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“Hester had both the courage and the knowledge to do so,” she went on. “There are many men alive in England now who would be buried in the Crimea were she a lesser woman.”
Argyll waited several seconds to allow the full impact of what she had said to sink into the minds of the jury. Their faces were filled with battling emotions: awe of Florence, which was almost a religious reverence; and memories of their own of war and the losses of war, brothers and sons buried in the carnage, or perhaps saved by the efforts of such women. Mixed with those feelings were outrage at the challenge to centuries of masculine leadership, previously unquestioned rights. The confusion was painful, the doubts and the fears profound.
“Thank you,” Argyll acknowledged at last. “And did you also find her personally honest, both truthful and careful of the rights and possessions of others?”
“Absolutely and without exception,” Florence replied.
Argyll hesitated.
The tension was unbearable. Rathbone sat hardly daring to draw breath. The decision Argyll made now might be the difference between winning and losing, between life and the hangman’s noose. Only he and Argyll knew the weight of what hung in that moment. If he succeeded in maneuvering Gilfeather into attacking Florence she would retaliate with a passion and emotional force that would sweep away all the quibbles and arguments he could raise. On the other hand, if he had the wisdom to retreat, and dismiss her, her value to Hester would be lost.
Was it enough? Had he goaded Gilfeather sufficiently, masked the hook by the bait?
Very slowly Argyll smiled at Florence Nightingale, thanking her again for having come, and resumed his seat.
Rathbone sat with his heart pounding. The room seemed to sway around him. Seconds stretched into eternity.
With a scrape of chair legs, Gilfeather stood up.
“You are one of the most deeply loved and highly respected women in the nation, madam, and I do not wish to seem to detract from that in any way,” he said carefully. “However, the cause of justice is higher than any individual, and there are questions I must ask you.”
“Of course,” she agreed, facing him squarely.
“Miss Nightingale, you say that Miss Latterly is an excellent nurse—indeed, that she has displayed skills equal to those of many field surgeons when faced with cases of emergency?”
“That is true.”
“And that she is diligent, honest and brave?”
“She is.” There was no hesitation in her voice, no shred of uncertainty.
He smiled. “Then, madam, how is it that she is obliged to earn her living, not in some senior position in a hospital, using these remarkable qualities, but traveling on an overnight train from Edinburgh to London, administering a simple dose of medicine to an elderly lady whose health is no worse than that of most persons of her age? Surely that could have been done quite adequately by a perfectly ordinary lady’s maid?” There was challenge and triumph even in the angle of his body where he stood, the lift of his shoulders.
Rathbone clenched his hands, digging his nails into his palms with unbearable tension. Would she retaliate as he had hoped, as he had counted?
In front of him Argyll sat rigid, only a tiny muscle flicking at the side of his temple.
Florence’s face hardened as she looked at Gilfeather with dislike.
Please—please—Rathbone prayed in his head.
“Because she is an outspoken woman, with more courage than tact, thank God,” Florence said sharply. “She does not care for hospital life, having to obey the orders of those who are on occasion less knowledgeable than herself but are too arrogant to be told by someone they consider inferior. Perhaps it is a fault, but it is an honest one.”
The jury smiled.
Somewhere in the gallery a man cheered, and then instantly fell silent.
“And an impetuous one,” Gilfeather added, taking a step forward. “Even, perhaps, a self-indulgent one, would you not say, Miss Nightingale?”
“I would not.”
“Oh I would! Sometimes self-indulgent, and unquestionably arrogant. It is the weakness, the fault, of a woman who considers herself above others, believes her own opinions count more than those of men trained and qualified in their profession, a profession perhaps she aspires to, but for which she has no training but practice, in extraordinary circumstances—”
“Mr. Gilfeather,” she cut across him imperiously, her eyes blazing, her body quivering with the fierceness of her emotion. “You are either intending to provoke me to anger, sir, or you are more naive than a man in your position has a right to be! Have you the faintest idea of the ’extraordinary circumstances’ to which you refer so glibly? You are well dressed, sir. You look in the best of health. How often do you go without your dinner? Do you even know what it is like to be so hungry you would be glad to boil the bones of a rat?”
There were gasps around the room. A woman in the gallery slid forward in her seat. The judge winced.
“Madam—” Gilfeather protested, but she barely heard him.
