Weighed in the Balance Page 10

  Dagmar nodded. Bernd stood silently, staring past the doctor towards a magnificent painting on the wall of a group of horsemen riding at a gallop, bodies strong, lithe, molded to the movement in perfect grace.

  Hester was taking a brief walk in the garden early the following morning when she came upon Bernd standing alone beside a fading flower bed. It was now near the end of September, and the early asters and Michaelmas daisies were in bloom over in the farther bed, a glory of purples, mauves and magentas. Closer to, the gardener had already cut back the dead lupines and delphiniums gone to seed. Other summer flowers were all long over. There was a smell of damp earth, and the rose hips were bright on the rugosa. October was not far away.

  Actually, she had come to pick some marigolds. She needed to make more lotion from the flowers. It was most healing to the skin for wounds and for the painful areas of someone lying long in one position. When she saw Bernd she stopped and was about to turn back, not wishing to intrude, but he saw her.

  “Miss Latterly!”

  “Good morning, Baron.” She smiled slightly, a little uncertain.

  “How is Robert this morning?” His face was puckered with concern.

  “Better,” she answered honestly. “I think he was so tired he slept very well and is anxious that Miss Stanhope will consent to return.”

  “Was he very rude to her?”

  “No, not very; simply hurtful.”

  “I would not like to think he was … offensive. One’s own pain is not an excuse for the abuse or embarrassment of those not in a position to retaliate!”

  In one sentence he had stated all that his status meant, both the innate conviction of superiority and the unbreakable duty of self-discipline and honor that went with it. She looked at his grave profile with its strong, well-shaped bones, a much older, heavier edition of Robert’s. His mouth was half obscured by his dark mustache, but the lines were so alike.

  “He was not offensive,” she assured him, perhaps less than truthfully. “And Miss Stanhope understood precisely why he was abrupt. She has suffered a great deal herself. She knows the stages one passes through.”

  “Yes, she is obviously”—he hesitated, not sure how to phrase it delicately—“damaged in some way. Was it a disease or an accident, do you know? Of course, she is more fortunate than Robert. She can walk, even if somewhat awkwardly.”

  She watched his expression of certainty, closed in his own world of assumptions he held as to the lives of others. She could not tell him about Victoria’s tragedies or those of her family. He might understand, but if he did not, the damage would be irretrievable. Victoria’s privacy would be shattered, and with it the frail confidence she had struggled so hard to achieve.

  “An accident,” Hester replied. “And then a clumsy piece of surgery. I am afraid it has left her with almost constant pain, sometimes less, sometimes more.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said gravely. “Poor child.” That was the end of the subject for him. Courtesy had been satisfied. It had not entered his thinking that Victoria could in any permanent sense be part of Robert’s life. She was merely an unfortunate person who had been kind at a time of need, and when that period was over she would disappear, possibly to be remembered with regard, but no more.

  He stared beyond the faded bed of flowers towards the brave show of daisies and asters beyond and the bright, rather straggling marigolds, a sudden flare of color against the wet earth and darkening leaves.

  “Miss Latterly, if you should happen to become aware of any of the details of this miserable business of Countess Rostova and the Princess Gisela, I would appreciate it if you did not mention it to Robert. I fear it may become extremely unpleasant by the time it reaches trial, if that cannot be prevented. I don’t wish him to be unnecessarily distressed. My wife has a somewhat romantic view of things. That would be a pleasanter one for him to accept.”

  “I know very little of it,” Hester said honestly. “The Baroness told me how the Prince and Gisela met, which I suppose I should already have known, and I believe Robert knew that too. But I have no idea why the Countess Rostova should make such an accusation. I don’t even know if it is personal or political. It seems extraordinary, when she obviously cannot prove it.”

  Bernd pushed his hands into his pockets and swayed very slightly on his feet.

  Hester was fascinated by the passion which must have driven Countess Rostova, but more urgently than that, she was deeply concerned for Rathbone. It would not matter greatly that he should lose a case. In fact, she thought privately that it might do him good. He had become very pleased with himself since his knighthood. But she did not want to see him humiliated by having taken up a case which was absurd, or alienate himself from his colleagues and from society, even from the ordinary people in the street who identified with the romance of Gisela’s story and wished to believe well of her. People do not like their dreams trampled upon.

  “Why should she do such a thing?” she asked aloud, aware that he might consider her impertinent. “Is it possible someone else prompted her?”

  A slight wind stirred in the trees, sending a drift of leaves down.

  He turned around slowly and looked at her, a furrow across his brow.

  “I had not thought of that. Zorah is a strange and willful woman, but I have never known her to act in so self-destructive a manner before. I can think of no sane reason why she should make such a charge. She never liked Gisela, but then neither did a great many people. Gisela is a woman with a talent for making both friends and enemies.”

  “Could Zorah be acting for one of her enemies?”

  “In such a suicidal manner?” He shook his head fractionally. “I wouldn’t do that for anyone else. Would you?”

  “That depends upon who it was and why I thought they wanted me to,” she replied, hoping he would tell her more about Zorah. “Do you think she really believes it is true?”

  He considered the question for several moments.

  “I would find it difficult,” he said at last. “Gisela could have nothing to gain personally or politically by Friedrich’s death, and everything to lose. I don’t see how Zorah could fail to know that.”

  “Do they know each other well?” It piqued her curiosity sharply. What would the relationship be between those two so different women?

  “In a sense, as I think all women know each other when they have lived many years in such circumstances, amid the same circle of people. Their characters are quite different, but there are ways in which their lives are not. Zorah could very easily have been where Gisela was, had Friedrich been of a different personality, had he fallen in love with Zorah’s type of unsuitable woman instead of Gisela’s.” A sudden distaste marred his expression, and she realized with intense sharpness the degree of his anger against the woman who had disrupted the royal house and caused a prince to abandon his people and his duty.

  “They couldn’t have quarreled over another man, could they?” she said aloud, still searching for reasons.

  “Gisela?” Bernd seemed surprised. “I doubt it. She flirted, but it was only a sort of … a sort of exercise of her power. She never encouraged anyone. Certainly, I would swear she had no interest.”

  “But Zorah could have, and if the man was in love with Gisela … Gisela must have had the most amazing charm, a magnetic allure.” She realized she was speaking of her as if she were dead. “I mean she must have still, I imagine.”

  Bernd’s lips tightened a little, and he turned away, the sharp autumn sun on his face. “Oh, yes. One does not lightly forget Gisela.” His expression softened, the contempt fading. “But then you would not forget Zorah either. I think a political answer more probable. We are on the verge of a most dangerous time in our history. We may cease to exist as a country if we are swallowed up into a greater Germany by unification. On the other hand, if we remain independent, we may be ravaged by war, possibly even overrun and obliterated.”

  “Then surely it seems most likely that if Friedrich was
killed, it was to prevent him from returning and leading the fight to retain independence,” she said with growing conviction.

  “Yes …” he agreed. “If, in fact, he really was considering going home. We don’t know that he was. But it is possible that that is why Rolf was in England that month, in order to persuade him. Perhaps Rolf was closer to victory than any of us thought.”

  “Then Gisela might have killed him rather than have him leave her!” Hester said with more triumph than was becoming. “Isn’t that what Zorah will say?”

  “She may, but I find it hard to believe.” He looked back at her, a curious expression on his face which she could not read. “You didn’t know Friedrich, Miss Latterly. I cannot imagine the man I knew leaving Gisela behind. He would have made it the price of his return that he should take her with him. That I could believe easily. Or else he would have refused the call.”

  “Then one of Gisela’s enemies may have killed him to prevent that,” she reasoned. “And at the same time perhaps they were passionately for unification and saw it as an act of patriotism to stop him from leading the fight for independence. Or could it be someone who was secretly allied with one of the other principalities, who hopes to become the leading power in a new Germany?”

  He looked at her with sharpened interest, as if in some aspect he were seeing her for the first time.

  “You have a very keen interest in politics, Miss Latterly.”

  “In people, Baron Ollenheim. And I have seen enough of war to dread it anywhere, for any country.”

  “Do you not think there are some things worth fighting for, even if it means dying?” he said slowly.

  “Yes. But it is one thing to judge the prize worth someone else’s life, and another judging it worth your own.”

  He looked at her thoughtfully, but he did not add anything further to the subject. She collected the marigolds, and he walked back towards the house with her.

  * * *

  Victoria accepted Robert’s apology and was quick to return only two days later. Hester had expected her to be uncertain in her manner, afraid of another attack sprung from a fear Robert could not help, or from anger which was only fear in disguise, and directed at her, because in his eyes she was less vulnerable than his parents.

  Hester was in the dressing room next door, and she heard the maid showing Victoria in, and then her retreating footsteps as she left them alone.

  Robert’s voice came clear and a little abashed. “Thank you for coming back.”

  “I wanted to,” Victoria replied with certain shyness, and Hester could glimpse her back through the open crack of the door. “I enjoy sharing things with you.”

  Hester could see Robert’s face. He was smiling.

  “What have you brought?” he asked. “Sir Galahad? Please sit down. I’m sorry for not asking you to. You look chilly. Is it cold outside? Would you like me to send for tea?”

  “Thank you, yes it is, and no, I’d like tea later, if I may, whenever you are ready.” She sat carefully, trying not to twist her back as she arranged her skirts. “And I didn’t bring Galahad. I thought perhaps not yet. I brought one or two different things. Would you like something funny?”

  “More Edward Lear?”

  “I thought something much older. Would you like some Aristophanes?”

  “I have no idea,” he said, making himself smile. “It sounds very heavy. Are you sure it’s funny? Does it make you laugh?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said quickly. “It shows up some of the ridiculousness of people who take themselves terribly seriously. I think when you can no longer laugh at yourself, you are beginning to lose your balance.”

  “Do you?” He sounded surprised. “I always thought of laughter as a little frivolous, not the stuff of real life so much as an escape.”

  “Oh, not at all.” Her voice was full of feeling. “Sometimes that is when the most real things of all are said.”

  “You think the absurd is the most real?” He sounded puzzled, but not critical.

  “No, that is not what I mean,” she explained. “I do not mean the laughter of mockery, which devalues, but the laughter of the comic, which helps us to realize we are no more or less important than anyone else. What is funny is when things are unexpected, disproportionate. It makes us laugh because it is not as we thought, and suddenly we see the silliness of it. Isn’t that a kind of sanity?”

  “I never thought of it like that.” He was turned towards her, his face absorbed in concentration. “Yes, I suppose that is the best kind of laughter. How did you discover that? Or did someone tell you?”

  “I thought about it a lot. I had much time to read and to think. That is the magical thing about books. You can listen to all the greatest people who have ever lived, anywhere in the world, in any civilization. You can see what is completely different about them, things you never imagined.” Her voice gathered urgency and excitement, and Hester could see through the crack in the door that she was leaning forward towards the bed, and Robert was smiling as he watched her.

  “Read me your Aristophanes,” he said softly. “Take me to Greece for a little while, and make me laugh.”

  She settled back in her chair and opened her book.

  Hester returned to the sewing she was doing, and a little while later she heard Robert’s voice in a loud guffaw, and then a moment after, another.

  As Robert grew stronger and needed less constant care, Hester was able to leave Hill Street on occasion. At the first opportunity she wrote to Oliver Rathbone and asked if she might call upon him at his chambers in Vere Street.

  He answered that he would be pleased to see her, but it would be necessary to restrict the meeting to a luncheon because of the pressure of the case he was preparing.

  Accordingly, she presented herself at midday and found him pacing the floor of his chamber, his face showing the marks of tiredness and unaccustomed anxiety.

  “How very nice to see you,” he said, smiling as she was shown in and the door closed behind her. “You look well.”

  It was a meaningless comment, a politeness, and one that could not be returned with any honesty.

  “You don’t,” she said with a shake of her head.

  He stopped abruptly. It was not the reply he had expected. It was tactless, even for Hester.

  “The Countess Rostova’s case is causing you concern,” she said with a faint smile.

  “It is complex,” he said guardedly. “How did you know about it?” Then instantly he knew the answer. “Monk, I suppose.”

  “No,” she replied a trifle stiffly. She had not seen Monk in some time. Their relationship was always difficult, except in moments of crisis, when the mutual antipathy between them dissolved in the bonds of a friendship founded in instinctive trust deeper than reason. “No, I heard from Callandra.”

  “Oh.” He looked pleased. “Would you accompany me to luncheon? I am sorry I can spare so little time, but I am having to deal with other matters rather hastily in order to try to gather some of the defense in what I am sure will prove a very public affair.”

  “Of course,” she accepted. “I should be delighted.”

  “Good.” He led the way out of his office; through the outer room, past the clerks in their neat, high-buttoned suits, pens in hand, ledgers open in front of them; and out onto the street. They spoke of trivial matters until they were seated in a quiet corner of a public hostelry and had ordered a meal of cold game pie, vegetables and pickle.

  “I am presently nursing Robert Ollenheim,” Hester said after the first mouthful of pie.

  “Indeed.” Rathbone showed no particular interest, and she realized he had not heard the name before and it had no meaning for him.

  “The Ollenheims knew Prince Friedrich quite well,” she explained, taking a little more pickle. “And, of course, Gisela—and the Countess Rostova too.”

  “Oh. Oh, I see.” Now she had his attention. The color deepened in his cheeks as he realized how easily she had read him. He bent his he
ad and concentrated on eating his pie, avoiding her eyes. “I’m sorry. Perhaps I am a trifle preoccupied. Proof for this case may be harder to find than I had anticipated.” He looked up at her quickly with a slightly rueful smile.

  A buxom woman passed by, her skirts brushing their chairs.

  “Have you learned anything yet from Monk?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “He hasn’t reported back to me so far.”

  “Where is he? In Germany?”

  “No, Berkshire.”

  “Why Berkshire? Is that where Friedrich died … or was killed?”

  His mouth was full. He glanced up at her without bothering to reply.

  “Do you think it might be political?” she said, trying to sound casual, as if the idea had just occurred to her. “To do with German unification rather than a personal crime … if indeed there was a crime?”

  “Quite possibly,” he answered, still concentrating on the pie. “If he returned to his own country to lead the fight against forced unification, he would almost certainly have been obliged to leave Gisela, in spite of the fact that he did not apparently believe so, and that was what she dreaded.”

  “But Gisela loved him so much, and always has done. No one at all, except Zorah, has ever questioned that,” she pointed out, trying not to sound like a governess with a slow child, but she heard her own voice sounding impatient and a little too distinct. “Even if he returned for a short while without her, if he succeeded in the fight for independence, then he could demand she return also as his queen, and they could not deny him. Does it not seem at least equally possible that someone else would have killed him to prevent him returning, perhaps someone who wanted unification?”

  “Do you mean someone in the pay of one of the other German states?” he asked, considering the question.

  “Possibly. Could the Countess Rostova have made the charge at someone else’s instigation, trusting that they know something they have not yet told her but will reveal when the matter comes to trial?”