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“Of course I’ll tell her,” Rathbone said quietly. “But she knows already.”
“Thank you,” Callandra said.
Henry nodded his head.
The morning of the trial was cold, sharp and threatening rain. Oliver Rathbone walked briskly from the rooms he had taken just off Princes Street, up the steps of the mound towards the castle, then up Bank Street and sharp left onto the High Street. Almost immediately he was faced with the great Cathedral of St. Giles, half hiding Parliament Square, on the farther side of which was Parliament House, unused now since the Act of Union, and the High Court of Justiciary.
He crossed the square. No one knew or recognized him. He passed newspaper sellers not only pressing their news of today but promising all sorts of scandal and revelation for the next issue. The murderess of Mary Farraline was on trial. Read all about it. Learn the secrets known only to a few. Incredible stories for the price of a penny.
He walked past them impatiently. He had heard all these things before, but they had not hurt when it was only a client. It was to be expected and brushed aside. When it was Hester it had a power to wound in quite a new way.
He went up the steps, and even there, amid the black-gowned barristers, he was unknown. It was surprisingly disorienting. He was accustomed to recognition, even considerable respect, to younger men moving aside for him in deference, muttering to each other of his past successes, hoping to emulate them one day.
Here he was merely another spectator, albeit one who might sit near the front and occasionally pass a note to the counsel for the defense.
He had already made arrangements and obtained permission to see Hester for a few moments before court was in session. The stated time had been precise. He preceded it by two minutes exactly.
“Good morning, Mr. Rathbone,” the clerk said stiffly. “If you will come this way, sir, I’ll see if you can speak with the accused for a moment.” And without waiting to see if Rathbone agreed, he turned and led the way down the narrow, steep steps to the cells where prisoners were held before trial—or after, awaiting transport to a more permanent place of incarceration.
He found Hester standing white-faced inside the small cell. She was dressed in her usual plain blue-gray which she used for working and she looked severe. The ordeal had told on her health. She had never been softly rounded, but now she was considerably thinner and her shoulders looked stiff and fragile and there were hollows in her cheeks and around her eyes. He imagined this was how she must have looked during the worst days of the war, hungry, cold, worked to exhaustion and racked with fear and pity.
For a second, less than a second, a spark of hope lit in her eyes, then sight of his face made sense prevail. There would be no reprieve now. She was embarrassed that he should have seen such foolishness in her face.
“G-good morning, Oliver,” she said almost steadily.
How many more times would he be able to speak to her alone? Then they might part forever. There were all manner of things he wanted to say, emotional things, about caring for her, how intolerably he would miss her, the place in his life no one else would ever enter, let alone fill. He was uncertain exactly what that was, in a romantic sense, but he had no doubt at all about the love of friends, even its nature or its ineffable value.
“Good morning,” he replied. “I have met Mr. Argyll, and I am very impressed with him. I think he will not fall short of his reputation. We may have every confidence in him.” How dismally formal, and so little of what was in his mind.
“Do you think so?” she asked, watching his face.
“I do. I imagine he has given you all the appropriate advice about your conduct and your replies to him or Mr. Gilfeather?” Perhaps it was best to speak of nothing but business. It would burden her unbearably to be emotional now.
She smiled with an effort. “Yes. But I already knew it, from having heard you speak. I shall answer only as I am asked, speak clearly and respectfully, not stare too directly at anyone….”
“Did he say that?”
“No … but you would have, would you not?”
His smile was uncertain, even painful.
“I would—to you. Men do not like a woman who is too confident.”
“I know.”
“Yes …” He swallowed. “Of course you do.”
“Don’t worry. I shall behave myself meekly,” she assured him. “And he also warned me what to expect the other witnesses to say, and that the crowd will be hostile.” She gave a shaky sigh. “I should have expected that, but it is a very unpleasant thought that they have already judged me guilty.”
“We will change their minds,” he said fiercely. “They have not heard your evidence yet; the
y have only heard the prosecutor’s view of things.”
“I—”
But she got no further. There was a brisk knock on the door and it swung open to allow the warder in.
“Sorry, sir, but you’ll have to be on your way. Got to take the prisoner up.”
