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Her remarkable face softened till she looked more than beautiful. There was a radiance in her. “But, then, if I had not believed you to be both, I should not have come to you. We shall give them a great fight, shall we not? No one shall murder a man, and a prince, while we stand by and allow the world to think it an accident. God, I hate a hypocrite! We shall have honesty. It is worth living and dying for, isn’t it?”
“Of course,” Rathbone said with absolute conviction.
That evening in the long summer twilight he went out to see his father, who lived to the north of London in Primrose Hill. It took him some time, and he did not hurry. He traveled in an open gig, light and fast, easy to maneuver through the traffic of barouches and landaus as people took the air in the dappled sunlight of tree-lined avenues or made their way home after the heat of a day in the city. He seldom drove, he had not the time, but he enjoyed it when he did. He had a light hand, and the pleasure was well worth the price of the hire from a local stable.
Henry Rathbone had retired from his various mathematical and inventive pursuits. He still occasionally looked through his telescope at the stars, but merely for interest. On this evening, when Oliver arrived he was in his garden, standing on the long lawn looking towards the honeysuckle hedge at the bottom and the apple trees in the orchard beyond. It had been rather a dry season, and he was pondering whether the fruit would swell to an acceptable quality. The sun was still well above the horizon, blazing gold and sending long shadows across the grass. He was a tall man, taller than his son, square-shouldered and thin. He had a gentle, aquiline face and farsighted blue eyes. He was obliged to remove his spectacles to study anything closely.
“Good evening, Father.” Rathbone walked down the lawn to join him. The butler had conducted him through the house and out of the open French doors.
Henry turned with slight surprise. “I wasn’t expecting you. I’ve only got bread and cheese for dinner, and a little rather good pâté. Got a decent red wine, though, if you feel like it.”
“Thank you,” Oliver accepted immediately.
“Bit dry for the fruit,” Henry went on, turning back to the trees. “But still got a few strawberries, I think.”
“Thank you,” Oliver repeated. Now that he was here, he was not quite sure how to begin. “I’ve taken a slander case.”
“Oh. Is your client plaintiff or defendant?” Henry started to amble gently back towards the house, the sun casting long shadows in the gold-green grass and making the spires of the delphiniums almost luminous.
“Defendant,” Oliver replied.
“Who did he slander?”
“She,” Oliver corrected. “Princess Gisela of Felzburg.”
Henry stopped and turned to face him. “You haven’t taken up the Countess Zorah’s defense, have you?”
Oliver stopped also. “Yes. She’s convinced Gisela killed Friedrich and that it can be proved.” He realized as he said it that that was rather an overstatement. It was a belief and a determination. There was still doubt.
Henry was very grave, his brow wrinkled.
“I do hope you are being wise, Oliver. Perhaps you had better tell me more about it, assuming that it is not in confidence?”
“No, not at all. I think she would like it as widely known as possible.” He started to walk again up the slight slope towards the French doors and the familiar room with its easy chairs by the fireplace, the pictures and the case full of books.
Henry frowned. “Why? I assume you have some idea of her reasons for this? Insanity isn’t a defense for slander, is it?”
Oliver looked at him for a moment before he was quite sure there was a dry, rather serious humor behind the remark.
“No, of course not. And she won’t retract. She is convinced that Princess Gisela murdered Prince Friedrich, and she won’t allow the hypocrisy and injustice of it to pass unchallenged.” He took a breath. “Neither will I.”
They went up the steps and inside. They did not close the doors; the evening was still warm, and the air smelled sweet from the garden.
“That is what she told you?” Henry asked, going to the hall door and opening it to tell the butler that Oliv
er would be staying to dinner.
“You doubt it?” Oliver asked, sitting in the second-most comfortable chair.
Henry returned. “I take it with circumspection.” He sat down in the best chair and crossed his legs, but he did not relax. “What do you know of her relationship with Prince Friedrich, for example, before Gisela married him?” he asked, looking gravely at Oliver.
Oliver repeated what Zorah had told him.
“Are you sure that Zorah didn’t want to marry Friedrich?”
“Of course she didn’t,” Oliver said. “She is the last sort of woman to wish to be restricted by the bounds of royal protocol. She has a hunger for freedom, a passion for life far too big for …” He hesitated, aware from the look in his father’s eyes that he was betraying himself.
“Perhaps,” Henry said thoughtfully. “But it is still possible to resent someone else taking something from you, even if you don’t especially want it yourself.”
