Weighed In The Balance Part 31

"The army..." Zorah blinked.

"In the Crimea. But that is all quite irrelevant to this." She brushed it away with a gesture of her hand. "If you would be good enough to turn your mind to Wellborough Hall?"

"I think I could like you, Miss Latterly," Zorah said quite seriously. "You are eccentric. I had no idea Sir Oliver had such interesting friends. He quite goes up in my esteem. I confess, I had thought him rather dry."

Hester found herself blus.h.i.+ng, and was furious.

"Wellborough Hall," she repeated, like a schoolmistress with a refractory pupil.

Obediently, and with a very tight smile, Zorah began to recount the events from the time of her own arrival. Her tongue was waspish, and at times extremely funny. Then, when she spoke of the accident, her voice changed and all lightness vanished. She looked somber, as if even at the time she had realized that it would lead towards Friedrich's death.

Abruptly, she called the maid and requested luncheon, without referring to Hester or asking what she might like. She ordered thin toast, Beluga caviar, white wine, and a dish of fresh apples and a variety of cheeses. She glanced once at Hester to see her expression, then, finding satisfaction in it, dispatched the maid to carry out her duties.

She continued her tale.

Every so often Hester stopped her, asking to hear some point in greater detail, a room described, a person's expression or tone of voice recollected more sharply.

When Hester left late in the afternoon her mind was in turmoil, her brain crowded with impressions and ideas, one in particular which she needed to inquire into in minute detail, and for it she must see an old professional colleague, Dr. John Rainsford. But that would have to wait until tomorrow. It was too late now. It was nearly dark, and she needed to order her thoughts before she presented them to anyone else.

A lot depended upon the judgment she had formed of Zorah. If Zorah was right, then the whole case hung on that one tiny recollection of fact. Hester must verify it.

She returned to Rathbone's rooms on Sunday evening. She had sent a note by a messenger asking that Monk be there also. She found them both awaiting her, tense, pale-faced and with nerves strained close to the breaking point.

"Well?" Monk demanded before she had even closed the door.

"Did she tell you something?" Rathbone said eagerly, then swallowed the next words with an effort, trying to deny his hope before she could destroy it for him.

"I believe so," she said very carefully. "I think it may be the answer, but you will have to prove it." And she told them what she believed.

"Good G.o.d!" Rathbone said shakily. He swallowed hard, staring at her. "How...hideous!"

Monk looked at Hester, then at Rathbone, then back to Hester again.

"Do you realize what he is going to have to do to prove that?" he said huskily. "It could ruin him! Even if he succeeds...they'll never forgive him for it."

"I know," she said softly. "I didn't create the truth, William. I merely believe I may have found it. What would you prefer? Allow it to go by default?"

They both turned to Rathbone.

He looked up at them from where he was sitting. He was very white, but he did not hesitate.

"No. If I serve anything at all, it must be the truth. Sometimes mercy makes a claim, but this is most certainly not one of those times. I shall do all I can. Now tell me this again, carefully. I must know it all before tomorrow."

She proceeded to repeat it detail by detail, with Monk occasionally interrupting to clarify or reaffirm a point, and Rathbone taking careful notes. They sat until the fire burned low and the wind outside was rising, gusting with blown leaves against the window, and the gas lamps made yellow pools in the room with its browns and golds and burnt sugar colors.

On Monday morning the court was filled and people were crowded fifteen and twenty deep outside, but this time they were silent. Both Zorah and Gisela came in under heavy escort, for their own protection and to avoid the likelihood that an eruption of emotion would turn into violence.

Inside also there was silence. The jurors looked as if they too had slept little and were dreading the necessity of making a decision for which they still could see no unarguable evidence. They were harrowed by emotions, some of them conflicting, shattering their beliefs of a lifetime, the a.s.sumptions about the world, and people, upon which their evaluations were based. They were profoundly unhappy and aware of a burden they could not now evade.

Rathbone was quite candidly afraid. He had spent the night awake as much as asleep. He had dozed fitfully, every hour up and pacing, or lain staring at the dark ceiling, trying to order and reorder in his mind the possibilities of what he would say, how he would counter the arguments which would arise, how to defend himself from the emotions he would inevitably awaken, and the anger.

The Lord Chancellor's warning was as vivid in his mind as if he had heard it yesterday, and he needed no effort to imagine what his reaction would be to what Rathbone must do today. For the first time in twenty years he could see no professional future clearly ahead.

The court had already been called to order. The judge was looking at him, waiting.

"Sir Oliver?" His voice was clear and mild, but Rathbone had learned there was an inflexible will behind the benign face.

He must make his decision now, or the moment would be taken from him.

He rose to his feet, his heart pounding so violently he felt as if they must see his body shake. He had not been as nervous as this the very first time he stood up before a court. But he had been far more arrogant then, less aware of the possibilities of disaster. And he had had immeasurably less to lose.

He cleared his throat and tried to speak with a resonant, confident tone. His voice was one of his best instruments.

"My lord..." He was obliged to clear his throat again. d.a.m.nation! Harvester must know how frightened he was. He had not even begun, and already he had betrayed himself. "My lord, I call the Countess Zorah Rostova to the stand."

There was a murmur of surprise and antic.i.p.ation around the gallery, and Harvester looked taken aback but not alarmed. Perhaps he thought Rathbone foolish, or knew he was desperate, probably both.

Zorah rose and walked across the short s.p.a.ce of floor to the steps with an oddly elegant stride. And it was a stride, as if she were in open country, not inside a public hall. She moved as if she were in a riding habit rather than a crinoline skirt. She seemed unfeminine compared with the fragility of Gisela, and yet there was nothing masculine about her. As on every day of the trial before, she wore rich autumnal tones, reds and russets which flattered her dark skin but were highly inappropriate to such a somber occasion. Rathbone had failed at the outset to persuade her to look and behave with decorum. There was no point in adopting such a pattern now. No one would believe it.

For an instant, clear as sunlight on ice, she looked at Gisela, and the two women's eyes met in amazement and hatred; then she faced Rathbone again.

In a steady voice, she swore as to her name and said she would tell the truth and the whole truth.

Rathbone plunged in before he could lose his courage.

"Countess Rostova, we have heard several people's testimony of the events at Wellborough Hall as they saw them or believed them to be. You have made the most serious charge against Princess Gisela that one person can make against another, that she deliberately murdered her husband while he lay helpless in her care. You have refused to withdraw that charge, even in the face of proceedings against you. Will you please tell the court what you know of the events during that time? Include everything you believe to be relevant to the death of Prince Friedrich, but do not waste your time or the court's with that which is not."

She inclined her head very slightly in acknowledgment and began in a low, clear voice of individuality and unusual beauty.

"Before the accident we spent our time in the ordinary pursuits of the best kind of country house party. We rose when we pleased. It was spring, and occasionally still quite cold, so often we did not come downstairs until the servants had the fires lit for some little while. Gisela always breakfasted in her room anyway, and Friedrich frequently remained upstairs and kept her company."

There was a brief flicker of amus.e.m.e.nt on the faces of two of the jurors, and then it died immediately to be replaced by a swift flush of the color of embarra.s.sment.

"Then the gentlemen would go out riding or walking," Zorah continued. "Or if the weather were unpleasant, would go into the smoking room and talk, or the billiard room, the gun room or the library and talk. Rolf, Stephan and Florent spoke together quite often. The ladies would walk in the gardens if it was fine, or write letters, paint, play a little music, or sit and read or exchange stories and gossip."

There was a murmur from the gallery, perhaps of envy.

"Sometimes luncheon would be a picnic. Cook would pack a hamper and one of the footmen would take a dogcart with everything for us. We could join him whenever we fancied, beside a river, or a glade in the wood, or an open field by a copse of trees, wherever seemed most attractive."

"It sounds charming..." Rathbone put in.

Harvester rose to his feet. "But irrelevant, my lord. Most of us are acquainted with how the wealthy spend their time when in the country. Countess Rostova is surely not suggesting this most pleasant way of life is responsible for the Prince's death?"

"I shall not allow our time to be wasted too far, Mr. Harvester," the judge replied. "But I am inclined to allow Countess Rostova to paint a sufficient picture for us to perceive the household more clearly than we do so far." He turned to the witness stand. "Proceed, if you please. But be guided, ma'am. We require that this shall pertain to the Prince's death before much longer."

"It does, my lord," she replied gravely. "If I may describe one day in detail, I believe it will become understandable. You see, it is not one domestic incident which was the cause, but a myriad of tiny ones over a period of years, until they became a burden beyond the will to bear."

The judge looked puzzled.

The jurors were obviously utterly confused.

People in the gallery s.h.i.+fted in antic.i.p.ation, whispering to one another, excitement mounting. This was what they had come for.

Harvester looked at Zorah, then at Rathbone, then at Gisela.

Gisela sat, pale as ice, without responding. For any change in her expression, she might not have heard them.

"Then proceed, Countess Rostova," the judge ordered.

"It was before the accident, I cannot remember exactly how many days, but it is immaterial," she resumed, looking at no one in particular. "It was wet and there was quite a sharp wind. I rose early. I don't mind the rain. I walked in the garden. The daffodils were magnificent. Have you smelled the wet earth after a shower?" This remark seemed directed towards the judge, but she did not wait for any reply. "Gisela rose late, as usual, and Friedrich came down with her. Indeed, he was so close behind her he accidentally trod on the hem of her skirt when she hesitated coming in through the door. She turned and said something to him. I cannot remember exactly what, but it was sharp and impatient. He apologized and looked discomfited. It was somewhat embarra.s.sing because Brigitte von Arlsbach was in the room, and so was Lady Wellborough."

Rathbone took a deep breath. He had seen the look of surprise and distaste on the jurors' faces. He did not know whether it was for Zorah or for Gisela. Whom did they believe?

Please G.o.d that Hester was right. Everything rested upon one fact and all she had deduced from it.

"Please continue, Countess Rostova," he said with a crack in his voice. "The rest of this typical day, if you please."

"Brigitte went to the library to read," Zorah resumed. "I think she was quite happy alone. Lady Wellborough and Evelyn von Seidlitz spent the morning in the boudoir, talking, I imagine. They both love to gossip. Gisela asked Florent to accompany her to the village. I was surprised, because it was raining, and she hated the rain. I think he does too, but he felt it would be ungallant to refuse her. She had asked him in front of everyone, so he could not do so politely. Friedrich offered to take her, but she said rather tartly that since Rolf had already expressed a desire to talk with him, he should stay and do so."

"She did not appear to mind that Friedrich should spend time talking with Count Lansdorff?" Rathbone said with affected surprise.

"On the contrary, she practically instructed him to," Zorah replied with a little shake of her head, but there was no hesitation in her voice.

"Can she have been unaware of Count Lansdorff's purpose in coming to Wellborough Hall?" Rathbone asked.

"I cannot imagine so," Zorah said frankly. "She has never been a foolish woman. She is as aware as any of us of the political situation in Felzburg and the rest of Germany. She lives in Venice, and Italy is also on the brink of a struggle for unification and independence from Austria."

"We have heard that she is uninterested in politics," Rathbone pointed out.

Zorah looked at him with ill-concealed impatience.

"To be uninterested in politics in general is not at all the same thing as being unaware of something that is going on which may affect your own survival," she pointed out. "She has never been uninterested in what may ruin her."

There was a murmur in the gallery. One of the jurors leaned forward.

"Ruin her?" Rathbone raised his eyebrows.

Zorah leaned a little forward. "If Friedrich had returned to Felzburg without her, she would be a divorced wife, publicly set aside, and have only the worldly means he chose to give her. And even that might not lie entirely within his power to decide. His personal fortune comes from royal lands at home. Many of them are on the Prussian borders. If there were a war to retain independence, Klaus von Seidlitz would not be the only one to lose the majority of his possessions. She was always aware of that."

A chilly smile crossed her face. "Just because a person spends her life in the pursuit of pleasure, dresses sublimely, collects jewels, mixes with the rich and the idle, does not mean she is unaware of the source of the money or does not keep a very sharp mind to its continuing flow."

Again there was the rumble from the gallery, and a man raised his voice in ugly comment.

"Is that deduction, Countess Rostova?" Rathbone inquired, ignoring the crowd. "Or do you know this of your own observation?"

"I have heard Friedrich mention it in her presence. She did not wish to know details, but she is very far from naive. The reasoning is inescapable."

"And yet she was happy-in fact, eager-that Friedrich should spend time alone in conversation with Count Lansdorff?"

Zorah looked puzzled, as if she herself did not understand it, even in hindsight.

"Yes. She instructed him to."

"And did he?"

"Of course."

The gallery was silent now, listening.

"Do you know the outcome of their discussion?"

"Count Lansdorff told me Friedrich would return only on condition he could bring Gisela with him as his wife, and in time as his queen."

One of the jurors let out a sigh.

"Did Count Lansdorff hold out any hope that he could be prevailed upon to change his mind?" Rathbone pressed.

"Very little."

"But he intended to try?"

"Naturally."

"To your knowledge, did he succeed?"

"No, he did not. At the time of the accident Friedrich was adamant. He always believed the country would have them both back. He believed that all his life. Of course, it was not true."

"Did he express any belief that Count Lansdorff would yield?"

"Not that I heard. He simply said that he would not consider going without Gisela, whatever the country's need or anybody's conception of his duty. He thought he could face the issue." She said it with little expression in her voice, but her face was twisted with contempt and it was beyond her control to hide it.

Harvester turned to Gisela and whispered something, but she did not appear to answer him, and he did not interrupt.

"I see," Rathbone acknowledged. "And the rest of the day, Countess Rostova?"

"The weather improved. We had luncheon, and then some of the men went riding over the open country. Gisela suggested that Friedrich go with them, but he preferred to remain with her, and I believe they walked in the gardens, then had a game of croquet."

"Just the two of them?"

"Yes. Gisela asked Florent Barberini to join them, but he felt he would be intruding."

"Prince Friedrich seems to have been very devoted to his wife. How can Count Lansdorff, or anyone, seriously have believed he would set her aside and return to Felzburg to spend the rest of his life without her?"

"I don't know," she said with a little shake of her head. "They did not live in Venice. They had not seen them closely for years. It was something you would not accept as true unless you had seen it. Friedrich seemed hardly able to do anything without her. If she left the room, one was aware he was waiting for her to return. He asked her opinion, waited for her praise, depended upon her approval."

Rathbone hesitated. Was it too soon? Had he laid sufficient foundation yet? Perhaps not. He must be sure. He glanced at the jurors' faces. They were looking confused. It was too soon.

"So on that day they played croquet together through the afternoon?"