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“Yes, they were extremely … close. At that time there was no division between them.”
“When did you first notice a division?”
Ravensbrook did not reply. His face reflected a pain and a distaste which was hardly surprising. To remember that time when Angus and Caleb had loved one another was a peculiarly bitter contrast with the present. The sympathy for him was palpable in the room.
“My lord,” Rathbone pressed, “when did you first notice the beginnings of a division between the two brothers? We need to know, and you are the only one who can tell us.”
“Of course,” Ravensbrook said grimly. “It was almost three years after their arrival. Angus was always a … a quiet child, studious, obedient. Caleb appeared to resent it. He was far less easy to discipline. He would take correction very poorly. He had an unfortunate temper.”
In the dock, Caleb jerked his head up, and the movement caught the eye of several of the jurors. They looked at him with a new interest.
“Was this division between them on both sides?” Rathbone inquired.
Again Ravensbrook hesitated for so long Rathbone was obliged to repeat the question.
“It did not appear so,” Ravensbrook answered at last. “Certainly as time passed, Angus became more … diligent in his studies, more of an agreeable companion—”
Caleb let out a snort which was almost a cry. There was rage in it, but an undertone of pain as well, and Rathbone suddenly felt the weight of rejection in it, even all those years after, the confusion and realization of the less favored son. He thought of his own father, and the bond between them. He could not recall ever feeling it threatened. Jealousy was unknown to him.
“And Caleb was not?” he prompted.
Ravensbrook’s jaw tightened and his face was very pale.
“No,” he said flatly. “He was rebellious, argumentative, a perverse child.”
“Did you love him?” It was not a question he had intended to ask. It served no purpose to his case. He spoke without forethought, only a sudden overwhelming emotion, which was inexcusable, totally unprofessional.
“Of course,” Ravensbrook answered, his dark eyebrows raised very slightly. “One does not withdraw one’s loyalty or regard from a member of one’s family simply because they are of a difficult nature. One hopes that with care they will grow out of it.”
“And did Caleb grow out of it?”
Ravensbrook did not reply.
“Did he grow out of the envy of his brother?” Rathbone persisted. “Did they regain their earlier closeness?”
Ravensbrook’s face was tight, bitterly inward, as if he exercised an iron control.
“It did not appear so to me.”
In the dock Caleb let out a short bark of derisive laughter and the judge swiveled around to glare at him, breath drawn in to reprove him if he should make another sound.
Among the jurors a man frowned, another shook his head and pursed his lips.
Ebenezer Goode stiffened. It was the first negative sign to his case, although he must surely have known that Caleb’s manner, the very expression on his face, was the greatest single factor against him. There was no evidence, at least so far; it was a matter of emotion and belief, a question of interpretation.
Rathbone pursued the line of inquiry.
“Lord Ravensbrook, will you draw for the court the pattern of the relationship between these two brothers as they grew up in your house. Were they educated similarly, for example?”
A bitter smile touched Ravensbrook’s chiseled mouth, then vanished instantly.
“Exactly the same,” he replied. “There was one tutor who taught one set of lessons. It was only their response which was different. In every regard I treated them equally, as did all the rest of the staff.”
“Everyone?” Rathbone affected surprise. “Surely there would have been those who had favorites? As you say, the boys became increasingly dissimilar.”
Caleb leaned forward in the dock, his face eager, listening intently.
Ravensbrook must have been aware of it, but he stood without the slightest movement. He could have been carved in bone. He was a man wading through a nightmare, and it showed in every line and angle of his body.
