Weighed in the Balance (40 page)

She looked at Robert again.

His eyes were brimming with tears.

“She suffered that!” he whispered. “And all the time she was here, she was thinking of me … How … how could you have let me be so selfish?”

Now without thinking she grasped his hand and held it. “It wasn’t selfishness,” she said urgently. “You couldn’t know, and really I had no right to tell you. It is a very private thing. I … I couldn’t bear you thinking—” She stopped. That would certainly be better unspoken.

He smiled at her suddenly. “I know.”

She did not know whether he knew or not, and she was certainly not about to put it to the test.

“I shan’t tell her you told me,” he promised. “At least not yet. It would embarrass her, wouldn’t it.” That was a statement, not a question. “And I shall not tell my parents. It is not my secret to share, and I think they may not see it as it should be seen.”

She knew he was certainly right about that. Bernd did not consider Victoria Stanhope a suitable friend for his son in any permanent sense, let alone more than that. But relief overwhelmed her like a great and blessed warmth, a taste of sweetness.

“Isn’t she the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen?” Robert said earnestly, his eyes bright and gentle. “Thank you for bringing her to me, Hester. I shall be grateful to you forever for that.”

11

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

Now he was struggling to save her from the rope.

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

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

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

The judge instructed Rathbone to begin.

Rathbone rose to his feet and called Stephan von Emden.
The usher repeated the name, and his voice was swallowed by the thick, crowded room. There was no echo.

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

He was sworn in.

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

“Sir Oliver?” the judge prompted.

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

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

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

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

“The Baron and Baroness von Seidlitz, Count Rolf Lansdorff—”

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

“Yes.”

“Who else?”

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

“Please continue,” Rathbone said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Would you please explain that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

The judge smiled very slightly. “Good. Proceed, Sir Oliver.”

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

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

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

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

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

Stephan thought for a moment.

The judge was watching him.

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

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

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

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

“Would you explain, please?” Rathbone pressed.

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

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

“Yes?” Rathbone prompted him.

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

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

“And the Baroness von Arlsbach?”

“Independence.”

“Baron von Seidlitz?”

“Unification.”

“How do you know this?”

“He has made no secret of it.”

“He has advocated it?”

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

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

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

“He was for independence.”

“Sufficiently so to act towards that end?”

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

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

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

“I believe it was Count Lansdorff.”

“You say you believe it. Do you not know?”