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“No. No I was not.”
“I see.” Lovat-Smith walked away from the witness stand as if he were concluded. Then he turned on his heel and faced her again. “Miss Cuthbertson, was Prudence Barrymore a woman of determination and resolve? Had she great strength of will?”
“But of course,” Nanette said vehemently. “How else would she have gone to the Crimea, of all places? I believe it was quite dreadful. Oh certainly, when she had set her heart upon something, she did not give up.”
“Would she have given up her hope of marrying Sir Herbert without a struggle, in your estimation?”
Nanette answered before Judge Hardie could lean forward and intervene, or Rathbone could voice his protest. “Never!”
“Mr. Lovat-Smith,” Hardie said gravely. “You are leading the witness, as you know full well.”
“I apologize, my lord,” Lovat-Smith said without a trace of remorse. He shot a sideways glance at Rathbone, smiling. “Your witness, Mr. Rathbone.”
“Thank you.” Rathbone rose to his feet, smooth and graceful. He walked over to the witness stand and looked up at Nanette. “I regret this, ma’am, but there are many questions I need to ask you.” His voice was a beautiful instrument and he knew how to use it like a master. He was at once polite, even deferential, and insidiously menacing.
Nanette looked down at him without any awareness of what was to come, her eyes wide, her expression bland.
“I know it is your job, sir, and I am perfectly prepared.”
One of the jurors smiled, another nodded in approval. There was a murmur around the public benches.
“You knew Prudence Barrymore since childhood, and knew her well,” Rathbone began. “You told us that she confided many of her inner feelings to you, which is quite natural, of course.” He smiled up at her and saw an answering flicker touch her lips only sufficient to be civil. She did not like him because of who he represented. “You also spoke of another admirer, whose attentions she rejected,” he continued. “Were you referring to Mr. Geoffrey Taunton?”
A pinkness colored her cheeks, but she kept her composure. She must have been aware that question would come.
“I was.”
“You considered her foolish and unreasonable not to have accepted him?”
Lovat-Smith rose to his feet. “We have already covered that subject, my lord. The witness has said as much. I fear in his desperation, my learned friend is wasting the court’s time.”
Hardie looked at Rathbone inquiringly.
“Mr. Rathbone, have you some point, other than to give yourself time?”
“Indeed I have, my lord,” Rathbone replied.
“Then proceed to it,” Hardie directed.
Rathbone inclined his head, then turned back to Nanette.
“You know Mr. Taunton well enough to judge that he is an admirable young man?”
The pink flushed her cheeks again. It was becoming, and possibly she knew it.
“I do.”
“Indeed? You know of no reason why Prudence Barrymore should not have accepted him?”
“None whatever.” This time there was some defiance in her voice and she lifted her chin a trifle higher. She was beginning to feel she had the measure of Rathbone. Even in the body of the court attention was waning. This was tedious, verging on pitiful. Sir Herbert in the dock lost his sharp interest and began to look anxious. Rathbone was achieving nothing. Only Lovat-Smith sat with a guarded expression on his face.
“Would you yourself accept him, were he to offer?” Rathbone asked mildly. “The question is hypothetical, of course,” he added before Hardie could interrupt.
The blood burned up Nanette’s cheeks. There was a hiss of breath around the room. One of the jurors in the back row cleared his throat noisily.
“I …” Nanette stammered awkwardly. She could not deny it, or she
would effectively be refusing him, the last thing on earth she wished. “I—you …” She composed herself with difficulty. “You place me in an impossible position, sir!”
