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“Oh, at least five years,” she replied cheerfully. “We have been great friends.”
Sacheverall was delighted; it was exactly the reply he wanted. He hesitated long enough to make sure the jury had fully digested the statement, then continued.
“Have you many friends in common?”
“Naturally. We attend all the same parties, dinners, balls and so on. And we have often been to art galleries and lectures together.”
“So you know her well?”
“Yes, I do.”
It was all very predictable, and there was nothing Rathbone could do to affect it. To cast doubt on Lady Lucinda’s judgment, or her honesty in expressing it, would only play directly into Sacheverall’s hands. It could both turn the jury against him, and indirectly Melville, and show them his own desperation. If he had any evidence of his own he should produce it, not insult Lady Lucinda.
Sacheverall grew more and more enthusiastic, seeking praise and affirmation for Zillah with many new avenues of questioning.
Rathbone looked around the gallery. He saw the range of expressions on the faces as they craned forward, listening to every word. For a woman in black bombazine with a ribboned hat it was an avid interest showing in her eyes, her lips parted. For a man with gray side-whiskers it was more relaxed, even a trifle cynical, a half smile. A well-dressed young woman with straight brown hair under her bonnet looked at Melville with undisguised contempt. Her neighbor seemed more curious as to why a young man with such golden opportunities before him should risk losing it all for such an absurd reason. Rathbone could almost read the speculation in their eyes as to what was unsaid behind the polite words from the witness stand. What was the real reason behind this charade?
More than once he caught someone looking at him, speculation easily read as to what he could do, what he knew and would spring on them, when he was ready.
He wished there were something!
He saw several studying the jury, and perhaps trying to guess their thoughts, although at this point there seemed only one possible verdict.
Melville sat through it all sunk in unhappiness but without moving, except occasionally to put his fingers up to his mouth, and then away again, but he did not speak. He did not offer any contradictions or suggestions of help.
Rathbone declined the offer to question Lady Lucinda. There was nothing whatever to ask.
The next witness was another young woman of impeccable reputation, and she reaffirmed everything that had already been said.
The judge looked enquiringly at Rathbone.
“No, thank you, my lord,” he said, rising briefly to his feet and then sitting down again.
Sacheverall was delighted. His contempt, not only for Melville but for Rathbone also, was vivid in his face and the entire attitude of his body.
He called the Honorable Timothy Tremaine and asked him for his opinion of the most admirable Miss Zillah Lambert. As Tremaine spoke, his own admiration for her grew more and more apparent. He smiled, he met her eyes, and his eager expression softened. He spoke of her with a warmth which was more than mere sympathy. An idea began to form in Rathbone’s mind, not clearly, and only a thread, but he had nothing else.
“Your witness, Sir Oliver,” Sacheverall said finally, with an ironic half bow towards Rathbone.
Rathbone rose to his feet. “Thank you, Mr. Sacheverall.” He was acutely aware of all eyes upon him. There was a hush as if awaiting a startling event. He would disappoint them, and it rankled with him more sharply than he had expected. He felt the defeat already.
“Mr. Tremaine,” he began quietly, “you spoke of Miss Lambert as if you are quite well acquainted with her. May I assume that is so?”
“Yes sir, you may,” Tremaine answered politely. He too must have been waiting for some retaliation at last.
Rathbone smiled. “And you expressed some regard for her yourself—indeed, some admiration?” It was not really a question.
“Yes sir.” Tremaine was more guarded now.
Rathbone’s smile widened. He knew what the gallery was waiting for, what Tremaine himself quite suddenly feared. It was there in his face. He drew in his breath as if to add something, then changed his mind.
“Yes?” Rathbone enquired helpfully.
“Nothing …”
“There is no need to apologize for your feelings,” Rathbone assured him. “It is only natural. She is most attractive. Indeed, Mr. Sacheverall himself has been unable to conceal a very considerable”—he hesitated delicately—“personal regard towards her….”
He heard Sacheverall’s indrawn breath behind him and ignored it.
