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“I hope that we shall see you again,” Aaron was saying. “After your mourning, of course. We have been too long out of touch. Our fault, I’m afraid…”
“Perhaps something suitable before then?” Miriam suggested. “A walk in the park? An art gallery, or photographic exhibition? To be alone too much is…hard.” There was warmth in her eyes, extraordinarily direct, as she had always been. Memories of other times and places flooded Beata’s mind: a sharper sunlight, dry heat burning the skin, the sounds of horses, and wheels rattling over rougher, unpaved roads, salt in the wind.
Then it was gone again. She was standing at the church door, alone. Aaron and Miriam had moved on, speaking to other people. They were all drifting slowly toward the graveside. Some of the women chose not to go. The burial would be brief, and in a desperate, physical sense, final. Odd. Women gave birth, nursed the sick, and washed the dead and prepared them for burial; yet often it was not considered suitable that they should be at a graveside, as if they would be too emotionally fragile to behave with decorum.
Beata decided to wait here, at the church door, rather than pick her way through the somber beauty of the graveyard with its crosses and memorials.
Several other people passed her, the women going toward their carriages where they could wait seated, and in some warmth. Beata envied them, but it was right that she should wait here and speak to all those who came.
Then she saw Oliver Rathbone about thirty feet away. It was the late autumn light on his hair that she noticed first, and as he turned she recognized his face. She had thought he would come, but she had not searched for him. Now, as he took his leave of the man he had been talking with, and started to walk toward her, she found herself suddenly short of breath. They knew each other so well—at least in some ways. It was Ingram who had been responsible for giving Rathbone the case that had brought him down, so soon after he had been made a judge himself. Had Ingram known that the circumstances would tempt Oliver to take the law into his own hands, and so bring about his disbarment?
She remembered flashes of conversation, but above all the look in Ingram’s eyes. Yes…yes, he knew, and had intended it to happen exactly as it had.
Rathbone had been perhaps the most brilliant lawyer in London, even in England. He was articulate, witty, and unconventional. He dared to take cases others might have avoided. He won even when it had seemed impossible. He was elevated to the bench. And he was in love with Ingram York’s wife. Nothing had ever been said, but she knew it.
And Ingram knew it! It was probably that which had provoked his complete loss of control, and the apoplectic fit that had resulted in his being taken to the hospital, paralyzed, and half out of his wits. Beata had been in limbo since then. But now that Ingram was dead, after a suitable period of mourning, she and Rathbone would be free to…what? Marry? Of course! He would ask her. Obliquely he had said as much. At least she thought he had.
But now that they were both free, the reality of the situation might make their feelings different. When things were only dreams, they were so very much safer.
Rathbone had had an unhappy marriage. Ingram had at least created the situation that had ended it—unintentionally, of course. Margaret Rathbone had left Oliver before then, when he had earlier on defended her father the best he could, but failed to save him from conviction for murder. Margaret believed her father innocent, in spite of damning evidence, and blamed Rathbone for his death. Rathbone’s open disgrace and disbarment had given Margaret the social excuse to sue him for divorce, which he had not contested.
He was in front of Beata now, slender, elegantly dressed as always, and suitably in black for the funeral of an eminent judge. He was possibly the only person who knew how Ingram had really died, isolated in the horror of his own mind.
“Please accept my sympathies, Lady York,” Rathbone said gravely. His eyes met hers, searching to know how she was, to give her support and a warmth he could not show. “It must be a very difficult day for you.”
“Thank you, Sir Oliver,” she replied. “Everyone has been very generous. It is something to be grateful for.” She had imagined this meeting, when Ingram was gone and it was the beginning of the future. She had thought it would be easier. She was a very accomplished woman, gracious with everyone, able to wear a mask of dignity—and, more than that, charm—no matter how she felt inside. In fact, she was certain that her composure had never slipped. If it had, someone would have commented, and sooner or later it would have come back to her.
With Rathbone, she had always been in control, beautiful in her own way, unattainable to him. Why on earth was she stumbling inside now, and so afraid? Please heaven, people would put it down to the occasion. Ingram’s death had been expected for more than a year, yet the reality of it was different. There was no surprise, but still there was shock, a kind of numbness.
“He was greatly respected,” Rathbone was saying.
Was he respected? Or did at least some of his colleagues know what he was really like? Did he tell stories about what he had done to her? Men did—some men. She was not completely naïve.
Rathbone was looking at her, waiting for her to answer, however meaninglessly. Had he heard stories? The blood flamed up her face, as hot as fire.
“I…I believe so,” she said abruptly. “But people are generous at such times….”
Now Rathbone smiled. “Of course they are,” he agreed wryly. “Either they thought well of him, or they are secretly highly relieved that he has gone.” He gave the slightest shrug. “Or else, of course, they have the deepest respect for you, and would go to considerable lengths to offer you whatever comfort or support they can. Why would any of us speak ill of him now? It cannot harm him, and it would be an unforgivable rudeness to you.”
“Is that why you are here, Oliver? To offer support for…” She had been going to say “a man you despise,” but that would be appalling…and pathetic! Tears stung her eyes. She was behaving like a fool. Was she in love with Oliver Rathbone? Yes. Yes, she was. This waiting, this pretense was ridiculous, and yet now that the time was here, or almost here, her heart was pounding and her mouth was dry. She should be quiet, or she would end up embarrassing them both. She had so much to conceal, at least for now.
“Of course,” he answered. “This must be very hard for you. You look so perfectly composed, but you cannot be finding it easy.”
She made a very slight gesture with her black-gloved hands. “It’s necessary.”
Lord Justice Savidge approached. He was alone, and she remembered that he was a widower of a few years.
“Please accept my condolences, Lady York,” he said gravely. “Good morning, Sir Oliver.” He glanced at Rathbone with mild interest. He had to be aware of at least some of the history between Rathbone and York, but if he was curious, he kept it from his expression.
“Thank you, my lord,” she replied. “I am grateful that he is not suffering anymore.” Perhaps she should have said that she missed him, but it was a lie she could not speak.
A flicker of acute perception crossed Savidge’s face and she knew that Rathbone saw it as well. Did they know what Ingram had been like? Had they swapped stories over brandy at one of their clubs? The thought was unbearable. She lifted her chin a little.
“Were I in his place, it is what I would wish,” she added.
“You would never be in his place,” Rathbone said instantly. He seldom spoke without thinking, but in this occasion he had, and the knowledge of it was in his eyes immediately.
Savidge looked at him, then at Beata, his brows just a fraction higher.
