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“Countess Rostova said that she had no doubt that Princess Gisela would be well provided for and that the grief would be assuaged in time,” Wellborough continued. His mouth tightened. “I thought it a tasteless remark, and I believe that someone else passed a comment to that effect. To which she replied that considering Gisela had murdered Friedrich, the remark was really very mild.”
He was prevented from going any further by the gasps and murmurs from the body of the court.
The judge did not intervene but allowed the reaction to run its course.
Rathbone found his muscles clenching. It was going to be every bit as hard as he had feared. He looked sideways at Zorah’s powerful profile, her long nose, eyes too widely spaced, subtle, sensitive mouth. She was insane, she must be. It was the only answer. Was insanity a plea in cases of slander? Of course not. It was a civil case, not a criminal one.
He did not mean to look at Harvester, least of all to catch his eye, but he found himself doing it. He saw what he thought was a flash of rueful humor, but perhaps it was only pity and knowledge of his own unassailable case.
“And what was the reaction around the table to this statement. Lord Wellborough?” Harvester asked when the noise had subsided sufficiently.
“Horror, of course,” Wellborough answered with anxiety. “There were those who chose to assume she must mean it in some kind of bizarre humor, and they laughed. I daresay they were so embarrassed they had no idea what else to do.”
“Did the Countess Rostova explain herself?” Harvester raised his eyebrows. “Did she offer a mitigation as to why she had said such an outrageous thing?”
“No, she did not.”
“Not even to Lady Easton, her hostess?”
“No. Poor Lady Easton was mortified. She hardly knew what to say or do to cover the situation. Everyone was acutely uncomfortable.”
“I should imagine so,” Harvester agreed. “You are quite sure the Countess did not apologize?”
“Far from it,” Wellborough said angrily, his hands gripping the edge of the railing of the box as he leaned forward on it. “She said it again.”
“In your hearing, Lord Wellborough?”
“Of course in my hearing!” Wellborough said. “I know better than to repeat something in court which I do not know for myself.”
Harvester’s composure was unruffled. “Are you referring to that same dinner party or to some other occasion?”
“Both …” Wellborough straightened up. “She made the statement again that evening when Sir Gerald Bretherton remonstrated with her, protesting that she surely could not mean such a thing. She assured him that she did—”
“And what was the reaction to her charge?” Harvester interrupted. “Did anyone argue with her, or did they dismiss it as bad behavior, possibly the act of someone overwrought or who had indulged too much?”
“They tried to do that,” Wellborough agreed. “Then she made the same charge again about a week later, at a theater party. The play was a drama. I cannot remember the title, but she said again that the Princess Gisela had murdered Prince Friedrich. It was an appalling scene. People tried to pretend they had not heard, or that it had been somehow a wretched joke, but it was perfectly apparent that she meant precisely what she said.”
“Are you aware, Lord Wellborough, of whether anyone gave the charge the slightest credence?” Harvester spoke softly, but his words fell with great deliberation and clarity, and he glanced towards the jury and then back again at the witness stand. “Please be most careful how you answer.”
“I shall be.” Wellborough did not take his eyes off Harvester’s face. “I heard several people say it was the most malicious nonsense they had ever heard, and of course there could be no question of there being an atom of truth to it.”
“Hear, hear!” a man called from the gallery, and was met with immediate applause.
The judge gave the audience a warning look, but he did not intervene.
Rathbone’s jaw tightened. His best hope might have been a strong and subtle judge. But perhaps he was being foolish to believe he had a hope at all. The Lord Chancellor’s words rang in his ears. Was this discretion or simply absolute surrender?
Beside him, Zorah was impassive. Maybe she still did not realize her position.
“From those who knew her, of course,” Wellborough said, still answering the question. “And from a great many who did not. But there were those who repeated it, and the ignorant began to question. There were servants who spread tittle-tattle. It caused much distress.”
“To whom?” Harvester said quietly.
“To many people, but the Princess Gisela in particular,” Wellborough said slowly.
“Did you meet anyone personally for whom her reputation had suffered?” Harvester pressed.
Wellborough shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
