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Charles stood up, his face pale and tight.
“A great many marriages are merely convenient and practical to begin with. Often a mutual respect comes later. There is no loss of dignity in that.” His smile brightened his eyes and touched his lips. “For a woman, and you say women are so practical, you are the most romantic and totally impractical creature I ever knew.”
She stood up as well. Too full of emotion to answer.
“I shall bring you some soap next time I come. Please… please do not lose hope.” He said the words awkwardly, as if they were a matter of duty rather than anything he could mean. “Mr. Rathbone is the best possible-”
She cut him off. “I know!” She could not bear the rehearsed insincerity of it. “Thank you for coming.”
He made a move forward, as if to kiss her cheek, but she backed away from him sharply. He looked surprised for an instant, but accepted the rebuff with something like relief that at last he was excused and could escape, both from the encounter and from the place.
“I’ll… I’ll see you… soon,” he replied, turning to go to the door and bang on it for the wardress to release him.
It was the following day before she had another visitor, and this time it was Oliver Rathbone. She was too miserable to feel any lift of spirits seeing him, and the perception of her mood was instant in his face. And then after formal greetings had been exchanged, with a leaden heart, she realized it was also a reflection of his own feelings.
“What’s wrong?” she demanded shakily. She had not thought she was capable of any further emotion, but she was suddenly sickeningly afraid. “What’s happened?”
They were standing face-to-face in the whitewashed room with its table and wooden chairs. He took hold of both her hands. It was not a calculated move, but instinctive, and its gentleness only added to her fear. Her mouth was dry and she took a breath to ask again what was wrong, but her voice would not come.
“They have ordered that you are tried in Scotland,” he said very quietly. “In Edinburgh. I have no grounds on which to fight it. It appears to them that the poison was administered on Scottish soil, and since we contend it was actually prepared in the Farraline house, and had nothing to do with you, then it was beyond question a Scottish crime. I’m so sorry.”
She did not understand. Why was that so crippling a blow? He looked devastated, and there seemed no reason.
He closed his eyes for a second, then opened them again, dark, dark brown and filled with misery.
“You will be tried under Scottish law,” he explained. “I am English. I ca
At last she understood. It hit her like a physical blow to the body. In a single move the only help she could hope for had been removed from her. She was absolutely alone. She was too stu
He was gripping her hand so hard the pressure of his fingers hurt. The slight pain of it was her only link with reality. It was almost a relief.
“We will find the best Scottish lawyer we can,” he was saying. His voice seemed far away. “Callandra will remunerate him of course. And don’t argue about that. Such things can come later. Naturally I will come up to Edinburgh and advise him in every way I know how. But he will have to speak, even if some of the words are mine.”
She wanted to ask him if there was not some way in which he could still conduct the case. She had seen his skill, the power of his brain, his charm and serpentine subtlety to delude, to seem harmless, and then to strike mortally. It had been the one thread of hope she had clung to. But she knew he would not have told her had there been any chance whatever that he could still do it. He would have tried every avenue already, and failed. It was childish, and pointless, to rail against the inevitable. Best to accept it and hoard one’s strength for whatever battles were still to be fought.
“I see…”
He could think of nothing to say. Wordlessly he moved a step forward and took her in his arms, holding her tightly, standing perfectly still, not even stroking her hair or touching her cheek, just holding her.
It was three more largely fruitless days before Monk returned to Ainslie Place to dine. He had spent the intervening time learning more about the reputation of the Farralines, which was interesting, but as far as clearing Hester was concerned, quite useless. They were well respected, both in business and in their private lives. No one had any criticism of them apart from the small jibes that fairly obviously sprang from envy. Apparently Hamish had founded the printing company when he retired from the army and returned to Edinburgh a short time after the end of the Napoleonic Wars. Hector had played no part in that, and still did not. He lived, as far as anyone knew, on his army pension, having remained in the service until he was well past middle age. He had visited his father’s family frequently and was always made welcome, and now lived there entirely, in a luxury far beyond anything he could have afforded himself. He drank too much, a great deal too much, and so far as anyone knew, contributed nothing either to the family or the community, but apart from that he was agreeable enough, and caused no one else any trouble. If his family were prepared to put up with him, that was their affair. Every family seemed to have its black sheep, and if there were any disgrace attached to him, it was not known outside the four walls of the Farraline house.
Hamish had been an entirely different matter. He had been hardworking, inventive, daring in business and obviously extremely successful. The company made a magnificent profit, and had grown from very small begi
Hamish himself had been a gentleman, but not in the least pompous. Maybe he had sown a few wild oats here and there, but that was usual enough. He had been discreet. He had never embarrassed his family and there was no scandal attached to his name. He had died eight years ago, after declining health for some time. Towards the end he had left the house very little. Possibly he had suffered a series of strokes; certainly his movement had been impaired. It was not an uncommon occurrence. Very sad to lose such a fine man.
Not that his son was not an excellent man also. Less able in business, and not unwilling to turn over the management of the company largely to his brother-in-law Baird Mclvor.
Mclvor was a foreigner, mind: English, but not a bad man for all that. A bit moody now and then, but veiy capable, and was honest as you like. Mr. Alastair was the Procurator Fiscal, and that could hardly leave him time for affairs of business as well. And a fine Fiscal he was, too, an ornament to the community. A trifle pompous for some tastes, but then a Fiscal should be of a serious mind. If the law was not a grave matter, what was?
Did he sow a few wild oats as well? No one had heard tell of it. He hardly seemed the type of man to do that. No scandal attached to his name at all.
Well, there was the Galbraith case, but that scandal was around Mr. Galbraith, not the Fiscal.
Monk asked about the Galbraith case, although he thought he already knew.
He was told largely what he had heard before: Galbraith had been charged with fraud; a very large sum of money was involved. Everyone felt sure there would be a conviction when the matter came to trial, then the Fiscal had declared that there was insufficient evidence to bring the case before the court, so Galbraith had escaped prison-but not disgrace, at least not in the public opinion. Hardly the Fis-cal’s fault.
And Mary Farraline?