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Rathbone had nothing to fight with, and he knew it. It angered him more than he had expected that all this distress could have been avoided. The rows of avid faces in the gallery need never have witnessed these people’s humiliation. Their private quarrels and griefs should have remained exactly that, known only to their own circle. It was no one else’s concern. He hated what he was doing, what they were all doing here. The whole forced performance of grooming every young woman for marriage and parading her before what amounted to the market, judging her human worth by her marriageability, was offensive.
“Mr. Lambert,” he said, rather more brusquely than he had meant to, “when did Mr. Melville ask you for your daughter’s hand in marriage?”
Lambert looked startled.
Rathbone waited.
“Well … he didn’t,” Lambert admitted. “Not in so many words. He should have, I grant you. It was an omission of good manners I was willing to overlook.”
“Possibly it was an omission of good manners,” Rathbone agreed. “Or possibly it was an omission of intent? Is it possible he was very fond of Miss Lambert, but in a brotherly way, rather than as a suitor, and his affection was misinterpreted … with the best of intentions, and in all innocence?”
“By a man of our age, perhaps, Sir Oliver,” Lambert said dryly. “Although I doubt it. A man of Melville’s years does not normally feel like a brother towards a handsome and good-natured young woman.”
There was a faint titter around the room, almost like the rustle of leaves.
Rathbone kept his composure with difficulty. He did not like being taken for Lambert’s age—and was startled by how much it offended him. Lambert must be at least fifty.
“There are many young ladies I admire and find pleasant company,” he said rather stiffly, “but I do not wish to marry them.”
Lambert said nothing.
Rathbone was obliged to continue. He was not serving Melville’s cause.
“So Mr. Melville did not ask you for your daughter’s hand, and yet it was assumed by you all that he wished to marry her, and arrangements were made, announcements were given and so forth. By whom, sir?”
“My wife and myself, of course. We are the bride’s parents.” Lambert looked at him with raised eyebrows. He had a very broad, blunt face. “That is customary!”
“I know it is,” Rathbone conceded. “I am only trying to establish that Mr. Melville took no part in it. It could have been conducted without his awareness of just how seriously his relationship with Miss Lambert was being viewed.”
“Only if he was a complete fool!” Lambert snorted.
“Perhaps he was.” Rathbone smiled. “He would not be the first young man to behave like a fool where a young lady is concerned.”
There was a burst of laughter in the gallery, and even the judge had a smile on his face.
“Is my learned friend saying that his client is a fool, my lord?” Sacheverall enquired.
“I rather think I am,” Rathbone acknowledged. “But not a knave, my lord.”
The judge’s bright blue eyes were very wide, very innocent. The light shone on the bald crown of his head, making a halo of his white hair.
“An unusual defense, Sir Oliver, but not unique. I hope your client will thank you for it, should you succeed.”
Rathbone smiled ruefully. He was thinking the same thing. He turned to Lambert again.
“You say, sir, that the breaking of the betrothal came without any warning at all. Was that to you, Mr. Lambert, or to everyone?”
“I beg your pardon?” Lambert looked confused.
“Is it not possible that Mr. Melville, when he realized how far arrangements had progressed, spoke to Miss Lambert and tried to tell her that matters had proceeded further than he was happy with, but that she did not tell you that? Perhaps she did not believe he was serious, or thought he was only suffering a nervousness which would pass with time?”
“Well …”
“It is possible, is it not?”
“Possible,” Lambert conceded. “But I don’t believe it.”
“Naturally.” Rathbone nodded. “Thank you. I don’t think I have anything more to ask you.”
