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“Mrs. Barker, your sister must have been a woman who was capable of overcoming great obstacles, of disregarding other peoples’ objections when she felt passionately about a subject; when it was something she wished intensely, it seems nothing stood in her way.”
There was a sighing of breath around the room. Someone broke a pencil.
Faith Barker was pale. Now she also understood his purpose.
“Yes—but—”
“Yes will do,” Lovat-Smith interrupted. “And your mother: did she approve of this adventure of hers? Was she not worried for her safety? There must have been remarkable physical danger: wreck at sea, injury from cargo, horses, not to mentioned frightened and possibly rough soldiers separated from their own women, going to a battle from which they might not return? And that even before she reached the Crimea!”
“It is not necessarily—”
“I am not speaking of the reality, Mrs. Barker!” Lovat-Smith interrupted. “I am speaking of your mother’s perceptions of it. Was she not concerned for Prudence? Even terrified for her?”
“She was afraid—yes.”
“And was she also afraid of what she might experience when close to the battlefield—or in the hospital itself? What if the Russians had prevailed? What would have happened to Prudence then?”
A ghost of a smile crossed Faith Barker’s face.
“I don’t think Mama ever considered the possibility of the Russians prevailing,” she said quietly. “Mama believes we are invincible.”
There was a murmur of amusement around the room, even an answering smile on Hardie’s face, but it died away instantly.
Lovat-Smith bit his lip. “Possibly,” he said with a little shake of his head. “Possibly. A nice thought, but perhaps not very realistic.”
“You asked for her feelings, sir, not the reality of it.”
There was another titter of laughter, vanishing into silence like a stone dropped into still water.
“Nevertheless,” Lovat-Smith took up the thread again, “was your mother not gravely worried for her, even frightened?”
“Yes.”
“And you yourself? Were you not frightened for her? Did you not lie awake visualizing what might happen to her, dreading the unknown?”
“Yes.”
“Your distress did not deter her?”
“No,” she said, for the first time a marked reluctance in her voice.
Lovat-Smith’s eyes widened. “So physical obstacles, personal danger, even extreme danger, official objections and difficulties, her family’s fear and anxiety and emotional pain, none of these deterred her? She would seem to have a ruthless streak in her, would she not?”
Faith Barker hesitated.
There was a fidgeting in the crowd, an unhappy restlessness.
“Mrs. Barker?” Lovat-Smith prompted.
“I don’t care for the word ruthless.”
“It is not always an attractive quality, Mrs. Barker,” he agreed. “And that same strength and drive which took her to the Crimea, against all odds, and preserved her there amidst fearful carnage, daily seeing the death of fine brave men, may in peacetime have become something less easy to understand or admire.”
“But I—”
“Of course.” Again he interrupted her before she could speak. “She was your sister. You do not wish to think such things of her. But I find it unanswerable nevertheless. Thank you. I have no further questions.”
Rathbone rose again. There was total silence in the court. Even on the public benches no one moved. There was no rustle of fabric, no squeak of boots, no scratching of pencils.
