A Breach of Promise (17 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I beg your pardon?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Suddenly he was aware of how much of her he did not know. Why had she gone to the Crimea in the beginning? Had someone let her down, just as Melville had Zillah Lambert? Had she felt that humiliation, the laughter of friends, the sense
of utter rejection, the whole of her certain and happy world shattered at a blow?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hester burst into laughter, then controlled herself again instantly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hester thought for a moment.

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

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

“Cannot approach?” Rathbone repeated. “Why not? You mean someone already married? Perhaps a close friend of—” He stopped just before he mentioned the Lamberts’ name.

“Why not?” she agreed. “Or …”

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

“What about her mother?”

“What?” Rathbone was incredulous. The idea was inconceivable.

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

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

“Good God!” Athol was astounded.

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

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

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