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She looked at him blankly, not knowing what to say.
This was going to be extremely difficult. He must steer a course between catering to her so much he learned nothing and being so forceful he frightened her into incoherence. He had thought when he had originally spoken to her that she would be an excellent witness, now he was wondering if he had made an error in calling her. But if he had not, her absence would have been noticed and wondered upon.
“Lady Stanhope, how long have you been married to Sir Herbert?”
“Twenty-three years,” she replied.
“And you have children?”
“Yes, we have seven children, three daughters and four sons.” She was beginning to gain a little more confidence. She was on familiar ground.
“Remember you are on oath, Lady Stanhope,” he warned gently, not for her but to draw the jury’s attention, “and must answer honestly, even if it is painful to you. Have you ever had cause to doubt Sir Herbert’s complete loyalty to you during that time?”
She looked a little taken aback, even though he had previously ascertained that her answer would be in the negative or he would not have asked.
“No, most certainly not!” She flushed faintly and looked down at her hands. “I’m sorry, that was insensitive of me. I am quite aware that many women are not so fortunate. But no, he has never given me cause for distress or anxiety in that way.” She took a breath and smiled very slightly, looking at Rathbone. “You must understand, he is devoted to his profession. He is not a great deal interested in personal affection of that sort. He loves his family, he likes to be comfortable with people, to be able, if you understand what I mean, to take them for granted.” She smiled apologetically, looking steadily at Rathbone and keeping her eyes from everyone else. “I suppose you might say that is lazy, in a sort of way, but he puts all his energy into his work. He has saved the lives of so many people—and surely that is more important than making polite conversation, flattering people and playing little games of etiquette and manners? Isn’t it?” She was asking him for reassurance, and already he was conscious of the sounds of sympathy and agreement from the crowd, little murmurs, shiftings and nods, matters of affirmation.
“Yes, Lady Stanhope, I believe it is,” he said gently. “And I am sure there are many thousands of people who will agree with you. I don’t think I have anything further to ask you, but my learned friend may. Please would you remain there, just in case.”
He walked slowly back to his seat, meeting Lovat-Smith’s glance as he did so, and knowing his opponent was weighing up what he might gain or lose by questioning Lady Stanhope. She had the jury’s sympathy. If he appeared to embarrass or fluster her he might jeopardize his own position, even if he discredited her testimony. How much of the jurors’ verdict would rest on fact, how much on anticipation, emotion, prejudice, whom they believed or liked, and whom they did not?
Lovat-Smith rose and approached the witness stand with a smile. He did not know how to be humble, but he understood charm perfectly.
“Lady Stanhope, I also have very little to ask you and shall not keep you long. Have you ever been to the Royal Free Hospital?”
She looked surprised. “No—no I have never had the need, fortunately. All my confinements have been at home, and I have never required an operation.”
“I was thinking rather more of a social visit, ma’am, not as a patient. Perhaps out of interest in your husband’s profession?”
“Oh no, no, I don’t think that would be at all necessary, and really not suitable, you know?” She shook her head, biting her lip. “My place is in the home, with my family. My husband’s place of work is not—not appropriate …” She stopped, uncertain what else to add.
In the gallery two elderly women glanced at each other and nodded approvingly.
“I see.” Lovat-Smith turned a little sideways, glancing at the jury, then back at Lady Stanhope. “Did you ever meet Nurse Prudence Barrymore?”
“No.” Again she was surprised. “No, of course not.”
“Do you know anything about the way in which a skilled nurse normally works with a surgeon caring for a patient?”
“No.” She shook her head, frowning with confusion. “I have no idea. It is—it is not anything that occurs to me. I care for my house and my children.”
“Of course, and most commendable,” Lovat-Smith agreed with a nod of his head. “That is your vocation and your skill.”
“Yes.”
“Then you really are not in a position to say whether your husband’s relationship with Miss Barrymore was unusual, or personal, or whether it was not—are you?”
“Well—I …” She looked unhappy. “I—I don’t know.”
“There is no reason why you should, ma’am,” Lovat-Smith said quietly. “Neither would any other lady in your position. Thank you. That is all I have to ask you.”
A look of relief crossed her face, and she glanced up at Sir Herbert. He smiled at her briefly.
Rathbone rose again.
“Lady Stanhope, as my learned friend has pointed out, you know nothing about the hospital or its routines and practices. But you do know your husband and his personality, and you have for nearly a quarter of a century?”
She looked relieved. “Yes, yes I do.”
