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“Thank you,” he said, looking toward Rathbone.
Rathbone racked his brains for something to say to mitigate what they had all just heard. He did not need to see Sir Herbert’s white face as at last fear overtook the benign puzzlement he had shown so long. Whether he understood the letters or not, he was not naive enough to miss their impact on the jury.
Rathbone forced himself not to look at the jurors, but he knew from the nature of the silence, the reflected light on the pallor of their faces as they turned sideways to look up at the dock, that there was condemnation already in their minds.
What could he ask Monk? What could he possibly say to mitigate this? Nothing whatever came to him. He did not even trust Monk. Might his anger against Sir Herbert for having betrayed Prudence, however unintentionally, blind him now to any kinder interpretation? Even if it did not, what was his opinion worth?
“Mr. Rathbone?” Judge Hardie looked at him with pursed lips.
“I have no questions of this witness, thank you, my lord.”
“That is the case for the prosecution, if you please, my lord,” Lovat-Smith said with a faint, complacent smile.
“In that case, since it is growing late we will adjourn, and the defense may begin its case tomorrow.”
Callandra had not remained in court after her testimony. Part of her wished to. She hoped desperately that Sir Herbert was guilty and would be proved so beyond any doubt whatsoever, reasonable or unreasonable. The terror inside her that it had been Kristian was like a physical pain filling her body. During the day she sought every possible duty to absorb her time and deny her mind the opportunity to return to gnaw at the anxiety, turn over the arguments again and again, trying uselessly to find the solution she wanted.
At night she fell into bed, believing herself exhausted, but after an hour or so of sleep she woke, filled with dread, and the slow hours of the morning found her tossing and turning, longing for sleep, afraid of dreams, and even more afraid of waking.
She wanted to see Kristian, and yet she did not know what to say to him. She had seen him so often in the hospital, shared all kinds of crises in other peoples’ lives—and deaths—and yet she was now achingly aware how little she knew of him beyond the life of healing, labor, comfort, and loss. Of course she knew he was married, and that his wife was a chilly remote woman with whom he shared little tenderness or laughter, and none of the work into which he poured so much passion, none of the precious things of humor and understanding, small personal likes and dislikes such as the love of flowers, voices singing, the play of light on grass, early morning.
But how much else was there unknown to her? Sometimes in th
e long hours when they had sat, talking far longer than there was any need, he had told her of his youth, his struggle in his native Bohemia, the joy he had felt as the miraculous workings of the human physiology had been revealed in his studies. He had spoken of the people he had known and with whom he had shared all manner of experiences. They had laughed together, sat in sudden sweet melancholy remembering past losses, made bearable in the certain knowledge that the other understood.
In time she had told him of her husband, how fiercely alive he had been, full of hot temper, arbitrary opinions, sudden insights, uproarious wit, and such a wild vigor for life.
But what of Kristian’s present? All he had shared with her stopped fifteen or twenty years ago, as if the years from then until now were lost, not to be spoken of. When had the idealism of his youth been soured? When had he first betrayed the best in himself and then tarnished everything else by performing abortions? Did he really need more money so desperately?
No. That was unfair. She was doing it again, torturing herself by beginning that dreadful train of thought that led her eventually to Prudence Barrymore, and murder. The man she knew could not have done that. Everything she knew of him could not be an illusion. Perhaps what she had seen that day had not been what she thought? Maybe Marianne Gillespie had been suffering some complication? After all, the child within her was the result of rape. Perhaps she had been injured internally in some way, and Kristian had been repairing it—and not destroying the child at all.
Of course. That was a very possible solution. She must find out—and set all her fears at rest forever.
But how? If she were to ask him she would have to admit she had interrupted—and he would know she had suspected and indeed believed the worst.
And why should he tell her the truth? She could hardly ask him to prove it. But the very act of asking would damage forever the closeness they shared—and however fragile that was, however without hope of ever being more, it was unreasonably precious to her.
But the fear inside her, the sick doubt, was ruining it anyway. She could not meet his eyes or speak to him naturally as she used to. All the old ease, the trust, and the laughter were gone.
She must see him. Win or lose, she must know.
The opportunity came the day Lovat-Smith concluded his case. She had been discussing a pauper who had just been admitted and had persuaded the governors that the man was deserving and in great need. Kristian Beck was the ideal person to treat him. The case was too complex for the student doctors, the other surgeons were fully occupied, and of course Sir Herbert was absent for an unforeseeable time—perhaps forever.
She knew Kristian was in his rooms from Mrs. Flaherty. She went to his door and knocked, her heart beating so violently she imagined her whole body shook. Her mouth was dry. She knew she would stumble when she spoke.
She heard his voice invite her to enter, and suddenly she wanted to run, but her legs would not move.
He called again.
This time she pushed the door and went in.
His face lit with pleasure as soon as he saw her and he rose from his seat behind the table.
“Callandra! Come in—come in! I have hardly seen you for days.” His eyes narrowed a little as he looked at her more closely. There was nothing critical in him, just a gentleness that sent her senses lurching with the power of her own feelings. “You look tired, my dear. Are you not well?”
It was on her lips to tell him the truth, as she always had, most particularly to him, but it was the perfect excuse to evade.
“Not perhaps as I would like to be. But it is of no importance.” Her words came in a rush, her tongue fumbling. “I certainly don’t need a doctor. It will pass.”
