His reaction was to tear it up, into many pieces, and those as small as possible, then put it all on the breakfast room fire. He remembered the woman quite clearly. He had danced with her, several times. She was very comely and had an air about her which was highly attractive. She had wit and, he had thought, intelligence. But she must be out of her senses to have perceived his very slight flirtation as anything more, and supposed that he had even the remotest intent to pursue the relationship, now of all times!
If she really did mean what she seemed to, then he must convince her he had no such thought in mind, nor ever had had.
But then perhaps she had merely expressed herself unfortunately? Better not to mention it at all—to anyone. Let it blow over. He must be a great deal more careful in the future. Handsome women of a certain age were the very devil.
The Honourable John Blenkinsop read his mail with total disbelief. He refolded the letter hastily and was in the act of replacing it in its envelope when his wife, who had no mail this morning, interrupted his train of thought. She had news of her own to discuss, which she had heard the previous evening, only she had retired before he had returned from his club and thus had had no opportunity to pass it on.
“Did you know, John, the most dreadful thing happened in North Audley Street the other day.” She leaned forward over the toast and marmalade. “Poor Drusilla Wyndham, such a lovely creature, was assaulted in a hansom. Can you imagine anything so perfectly dreadful? She had asked some man’s assistance in a matter, and the man, a very ordinary person, by all accounts, mistook her civility for encouragement and attempted to force his attentions on her! John, are you listening to me?”
“Force his attentions?” he repeated confusedly. “You mean kiss her?”
“Yes, I suppose so,” she agreed. “He even went so far as to tear her gown open at the bosom. The whole thing must have been a nightmare for her, poor creature. She only escaped him by hurling herself out of the hansom, as it was moving, mind you, and fell into the road. How she was not injured, I cannot think.”
The letter burned in his hand.
“I wouldn’t put too much weight to it, my dear …” he began.
“What?” She was aghast. “How can you say such a thing? What on earth do you mean? The man behaved unpardonably!”
“Possibly, my dear, but some women do imagine things to be quite—”
“Imagine?” She was nonplussed. “The man put his hands on her, John! He tore her gown! How can she have imagined that?”
“Well … perhaps he merely brushed against her, the motions of the cab, and all that …” He thought of his own brush with Drusilla, and the absurd interpretation it seemed she had put upon that. His sympathy was entirely with this fellow, whoever he was. He broke out in a sweat thinking how easily he could have been in his place. “Rather a hysterical woman, my dear,” he added. “Don’t like to distress you, but I wouldn’t accept all she says, if I were you. Single women in their thirties and all that. Given to fancies of a rather heated nature. It can happen. Misunderstood a civility for something much more. Easy enough.”
She frowned. “Do you really think so, John? I find it hard to believe.”
“Of course you do, my dear.” He forced a smile, although it felt painted onto his face. “Because you are a woman, and properly married with a home of your own, and all that goes with it. You would never imagine such things. But not all women are as you, you must appreciate that. Be advised, Mariah. A good friend of mine, whose name I will not mention to avoid his embarrassment, has had a similar experience with a young woman, and he was as innocent as the day, I assure you. But in the heat of her … her imagination, she totally misread him, and accused him of … well … it is not fit for you to hear.”
“Oh, my goodness!” She was totally taken aback. “Well, I never. I really had not thought …”
“It does you credit.” He rose and left the table. “But I urge you to dismiss the matter altogether, and on no account be drawn into discussion of it. Now you must excuse me, my dear. Please do not let me disturb you.” And as he passed the fire he dropped the letter into it and hesitated long enough to see the flames consume it, to his infinite relief. It would not be spoken of again.
9
FOUR DAYS LATER the trial of Caleb Stone began in the Central Criminal Court in the Old Bailey. For the prosecution was Oliver Rathbone, for the defense Ebenezer Goode. Goode was also a Queen’s Counsel of flair and skill. He had taken the case not for the fee, there was none, but for the high profile of the issue, and perhaps even more for the challenge. Rathbone knew him slightly. They had appeared in opposition to each other before. Goode was a man in his mid-forties, tall and rather gangling, but the most remarkable things about him were his prominent, very bright, pale blue-gray eyes and his broad, startling smile. He was full of enthusiasm and had a highly eccentric sense of humor. He was also inordinately fond of cats.
The spectators’ seats were not as crowded as for a trial where the accused was a member of high society, or the victim a more colorful character than Angus Stonefield. There was no hint of sexual scandal, and apparently no money involved. And since there was no corpse, the question of murder was one of the issues yet to be proved. Those who had come were there largely to witness the duel between Rathbone and Goode to prove that very point. They were connoisseurs of the adversarial procedure.
It was a fine, blustery day outside. Shafts of sunlight brightened the windows and shone in hazy beams across the wooden panels of the walls, the floor and the carved panoply of the judge’s seat. The jurors were ready, twelve carefully chosen men of solemnity, proven worthiness, and of course the appropriate qualifications of property ownership.
Rathbone called his first witness, Genevieve Stonefield. There was only the mildest stir of anticipation as she crossed the court and climbed the steps to the witness-box. On Rathbone’s advice she was wearing not black, but a mixture of dark gray and navy. It was sober, unostentatious, and extremely flattering. She looked tired and strained, but the essential passion and intelligence in her face were heightened, and as she turned at the top of the steps and looked towards the room, there was a sudden rustle of interest. One man drew in his breath in surprise and a woman clicked her teeth.
Rathbone smiled. Genevieve Stonefield was that sort of woman. She caused emotions, perhaps of envy, in the female members of the crowd, even if they did not quite know why. There was something in her yet to be awakened, something more elemental than in most women. He must handle it with the utmost care. Perhaps it was a fortunate thing a jury could only ever be composed of men.
She was sworn in and gave her name and address, staring solemnly at Rathbone as if there were no one else present. Not once did her eyes stray to the judge or the jury, not even to the clerk who gave her the Bible.
Rathbone rose to his feet and approached the high witness stand, but stopped some distance away so he did not have to crane his neck to see her. He began quietly.
“Mrs. Ston
efield, would you please tell the court all you can remember of events on the last day you saw your husband. Begin with your conversation at breakfast.”
She took a deep breath, and her voice was almost steady when she replied.
“There was nothing remarkable in the post,” she said. “A few letters from friends, an invitation—” She stopped and had to make a considerable effort to control herself. It was not visible, no tears or trembling, no groping for a handkerchief, just a long hesitation before she resumed. “It was to a musical evening, in three days’ time, which he said we should accept. It was a violin recital. He was particularly fond of the violin. He found its tones emotionally very stirring, in a way nothing else quite touched.”
“So you wrote to accept?” Rathbone interrupted. “Believing he fully intended to be there?”