way or another. What matters is that you become kinder and wiser because of it, that you become gentler with others, and that you have never repeated it!”
“Do you think he will see it like that? He might if it were anyone else-but it's different when it's your own wife.”
“For heaven's sake-try him.”
“But if he doesn't, I'll lose him!”
“And if you lie, Alexandra will lose her life. What would Peverell think of that?”
“I know.” Damaris stood up slowly, suddenly all her grace returning. “I’ve got to tell him. God knows I wish I hadn't done it. And Charles Hargrave, of all people. I can hardly bear to look at him now. I know. Don't tell me again, I do know. I’ve got to tell Pev. There isn't any way out of it-lying would only make it worse.”
“Yes it would.” Hester put out her hand and touched Damaris's arm. “I'm sorry-but I had no choice either.”
“I know.” Damaris smiled with something of the old charm, although the effort it cost her was apparent. “Only if I do this, you'd better save Alex. I don't want to say all this for nothing.”
“Everything I can. I'll leave nothing untried-I promise.”
Chapter 12
Alexandra sat on the wooden bench in the small cell, her face white and almost expressionless. She was exhausted, and the marks of sleeplessness were plain around her eyes. She was for thinner than when Rathbone had first seen her and her hair had lost its sheen.
“I can't go on,” she said wearily. “There isn't any point. It will only damage Cassian-terribly.” She took a deep breath. He could see the rise of her breast under the thin gray muslin of her blouse. “They won't believe me. Why should, they? There's no proof, there never could be. How could you prove such a thing? People don't do it where they can be seen.”
“You know,” Rathbone said quietly, sitting opposite her and looking at her so intensely that in time she would have to raise her head and meet his eyes.
She smiled bitterly. “And who's going to believe me?”
“That wasn't my point,” he said patiently. “If you could know, then it is possible others could also. Thaddeus himself was abused as a child.”
She jerked her head up, her eyes full of pity and surprise.
“You didn't know?” He looked at her gently. “I thought not.”
“I'm sorry,” she whispered. “But if he was, how could he, of all people, abuse his own son?” Her incomprehension was full of confusion and pain. “Surely if-why? I don't understand.”
“Neither do I,” he answered frankly. “But then I have never walked that path myself. I had quite another reason for telling you, one of very much more urgent relevance.” He stopped, not fully sure if she was listening to him.
“Have you?” she said dully.
“Yes. Can you imagine how he suffered? His lifelong shame, and the fear of being discovered? Even some dim sense of what he was committing upon his own child-and yet, the need was so overwhelming, so consuming it still drove him-”
“Stop it,” she said furiously, jerking her head up. “I'm sorry! Of course I'm sorry! Do you think I enjoyed it?” Her voice was thick, choking with indescribable anguish. “I racked my brain for any other way. I begged him to stop, to send Cassian away to boarding school-anything at all to put him beyond reach. I offered him myself, for any practice he, wanted!” She stared at him with helpless fury. “I used to love him. Not passionately, but love just the same. He was the father of my children and I had covenanted to be loyal to him all my life. I don't think he ever loved me, not really, but he gave me all he was capable of.”
She sank lower on the bench and dropped her head forward, covering her face with her hands. “Don't you think I see his body on that floor every time I lie in the dark? I dream about it-I've redone that deed in my nightmares, and woken up cold as ice, with the sweat standing out on my skin. I'm terrified God will judge me and condemn my soul forever.”
She huddled a little lower into herself. “But I
Rathbone broke his own rules and reached out and took her thin shoulders in his hands and held her gently.
“Of course you couldn't! And you can't now! If the truth is not told, and this abuse is not stopped, then his grandfather-and the other man-will go on just as his father did, and it will all have been for nothing.” Unconsciously his fingers tightened. “We think we know who the other man is, and believe me he will have the same chances as the general had: any day, any night, to go on exactly the same.”
She began to weep softly, without sobbing, just the quiet tears of utter despair. He held her gently, leaning forward a little, his head close to hers. He could smell the faint odor of her hair, washed with prison soap, and feel the warmth of her skin.
“Thaddeus was abused as a child,” he went on relentlessly, because it mattered. “His sister knew it. She saw it happen once, by his father-and she saw the reflection of the same emotion in the eyes again in Valentine Furnival. That was what drove her to distraction that evening. She will swear to it.”
Alexandra said nothing, but he could feel her stiffen with surprise, and the weeping stopped. She was utterly still.
“And Miss Buchan knew about Thaddeus and his father- and about Cassian now.”
Alexandra took a shaky breath, still hiding her face.
“She won't testify,” she said with a long sniff. “Shecan't. If she does they'll dismiss her-and she has nowhere to go. You mustn't ask her. She'll have to deny it, and that will only make it worse.”
He smiled bleakly. “Don't worry about that. I never ask questions unless I already know the answer-or, to be more precise, unless I know what the witness will say, true or untrue.”
“You can't expect her to ruin herself.”
“What she chooses to do is not your decision.”
“But you can't,” she protested, pulling away from him and lifting her head to face him. “She'd starve.”
“And what will happen to Cassian? Not to mention you.”
She said nothing.
“Cassian will grow up to repeat the pattern of his father,” he said ruthlessly, because it was the only thing he knew which would be more than she could bear, regardless of Miss Buchan's fete. “Will you permit that? The shame and guilt all over again-and another wretched, humiliated child, another woman suffering as you do now?”
“I can't fight you,” she said so quietly he could barely hear her. She sat huddled over herself, as if the pain were deep in the center of her and somehow she could fold herself around it.
“You are not fighting me,” he said urgently. “You don't need to do anything now but sit in the dock, looking as you do, and remembering, as well as your guilt, the love of your child-and
“Do whatever you will, Mr. Rathbone. I don't think I have strength left to make judgments anymore.”
“You don't need it, my dear.” He stood up at last, exhausted himself, and it was only Monday, June 29. The second week of the trial had commenced. He must begin the defense.
The first witness for the defense was Edith Sobell. Lovat-Smith was sitting back in his chair, legs crossed over casually, head lilted, as if he were interested only as a matter of curiosity. He had made a case that seemed
