“Do you know the reason for this?”
Nicolson drew in a deep breath and let it out in a silent sigh. “I asked, naturally. Lord Ravensbrook confided in me that he had become most recalcitrant at times, hard to discipline, and on occasion even openly rebellious.”
There was a faint rustling in the room. No one was yet interested.
Nicolson's head lifted. “Although I must say in his defense that Lord Ravensbrook was a hard man to please.” He spoke as if he had not seen Ravensbrook in the room, nor did his eyes move towards where he sat, stiff and pale. “He was handsome, charming and talented himself,” Nicolson continued. “And he expected those in his own family to come up to his standards. If they did not, he was harsh in his criticism.”
“But Angus was not, strictly speaking, his own family,” Rathbone pointed out. “Except distantly. Was he not the child of a cousin?”
Nicolson's face tightened, touched with a deep pity. “No sir, he was the illegitimate son of his younger brother, Phineas Ravensbrook. Stonefield was the young woman's name, which was all he was legally entitled to. But he was Ravensbrook by blood.”
Rathbone heard the murmur of surprise around the room, the indrawn breath.
The coroner leaned forward, as if about to interrupt, then changed his mind.
“Why did Lord Ravensbrook not adopt him?” Rathbone asked. “Especially since he had lost his wife and had no children of his own.”
“Lord Ravensbrook and his brother were not close, sir.” Nicolson shook his head, a great weight of sadness in his voice, and in the gentle lines of his face. “There was tension between them, a deep-lying rivalry that could take no joy in the other's happiness or success. Milo, the present Lord Ravensbrook, was the elder. He was clever, charming and talented, but I think his ambition was even larger than his abilities, considerable as they were.”
Memory lit his face. “Phineas was quite different. He had such vitality, such laughter and imagination. Everyone loved Phineas. And he seemed to have no ambition at all, except to enjoy himself…”
The coroner leaned across his table.
“Mr. Rathbone! Is this of any relevance to Caleb Stonefield's death? It seems to be very old history, and of a very personal nature. Can you justify it in this court?”
“Yes sir, it is at the very core of it,” Rathbone said with feeling momentary to passion. Something of the rage and the emergency in him must have been there in his voice and the angles of his body. Every eye was on him, and the coroner hesitated only a moment before permitting him to proceed.
Rathbone nodded to Nicolson.
“I am afraid he got away with much that perhaps he should not,” Nicolson said quietly, but his voice carried even to the back of the room in the silence. “He could smile at people, and they forgot their anger. They forgave him far too much for his own good, or for Milo's. The sense of injustice, you see? As if all the pleasures and pains of life could be weighed against each other-only God can do that… at the end, when it is all known.”
He sighed. “Perhaps that is why he was so harsh with poor Angus, to try to prevent him following in his father's footsteps. Such charm can be a terrible curse, undoing all that would be good in a man. It is not right that we should laugh our way out of justice. It teaches us all the wrong lessons.”
“Was Lord Ravensbrook so very harsh, Mr. Nicolson?”
“In my opinion, yes sir.”
“In what way?”
The coroner's face pinched, but he did not interrupt.
In the room there was a scrape of fabric on fabric, the squeak of a boot.
Milo Ravensbrook fidgeted and moved as if to speak, but did not.
Nicolson looked wretched, but he did not hesitate to reply in a soft, steady voice.
“He seemed at times impossible to please. He would humiliate the boy for mistakes, for foolishness which was merely born of ignorance, or uncertainty, lack of confidence. And of course the more a child is embarrassed, the more mistakes he makes. It is a terrible thing to feel worthless, sir, to feel you owe a debt of gratitude, and instead of paying it, you have to let down those you most wish to please.” He pressed on with difficulty through his obvious emotion. “As a small boy I saw Angus many times struggling to keep from weeping, and then the shame he felt when he could no longer help it, and was then chastened for that too. And he was bitterly ashamed of being beaten, which he was frequently. It terrified him, and then he felt himself a coward because of it.”
In the crowd a woman stifled a sob.
Selina Herries had not wept for Caleb's death. It was still too new a shock for her, her feelings towards the man too mixed between pride, contempt, and fear of him. Now her feelings for the child he must have been were simple. She let the tears run down her face without shame or hindrance.
Enid Ravensbrook's face was ash-gray and set in lines of intolerable pain, as if some long-feared tragedy had at last struck her. She looked sideways at her husband, but her expression was unreadable. Not once did he turn to her. Perhaps he did not dare to see what was in her eyes.
Genevieve Stonefield was beyond weeping, but she clasped Titus Niven's hand as if she might drown if she let it go.
“Mr. Nicolson…” Rathbone prompted.
Nicolson blinked. “My heart ached for him, and I was moved to speak to Lord Ravensbrook on his behalf, but I fear I did no good. My interference only provoked him to be even stricter. He thought Angus had complained to me, and he regarded that as both cowardice and a personal disloyalty.” “I see.”
To Rathbone it was a picture of such pain he was lost for more powerful or appropriate words. What must have lain beneath the surface of Angus's honorable and upright character? Could he ever have forgiven Ravensbrook for those years of misery?
The coroner had not interrupted, nor had his eyes once strayed to the clock, but now, deeply unhappy, he was compelled to speak.
“Mr. Rathbone, this past distress is most harrowing, but it is still, so far, irrelevant to the death of Caleb Stonefield. I am sure you must be aware of that. Mr. Nicolson's evidence has addressed itself solely to Angus.”
“That is because he never met Caleb,” Rathbone replied. “If I may be permitted to call my last witness, sir, she will explain it all.”
“I hope she can, Mr. Rathbone, otherwise you appear to have harrowed our emotions and wasted our time to no purpose.”
“It is to a purpose, I assure you. I call Miss Abigail Ratchett.”
Abigail Ratchett was a very stout woman with unnaturally black hair, considering that she must have been at least seventy-five. But apart from being hard of hearing, she was self-assured and quite in command of her wits. Every eye in the room was upon her.
“You are a nurse, Miss Ratchett?” Rathbone began, speaking clearly and rather above his usual pitch and volume.
“Yes sir, and midwife. At least I used to be.”
The coroner's face tightened.
Goode groaned.
Rathbone ignored them both.
“Were you in attendance when Miss Alice Stonefield was delivered of her two sons, in October of 1829, the father being one Phineas Ravensbrook?”
Rathbone glanced at Ravensbrook. He looked like a death's-head.
“I were in attendance, yes sir,” Miss Ratchett replied. “But it were just a normal birth like any other, no twins, sir, just the one child. Boy..
. beautiful he were. Healthy child. Called him Angus, she did.”
One could have heard a tin tack drop in the court.
“What?” Rathbone demanded.
The coroner leaned forward, peering at her.
“Madam, you are aware of what you are saying? There are people in this courtroom who knew both Angus and Caleb!”
“There were one baby, sir,” Miss Ratchett repeated. “I were there. Miss Alice had one baby. I were with her for all the time she nursed him. Knew him right until his poor mother were killed. Year after Phineas Ravensbrook died in some foreign place. It were after that as his uncle took him, poor little mite. Only five, he were, an' terrible took
