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“My point precisely.” He was careful not to show any feeling of victory, however slight. It would offend the jury. He stood in the center of the open space, aware of everyone’s eyes on him. “He did not agree to the style of the wedding gown, the amount or kind of flowers, or even the church….”
She looked completely bemused.
“My lord.” Sacheverall rose to his feet with a gesture of disbelief. “Is my learned friend suggesting that Mr. Melville broke the engagement to marry in a fit of pique because he was not consulted on these matters? And further, that such absurd behavior is somehow justified? If that were so, my lord, no man would ever marry!” He laughed as he said it, turning towards the jury.
Rathbone kept his temper only through great practice.
“No, my lord, I am not suggesting anything of the kind, as my learned friend would have known had he waited a moment or two. What I am suggesting is that these arrangements, excellent as they no doubt were, were made without Mr. Melville’s knowledge. He did not ask for Miss Lambert’s hand in marriage, nor did he intend to. The matter was anticipated and, in all good faith, acted upon without his participation. He did not break his agreement, because he did not make one. It was assumed—perhaps with good cause, but nonetheless it was an assumption.”
“Sir Oliver is making a clumsy argument!” Sacheverall protested. He stared at Rathbone. “Are you finished? Have you no better case than that to offer?”
Rathbone had not, but this was certainly not the time to say so.
“Not at all,” he denied blandly. “I am explaining what I intended by the question, since you misinterpreted it.”
“You are saying Mrs. Lambert organized a wedding without any assurance that there was a bridegroom?” Sacheverall challenged, the laughter of derision all but bubbling through his words.
“I am suggesting it was a misunderstanding, not villainy,” Rathbone answered, aware how lame the argument was, in spite of its probable truth. Except that he was convinced Melville was holding something back so important it amounted to a lie. There was something elusive about the man, and he had no idea what it was. He had taken his case on impulse, and he regretted it.
Sacheverall dismissed the idea and returned to his seat, with his back half towards Rathbone.
“Sir Oliver?” the judge enquired.
There was nothing more to say. He would only make it even worse.
“No, thank you, my lord. Thank you, Mrs. Lambert.”
Sacheverall had nothing more to add. He was wise enough not to press the issue. He was winning without having to try.
It was already late for luncheon. The court adjourned.
Rathbone walked out with Melville. The crowd stared at them. There were several ugly words said quite clearly enough to hear. Melville kept his eyes straight ahead, his face down, his cheeks flushed. He must have been as aware of them as Rathbone was.
“I didn’t know about the wedding until it was all planned!” he said desperately. “I heard, of course, bits and pieces. I didn’t even realize it was supposed to be me!” They were pa
ssing through the entrance hall of the courthouse. Rathbone held open the doors.
“I know that sounds ridiculous,” Melville went on. “But I didn’t listen. My mind was on my own ideas: arches and lintels, colonnades, rows of windows, depths of foundations, front elevations, angles of roofs. Women are often talking about fashion and who is going to marry whom. Half the time it is only gossip and speculation.”
“How can you have been so stupid?” Rathbone snapped, losing his temper at the idiocy of it, all the unnecessary embarrassment.
“Because I suppose I wanted to,” Melville answered with astounding honesty. “I didn’t want it to be true, so I ignored it. If you care about one thing enough, you can exclude other things.” Now they were outside in the sharp wind and sunlight. His eyes were the blue-green of seawater. “I care about buildings, about arches, and pillars and stone, and the way light falls, about color and strength and simplicity. I care about being able to design things that will long outlast me, or anyone I know, things that generations after us will look at and feel joy.”
He pushed his hands into his pockets hard and stared at Rathbone as they walked along the street towards the busy restaurant where they could purchase luncheon. They brushed past people barely noticing them.
“Have you ever been to Athens, Sir Oliver?” he asked. “Have you seen the Parthenon in the sunlight?” His eyes were alight with enthusiasm. “It is pure genius. All the measurements are slightly off the true, to give an optical illusion of perfect grace to the observer … and it succeeds brilliantly.” He flung his arms out, almost hitting a middle-aged man with a gray mustache. He apologized absently and continued to Rathbone. “Can you imagine the minds of the men who built that? And here we are two thousand years later struck silent with awe at its beauty.”
Unconsciously he was walking more rapidly than before, and Rathbone had to increase his pace to keep up with him.
“And Tuscany!” he went on, his face glowing. “All Italy, really—Venice, Pisa, Sienna; but the Tuscan Renaissance architecture has a sublime simplicity to it. Classical without being grandiose. A superb sense of color and proportion. One could look at it forever. The arcades … the domes! Have you seen the round windows? It all seems part of nature, sprung from it, not vying against … there is a mellowness. Nothing jars. That is the secret. A unity with the land, never alien, never offending the vision or the mind. And they know how to use terraces, and trees, especially cypress. They lead the eye perfectly from one point to the next—”
“The restaurant,” Rathbone interrupted.
“What?”
“The restaurant,” the barrister repeated. “We must have luncheon before we return.”
“Oh. Yes … I suppose so.” Obviously it had slipped Melville’s mind. It was an irrelevance.
