But he should have thought of that before he humiliated and insulted Miss Lambert and used her affections so lightly. It is too late for such regrets now, even more for the fear of how it may reflect upon his own reputation.”

The fragile advantage had slipped away already. Thank heaven it was Friday and Rathbone had two days in which to try to prevail on Melville to tell him the truth. If he did not, then he could see no strategy at all which would avoid defeat. Perhaps Melville had not realized quite how damaging that would be to him, not only financially but also professionally. Barton Lambert would certainly cease to support him or employ him. Lambert was a man of influence. Melville might very well find his entire career jeopardized, regardless of his brilliance.

Rathbone forced himself to smile and face Sacheverall.

“This is not over yet,” he said with infinitely more confidence than he felt. “Let us await the conclusion before we assess the damage, and to whom. I have no wish to cause injury, but I shall represent my client’s interests with all the vigor at my disposal.”

“Naturally.” Sacheverall was not disturbed. He had regained his composure and he knew he had little to fear. Victory was only an inch from his grasp, and in his mind he could already feel it. “One would expect no less of you,” he added, but his smile lacked any anxiety that Rathbone might win.

He called one more witness, and then the court was adjourned for the weekend. The crowd dispersed from the gallery with unusual quietness and good order. It was an ominous sign. They were not expecting any surprises, no turn in events to spark their interest or change what to many was already a foregone conclusion.

Melville rose to leave also and Rathbone put his hand out and grasped his arm, gripping it unintentionally hard. He saw Melville wince.

“You’re not going,” he said grimly, “until you tell me the truth. I don’t think you realize just what you’re facing. This could ruin you.”

Melville sat down again, turning to stare at him. Around them the crowd had moved away. There was hardly anyone left except the ushers and court officials.

“You need a lot more than talent to succeed in the arts,” Rathbone went on quietly but clearly. “You need patronage, in
architecture more than almost anything else. Your plans are stillborn if they never get off the paper.” He saw the pain tighten Melville’s face but he had to go on. If he did not succeed in persuading him now it could be too late. “You have to have a wealthy patron who believes in you and is willing to spend tens of thousands of pounds to build your halls and houses and theaters. You are not big enough yet to defy society, and you will very soon find that out if you lose this case without any excuse to offer.”

Melville blushed. “You want me to try to blacken her name?” he asked angrily. “Suggest that I suddenly found out something about her so appalling I couldn’t live with it? That she was a thief? A loose woman? A drunkard? A spendthrift? A gambler? I can’t. And if I could”—his lip curled in disgust—“would that endear me to society, do you suppose? How many wealthy men would then wish to have me in their close acquaintance, to observe their wives and daughters and then tell the world their weaknesses!”

“I don’t want you to tell the world!” Rathbone answered back with equal sharpness, and still holding Melville’s wrist, ignoring the last few people leaving the room, looking at the lawyer and his client curiously. “I meant you to tell me so I can understand the battle I am supposed to be fighting. I don’t need you to tell me that blackening Zillah Lambert’s name, with or without justification, will not help you. But with the truth, I may be able to reach a settlement out of court. It wouldn’t be victory, but it would be a great deal better than any other alternative facing you now.”