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“Thank you,” Argyll acknowledged at last. “And did you also find her personally honest, both truthful and careful of the rights and possessions of others?”
“Absolutely and without exception,” Florence replied.
Argyll hesitated.
The tension was unbearable. Rathbone sat hardly daring to draw breath. The decision Argyll made now might be the difference between wi
Was it enough? Had he goaded Gilfeather sufficiently, masked the hook by the bait?
Very slowly Argyll smiled at Florence Nightingale, thanking her again for having come, and resumed his seat.
Rathbone sat with his heart pounding. The room seemed to sway around him. Seconds stretched into eternity.
With a scrape of chair legs, Gilfeather stood up.
“You are one of the most deeply loved and highly respected women in the nation, madam, and I do not wish to seem to detract from that in any way,” he said carefully. “However, the cause of justice is higher than any individual, and there are questions I must ask you.”
“Of course,” she agreed, facing him squarely.
“Miss Nightingale, you say that Miss Latterly is an excellent nurse-indeed, that she has displayed skills equal to those of many field surgeons when faced with cases of emergency?”
“That is true.”
“And that she is diligent, honest and brave?”
“She is.” There was no hesitation in her voice, no shred of uncertainty.
He smiled. “Then, madam, how is it that she is obliged to earn her living, not in some senior position in a hospital, using these remarkable qualities, but traveling on an overnight train from Edinburgh to London, administering a simple dose of medicine to an elderly lady whose health is no worse than that of most persons of her age? Surely that could have been done quite adequately by a perfectly ordinary lady’s maid?” There was challenge and triumph even in the angle of his body where he stood, the lift of his shoulders.
Rathbone clenched his hands, digging his nails into his palms with unbearable tension. Would she retaliate as he had hoped, as he had counted?
In front of him Argyll sat rigid, only a tiny muscle flicking at the side of his temple.
Florence’s face hardened as she looked at Gilfeather with dislike.
Please-please-Rathbone prayed in his head.
“Because she is an outspoken woman, with more courage than tact, thank God,” Florence said sharply. “She does not care for hospital life, having to obey the orders of those who are on occasion less knowledgeable than herself but are too arrogant to be told by someone they consider inferior. Perhaps it is a fault, but it is an honest one.”
The jury smiled.
Somewhere in the gallery a man cheered, and then instantly fell silent.
“And an impetuous one,” Gilfeather added, taking a step forward. “Even, perhaps, a self-indulgent one, would you not say, Miss Nightingale?”
“I would not.”
“Oh I would! Sometimes self-indulgent, and unquestionably arrogant. It is the weakness, the fault, of a woman who considers herself above others, believes her own opinions count more than those of men trained and qualified in their profession, a profession perhaps she aspires to, but for which she has no training but practice, in extraordinary circumstances-”
“Mr. Gilfeather,” she cut across him imperiously, her eyes blazing, her body quivering with the fierceness of her emotion. “You are either intending to provoke me to anger, sir, or you are more naive than a man in your position has a right to be! Have you the faintest idea of the ‘extraordinary circumstances’ to which you refer so glibly? You are well dressed, sir. You look in the best of health. How often do you go without your di
There were gasps around the room. A woman in the gallery slid forward in her seat. The judge winced.
“Madam-” Gilfeather protested, but she barely heard him.
“You have your sight, sir, and your limbs. Have you seen a man with his legs shot away? Do you know how quickly one must act to stop him hemorrhaging to death? Could you find the arteries in all that blood and save him? Would your nerve hold you, and your stomach?”
“Madam-” Gilfeather tried again.
“I am sure you are master of your profession,” she swept on, not leaning forward over the railing as another might have, but standing stiff and straight, head high. “But how often do you work all day and all night for days on end? Or do you return home to a nice soft bed-one that is warm enough, and in which you may lie safely until the morning? Have you lain on a canvas sheet on the earth, too cold to sleep, listening to the groans of those in agony, and hearing in your memory the rattle of the dying, and knowing tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow there will always be more, and all you can do will only ease it a little, a very little!”
There was utter silence in the court.
The judge waved his hands at Gilfeather.
Gilfeather shrugged.
“And when you are ill, sir, vomiting and with a flux you ca
Gilfeather opened his mouth, then closed it again. He was well beaten and he knew it. He had provoked a force of nature, and the storm had broken over him.
“I have no more questions,” he said grimly. “Thank you, Miss Nightingale.”
Rathbone had been staring at her.
“Go and help her,” he hissed at Argyll.
“What?”
“Assist her!” Rathbone said fiercely. “Look at her, man!”
“But, she’s…” Argyll began.
“Strong! No she’s not! Get on with it!”
The sheer fury of Rathbone’s voice impelled him to his feet. He plunged forward just as Florence reached the bottom of the steps and all but collapsed.
In the gallery people craned forward anxiously. One man rose as if to leave his place.
“Allow me, madam,” Argyll said, grasping Florence’s arm and holding her up. “I feel you have exhausted yourself on our behalf.”
“It is nothing,” she said, but she clung to him all the same, allowing him to take a remarkable amount of her weight. “Merely a little breathlessness. Perhaps I am not as well as I had imagined.”
Quite slowly he escorted her, without asking the court’s permission, as far as the doors out, every man and woman in the room watching him with bated breath, and then amid a sigh of approval and respect, he returned to his place.