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"I know," Melville agreed. "I do not expect miracles."
"Yes, you do." Rathbone sat down on the sofa without waiting to be invited. "Or you would not have entered this case at all. It is not too late to make some excuse of nervousness, indisposition, and still ask her to marry you. She may well refuse now-heaven knows, you have given her cause-and then at least her honor will be satisfied and you will have extricated yourself."
Melville smiled with self-mockery. "But what if she accepts?"
"Then marry her," Rathbone responded. "She is charming, modest, intelligent, good-tempered and healthy. Her father is rich and she is his only heir. For heaven's sake, man, what more do you want? You have admitted you like her, and she obviously cares for you."
Melville looked away. "No," he said quietly, but there was infinite resolution in his voice. "I ca
Rathbone was exasperated. He felt helpless, sent into battle robbed of both armor and weapons.
Melville sat in the camel saddle staring at the floor, shoulders hunched, miserable and obstinate.
"Then for God's sake, give me a reason!" Rathbone heard his own voice getting louder, filled with anger. "If you forbid me, then I won't use it, but at least let me know! What is wrong with Zillah Lambert? Does she drink? Has she some disease? Is there madness in her family? What is it?"
"Nothing," Melville said stubbornly, still staring downwards. Rathbone could see only his profile. "So far as I know, she is as charming and as i
"Then it must be you," Rathbone accused. He could not remember ever having been so angry with a client before. Melville was brilliant, handsome, highly individual, and had a very real charm… and he was destroying himself over something which, compared with the tragedies and violence Rathbone usually dealt with, was utterly trivial. That a young woman's reputation was being questioned and her feelings were being hurt were not light matters, but they were so very much less than the imprisonment, ruin and often death which he dealt with in cases of murder. And Melville's problem seemed so much of his own making. Why did he lie? What could there possibly be that was worth concealing at this cost?
Melville sat hunched and silent.
"What is it?" Rathbone demanded. "Is it Zillah Lambert you won't marry, or anyone at all?"
Melville turned to look at him, his face puzzled, something dark in his eyes which Rathbone thought might have been fear.
"Well?" Rathbone said urgently. "Are you free to marry? Whatever you tell me I am bound by oath to keep in confidence. I ca
Melville turned away again, his face set "I am free to marry… but not Zillah Lambert. That is an end to it There is nothing wrong with her. I'll take the punishment. Just do the best you can."
Rathbone remained another half hour, but he could get nothing more from Melville, At quarter to ten he left and went home through rising wind and squalls of rain, still surprisingly cold.
He poured himself a draft of single-malt whiskey and drank it neat, then went to bed. He slept very badly, troubled by dreams.
Chapter 4
The trial resumed the next morning with Sacheverall providing witnesses to Zillah's blameless character, as Rathbone had known he would. It was hardly necessary-her own appearance had been sufficient-but then he could not be certain that Rathbone had no witness of his own in store, someone who could cast doubt on the i
The first was a Lady Lucinda Stoke-Harbury, a girl of Zillah's own age who was newly betrothed to the second son of an earl, and impeccably respectable. She stood with her head high, her eyes straight ahead, and spoke clearly. Sacheverall could not have found anyone better, and the very slight swagger with which he walked to and fro on the open space of the floor showed his confidence. He smiled like an actor playing to the gallery, and seemed just as sure that the rest of the cast would respond as if according to a script.
"Lady Lucinda, please tell us how long you have been acquainted with Miss Lambert, if you would be so kind."
"Oh, at least five years," she replied cheerfully. "We have been great friends."
Sacheverall was delighted; it was exactly the reply he wanted. He hesitated long enough to make sure the jury had fully digested the statement, then continued.
"Have you many friends in common?"
"Naturally. We attend all the same parties, di
"So you know her well?"
"Yes, I do."
It was all very predictable, and there was nothing Rathbone could do to affect it. To cast doubt on Lady Lucinda's judgment, or her honesty in expressing it, would only play directly into Sacheverall's hands. It could both turn the jury against him, and indirectly Melville, and show them his own desperation. If he had any evidence of his own he should produce it, not insult Lady Lucinda.
Sacheverall grew more and more enthusiastic, seeking praise and affirmation for Zillah with many new avenues of questioning.
Rathbone looked around the gallery. He saw the range of expressions on the faces as they craned forward, listening to every word. For a woman in black bombazine with a ribboned hat it was an avid interest showing in her eyes, her lips parted. For a man with gray side-whiskers it was more relaxed, even a trifle cynical, a half smile. A well-dressed young woman with straight brown hair under her bo
More than once he caught someone looking at him, speculation easily read as to what he could do, what he knew and would spring on them, when he was ready.
He wished there were something!
He saw several studying the jury, and perhaps trying to guess their thoughts, although at this point there seemed only one possible verdict.
Melville sat through it all sunk in unhappiness but without moving, except occasionally to put his fingers up to his mouth, and then away again, but he did not speak. He did not offer any contradictions or suggestions of help.
Rathbone declined the offer to question Lady Lucinda. There was nothing whatever to ask.
The next witness was another young woman of impeccable reputation, and she reaffirmed everything that had already been said.
The judge looked enquiringly at Rathbone.
"No, thank you, my lord," he said, rising briefly to his feet and then sitting down again.
Sacheverall was delighted. His contempt, not only for Melville but for Rathbone also, was vivid in his face and the entire attitude of his body.
He called the Honorable Timothy Tremaine and asked him for his opinion of the most admirable Miss Zillah Lambert. As Tremaine spoke, his own admiration for her grew more and more apparent. He smiled, he met her eyes, and his eager expression softened. He spoke of her with a warmth which was more than mere sympathy. An idea began to form in Rathbone's mind, not clearly, and only a thread, but he had nothing else.
"Your witness, Sir Oliver," Sacheverall said finally, with an ironic half bow towards Rathbone.
Rathbone rose to his feet. "Thank you, Mr. Sacheverall." He was acutely aware of all eyes upon him. There was a hush as if awaiting a startling event. He would disappoint them, and it rankled with him more sharply than he had expected. He felt the defeat already.