A Breach of Promise Page 8

  “Of course,” Lambert said gruffly, and cleared his throat and then coughed, raising a large hand to his mouth. “I had a little capital I wanted to spend. Create something beautiful out of what I had earned.” He looked at Sacheverall for approval and continued when he saw him nod. “I thought of a building … something real handsome … different … new. I had several architects recommended to me.” He moved uncomfortably. “Saw all their plans. Young Melville was one of ’em. Liked his the best, by a long way. The others were adequate … but pedestrian compared wi’ his.” He took a deep breath, filling his lungs. “I sent for him. Liked him straight off. Modest enough, but sure of ‘imself. Looked me straight in the eye.” He coughed again. “He wanted the job, I could see that, but he wasn’t going to curry favor for it. His designs were good, and he knew it.”

  “You commissioned him to draw the plans for your new building?” Sacheverall concluded.

  “Yes sir, I did. And it was the admiration of all my acquaintances, and many strangers, when it was built. In Abercorn Place, it is, in Maida Vale.” There was a ring of pride in Lambert’s voice when he said it. Whatever his feelings for Melville currently, he still regarded his work with delight. “You may have seen it …” he added hopefully.

  “Indeed I have,” Sacheverall agreed. “It is very beautiful. Was it at this time that you came to know Mr. Melville socially and invited him to your home?”

  “It was. Not at first, you understand,” he explained, “but as the building was nearing completion. Naturally he had to come and consult with me from time to time. Very diligent, he was. Left nothing to chance.”

  “Not a careless man?” Sacheverall noted.

  Rathbone knew what he was doing, but he could not stop him. He looked at the jurors’ faces. They were all men of property, by definition, or they would not be jurors. They would understand Lambert’s feelings and identify with them, even if their own estates were on a vastly smaller scale.

  “Not at all,” Lambert said vehemently. “Wouldn’t employ a careless man. I couldn’t have got where I am, sir, if I couldn’t judge a man’s ability in his profession.” He took another deep breath, as if steadying himself. “Thought I could judge a man’s personal character as well. Would have sworn Melville was as honorable as any man I’ve known. Looks as if I’m not as clever as I thought, doesn’t it?”

  “I am afraid it does, sir,” Sacheverall agreed. “Did you introduce Melville to your family, most specifically to your daughter, Miss Zillah Lambert?”

  “I did.”

  “Forgive me for asking you this, sir, when it must sound highly indelicate, but did you introduce Mr. Melville as a socially acceptable person, a fit companion for your daughter, a friend; or as an employee, a person of inferior rank?”

  “Certainly not!” Barton Lambert was affronted. Of all things, he was not socially arrogant. No one impressed him by birth or rank, except Her Majesty the Queen. She was an entirely different matter. He was intensely patriotic, and she was the head of his country and the seat of his ultimate loyalty. “Killian Melville was good enough to speak to anyone, and I introduced him as such,” he said sharply. “My daughter was brought up to respect a man who earned his way and left the world a better place than he found it.” It was said with a note of challenge, and he swiveled around to look at the jurors as he spoke. If he had to parade his family’s shame before the gentlemen of society, he would do it with his head high and his standards unmistaken by any.

  Against his will, Rathbone liked the man already.

  “Quite.” Sacheverall nodded, inclining his head a trifle towards the jurors. “You introduced him to your home and family as an equal. You offered him complete hospitality.” That was a statement, not a question. He proceeded to the point. “And he became friendly with your wife and daughter?”

  “He did.”

  “He visited regularly and was at ease in your company …” Sacheverall glanced at Rathbone. “Or should I say he appeared at ease?” he corrected.

  “Yes sir.”

  “You became fond of him?”

  “I always liked him,” Lambert acknowledged. In all the time he had been on the stand he had not looked at Melville. Rathbone was acutely aware of it, and he was certain Melville was also.

  “Did you take him with you to social events outside your home?”

  “From time to time. He wasn’t one for a lot of dining out and polite conversation, and I don’t think he danced.”

  Rathbone stood up. “My lord, no one disputes that Mr. Lambert and his family were gracious and friendly towards Mr. Melville and showed him the greatest hospitality, and that Mr. Melville in turn was grateful to them and held them in the highest personal regard. The only matter of issue is whether he feels himself suited to marry Miss Lambert, desired to do so, and actually contracted such an agreement. Mr. Melville contends that Miss Lambert mistook the nature of his regard for her and Mrs. Lambert assumed something that was not in fact so. It is even imaginable that Miss Lambert herself knew this but did not feel able to extricate herself from what had become an embarrassing situation.”

  Mr. Justice McKeever smiled. “All manner of things are imaginable, Sir Oliver. We will restrict ourselves to what is demonstrable. However, Mr. Sacheverall, I take Sir Oliver’s point that no one disputes the fact that a warm friendship developed between Mr. Melville and Mr. Lambert’s family, especially his daughter. Such friendships do not always end in marriage. Please proceed with your case.”

  Sacheverall bowed, but he turned back to Lambert with perhaps a fraction less confidence in his stance and the set of his shoulders.

  “During the course of their friendship, did Mr. Melville on occasion escort your daughter to certain functions, keep her company, walk and talk with her, tell her of his exploits, adventures, plans for the future? Did he share ideas with her, tastes in art, literature and music? Did he read poetry together with her, show her the drawings of his work, share jokes and humorous episodes? In general, did he pay court to her, Mr. Lambert?”

  Rathbone glanced sideways at Melville, but he was staring straight ahead.

  “He did all of those things, sir, as you well know,” Lambert answered grimly. Sacheverall’s words must have brought back memories to him, because now his reluctance was gone and he was plainly both hurt and angry. He no longer avoided Melville but looked straight at him, challengingly, all his bewilderment clear in his face.

  Rathbone felt a sinking inside him. There was no defense against his kind of honesty. Had he been a juror he could have found only one way. Killian Melville was guilty, and it was almost impossible to believe well of him. No man could court a girl in the manner Lambert described and not expect that she would read it as a declaration of love. Anyone would. Not even a fool could mistake it.

  He looked sideways again at Melville now. His fair head was bent forward and there was a flush in his cheeks. His eyes were filled with despair, as if he were trapped with no escape.

  Rathbone was not sure whether he felt sorry for him or simply so overwhelmed with anger he wanted to slap him for his irresponsible cruelty.

  “So it came as no surprise to you in the least when a betrothal followed, in the natural course of events?” Sacheverall concluded.

  “Of course not!” Lambert responded. “No one was surprised! It was as night follows day.”

  “Quite so.” Sacheverall smiled sadly. He pursed his lips, frowning as he looked up at Lambert. “Arrangements were made for the wedding?”

  “Yes. Announcement in the Times. All society knew.” Lambert pronounced the words sharply, showing his pain and perhaps a certain feeling of alienation, as if he were only too aware of the whispers and the amusement which would be enjoyed at his family’s expense.

  “Naturally,” Sacheverall murmured. “And then what happened, Mr. Lambert?”

  Lambert squared his shoulders. “Melville broke it off,” he said quietly. “No reason. No warning. Just broke it off.”

  “It was
Killian Melville, not your daughter?” Sacheverall stressed, anger plain in his voice.

  Rathbone looked at Melville, and he was sitting forward, one hand to his lips, biting his nails.

  “It was.” Lambert’s face showed the strain. He was being publicly humiliated. He refused to look at anyone in the gallery. Rathbone was sharply aware of how much better it would have been for everyone if Zillah Lambert had consented to be the one to break the betrothal, regardless of whether she wished to or not. Apparently she had simply not believed Melville meant what he said.

  Although, of course, Rathbone had only Melville’s word for it that he had actually tried to approach her. Perhaps he had failed in courage when it came to the moment.

  “Have you any idea whatever what caused Mr. Melville’s extraordinary behavior, sir?” Sacheverall asked, his fair eyebrows raised, his whole stance conveying bewilderment.

  “No idea at all,” Lambert said, shaking his head. “Can’t begin to understand it. Makes no sense.”

  “Not to me,” Sacheverall agreed. “Unless there are things we do not know about Mr. Killian Melville….”

  Rathbone rose to his feet.

  Sacheverall waved at him airily. “Your witness, Sir Oliver.” He smiled, knowing he was almost invulnerable, and returned to his seat.

  Rathbone felt somehow wrong-footed. He had never opposed Sacheverall across a court before. He knew his reputation, but somehow he had underrated him. His plain, rather foolish-looking face was deceiving. The quality of his voice should have warned him.

  He walked to the middle of the open space surrounded by the lawyers’ positions, the witness-box, the judge and the high double row of jurors. He looked up at Barton Lambert. Apart from his own respect for the man, he knew better than to antagonize him. The jurors were already by nature and inclination in sympathy with him.

  “How do you do, Mr. Lambert,” he began. “I am sorry for the circumstance which brings us together again. I need to ask you a few questions about this affair, in order to clarify it and to do my duty by my client.”

  “I understand, sir,” Lambert said graciously. “That’s why we’re here. Ask away.”

  Rathbone acknowledged this with a nod of courtesy.

  “During this time that Mr. Melville called frequently at your home, sir, was he employed by you to design and oversee the construction of buildings you had commissioned?”

  “He was.”

  “And he was friendly with all your family?”

  “Not the way you’re putting it, sir,” Lambert argued. “You’re trying to say he was equally friendly with all of us, and that’s not so. He was civil and pleasant to Mrs. Lambert. He was always pleasant with me, but he would be, wouldn’t he?” He raised his eyebrows. “I was his patron in his profession—his employer, in a sense. He’d have been a fool to be less than polite to me.” But his eyes avoided Melville as he spoke. “Not that I didn’t think he liked me, mind; and I liked him. Well-spoken, intelligent, decent-thinking young man, I thought him. But it is my daughter he spent time with, laughed and talked with, shared his ideas and his dreams with, and no doubt all of hers too.”

  His face was full of the sharpness of the regret and the sense of betrayal he felt. “I can see them clear in my mind’s eye even as I stand here, heads bent together, talking and laughing, looking in each other’s eyes. You can’t tell me he wasn’t courting her, because I was there!” His look defied Rathbone, or anyone, to contradict him.

  Rathbone had nothing to fight with, and he knew it. It angered him more than he had expected that all this distress could have been avoided. The rows of avid faces in the gallery need never have witnessed these people’s humiliation. Their private quarrels and griefs should have remained exactly that, known only to their own circle. It was no one else’s concern. He hated what he was doing, what they were all doing here. The whole forced performance of grooming every young woman for marriage and parading her before what amounted to the market, judging her human worth by her marriageability, was offensive.

  “Mr. Lambert,” he said, rather more brusquely than he had meant to, “when did Mr. Melville ask you for your daughter’s hand in marriage?”

  Lambert looked startled.

  Rathbone waited.

  “Well … he didn’t,” Lambert admitted. “Not in so many words. He should have, I grant you. It was an omission of good manners I was willing to overlook.”

  “Possibly it was an omission of good manners,” Rathbone agreed. “Or possibly it was an omission of intent? Is it possible he was very fond of Miss Lambert, but in a brotherly way, rather than as a suitor, and his affection was misinterpreted … with the best of intentions, and in all innocence?”

  “By a man of our age, perhaps, Sir Oliver,” Lambert said dryly. “Although I doubt it. A man of Melville’s years does not normally feel like a brother towards a handsome and good-natured young woman.”

  There was a faint titter around the room, almost like the rustle of leaves.

  Rathbone kept his composure with difficulty. He did not like being taken for Lambert’s age—and was startled by how much it offended him. Lambert must be at least fifty.

  “There are many young ladies I admire and find pleasant company,” he said rather stiffly, “but I do not wish to marry them.”

  Lambert said nothing.

  Rathbone was obliged to continue. He was not serving Melville’s cause.

  “So Mr. Melville did not ask you for your daughter’s hand, and yet it was assumed by you all that he wished to marry her, and arrangements were made, announcements were given and so forth. By whom, sir?”

  “My wife and myself, of course. We are the bride’s parents.” Lambert looked at him with raised eyebrows. He had a very broad, blunt face. “That is customary!”

  “I know it is,” Rathbone conceded. “I am only trying to establish that Mr. Melville took no part in it. It could have been conducted without his awareness of just how seriously his relationship with Miss Lambert was being viewed.”

  “Only if he was a complete fool!” Lambert snorted.

  “Perhaps he was.” Rathbone smiled. “He would not be the first young man to behave like a fool where a young lady is concerned.”

  There was a burst of laughter in the gallery, and even the judge had a smile on his face.

  “Is my learned friend saying that his client is a fool, my lord?” Sacheverall enquired.

  “I rather think I am,” Rathbone acknowledged. “But not a knave, my lord.”

  The judge’s bright blue eyes were very wide, very innocent. The light shone on the bald crown of his head, making a halo of his white hair.

  “An unusual defense, Sir Oliver, but not unique. I hope your client will thank you for it, should you succeed.”

  Rathbone smiled ruefully. He was thinking the same thing. He turned to Lambert again.

  “You say, sir, that the breaking of the betrothal came without any warning at all. Was that to you, Mr. Lambert, or to everyone?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Lambert looked confused.

  “Is it not possible that Mr. Melville, when he realized how far arrangements had progressed, spoke to Miss Lambert and tried to tell her that matters had proceeded further than he was happy with, but that she did not tell you that? Perhaps she did not believe he was serious, or thought he was only suffering a nervousness which would pass with time?”

  “Well …”

  “It is possible, is it not?”

  “Possible,” Lambert conceded. “But I don’t believe it.”

  “Naturally.” Rathbone nodded. “Thank you. I don’t think I have anything more to ask you.”

  Sacheverall declined to pursue the subject. He was in a strong position, and he was thoroughly aware of it.

  Rathbone wondered why he had not asked Lambert about the damage done to his daughter’s reputation, and why indeed he was pursuing this case instead of allowing the matter to remain at least somewhat more private. The omission was not one he would h
ave made himself.

  The answer came immediately.

  Sacheverall, looking extremely pleased with himself, called Delphine Lambert to the stand.

  She came in looking harassed and distressed, but with a supreme dignity. She was a small woman, but carried herself so superbly she gave the impression of regality. She was dressed in deep blue, which flattered her complexion, and the huge skirts with their crinoline hoops emphasized her still-tiny waist. She mounted the witness-box with difficulty, because of the narrowness of the steps, and turned to face the clerk who swore her in.

  Sacheverall apologized for the distress he would cause her in having to speak to her on so delicate a matter, with the implication that this too was Melville’s fault, then proceeded with his first question.

  “Mrs. Lambert, were you present during most of the growing relationship between Mr. Melville and your daughter?”

  “Naturally!” Her eyes widened. “It is usual for a mother to chaperone her daughter at such times. I have only the one daughter, so it was easy for me.”

  “So you observed everything that took place?” Sacheverall asked.

  “Yes.” She nodded. “And I assure you there was never anything in the least out of order. I thought myself a good judge of character, but I was completely duped.” She looked lost, and innocent, as if she still did not fully understand what had happened.

  Rathbone wondered if Sacheverall had schooled her brilliantly or if he had simply been given the perfect witness.

  Sacheverall was too astute to belabor the point. The jurors had seen her. He even forbore from glancing at Rathbone.

  “Mrs. Lambert,” he continued, “would you be good enough to describe for us a typical encounter between Miss Lambert and Mr. Melville, one as like many others as you may be able to recall.”

  “Certainly, if you wish.” She straightened her shoulders even more, but without the slightest exaggeration. She was not doing it for effect. This truly was an ordeal for her. Her bearing and her voice were full of fear, and she understood the darkness this cast over her daughter’s future.