damage forever the closeness they shared-and however fragile that was, however without hope of ever being more, it was unreasonably precious to her.
But the fear inside her, the sick doubt, was ruining it anyway. She could not meet his eyes or speak to him naturally as she used to. All the old ease, the trust, and the laughter were gone.
She must see him. Win or lose, she must know.
The opportunity came the day Lovat-Smith concluded his case. She had been discussing a pauper who had just been admitted and had persuaded the governors that the man was deserving and in great need. Kristian Beck was the ideal person to treat him. The case was too complex for the student doctors, the other surgeons were fully occupied, and of course Sir Herbert was absent for an unforeseeable time- perhaps forever.
She knew Kristian was in his rooms from Mrs. Flaherty. She went to his door and knocked, her heart beating so violently she imagined her whole body shook. Her mouth was dry. She knew she would stumble when she spoke.
She heard his voice invite her to enter, and suddenly she wanted to run, but her legs would not move.
He called again.
This time she pushed the door and went in.
His face lit with pleasure as soon as he saw her and he rose from his seat behind the table.
'Callandra! Come in-come in! I have hardly seen you for days.' His eyes narrowed a little as he looked at her more closely. There was nothing critical in him, just a gentleness that sent her senses lurching with the power of her own feelings. 'You look tired, my dear. Are you not well?'
It was on her lips to tell him the truth, as she always had, most particularly to him, but it was the perfect excuse to evade.
'Not perhaps as I would like to be. But it is of no importance.' Her words came in a rush, her tongue fumbling. 'I certainly don't need a doctor. It will pass.'
'Are you sure?' He looked anxious. 'If you'd prefer not to see me, then ask Allington. He is a good man, and here today.'
'If it persists, I will,' she lied. 'But I have come about a man admitted today who most certainly does need your help.' And she described the patient in detail, hearing her own voice going on and on as if it were someone else's.
After several moments he held up his hand.
'I understand-I will see him. There is no need to persuade me.' Again he looked at her closely. 'Is something troubling you, my dear? You are not at all yourself. Have we not trusted one another sufficiently that you can allow me to help?'
It was an open invitation, and she knew that by refusing she would not only close the door and make it harder to open again next time, but she would hurt him. His emotion was there in his eyes, and it should have made her heart sing.
Now she felt choked with unshed tears. All the loneliness of an uncounted span, long before her husband had died, times when he was brisk, full of his own concerns-not unkind, simply unable to bridge a gulf of difference between them-all the hunger for intimacy of the heart was wide and vulnerable within her.
'It's only the wretched business of the nurse,' she said, looking down at the floor. 'And the trial. I don't know what to think, and I am allowing it to trouble me more than I should… I am sorry. Please forgive me for burdening everyone else with it when we all have sufficient to bear for ourselves.'
'Is that all?' he said curiously, his voice lifted a little in question.
'I was fond of her,' she replied, looking up at him because that at least was totally true. 'And she reminded me of a certain young woman I care about even more. I am just tired. I wiD be much better tomorrow.' And she forced herself to smile, even though she felt it must look ghastly.
He smiled back, a sad, gentle look, and she was not sure whether he had believed anything she had said. One thing was certain, she could not possibly ask him about Marianne Gillespie. She could not bear to hear the answer.
She rose to her feet, backing toward the door.
'Thank you very much for accepting Mr. Burke. I was sure you would.' And she reached for the door handle, gave him another brief, sickly smile, and escaped.
Sir Herbert turned the moment Rathbone came in the cell door. Seen from the floor of the courtroom at all but a few moments, he had looked well in command of himself, but closer to, in the hard daylight of the single, high window, he was haggard. The flesh of his face was puffy except around the eyes, where the shadows were dark, as if he had slept only fitfully and without ease. He was used to decisions of life or death, he was intimately acquainted with all the physical frailty of man and the extremity of pain and death. But he was also used to being in command; the one who took the actions, or refrained; the one who made the judgments on which someone else's fate was balanced. This time he was helpless. It was Rathbone who had control, not he, and it frightened him. It was in his eyes, in the way he moved his head, something even in the smell of the room.
Rathbone was used to reassuring people without actually promising anything. It was part of his profession. With Sir Herbert it was more difficult than usual. The accepted phrases and manners were ones with which he was only too familiar himself. And the cause for fear was real.
'It is not going well-is it?' Sir Herbert said without prevarication, his eyes intent on Rathbone's face. There was both hope and fear in him.
'It is early yet.' Rathbone moderated, but he would not lie. 'But it is true that we have so far made no serious inroads into his case.'
'He cannot prove I killed her.' There was the very faintest note of panic in Sir Herbert's voice. They both heard it. Sir Herbert blushed. 'I didn't. This business of having a romantic liaison with her is preposterous. If you'd known the woman you would never have entertained the idea. She simply wasn't-wasn't remotely of that turn of mind. I don't know how to make it plainer.'
'Can you think of another explanation of her letters?' Rathbone asked with no real hope.
'No! I can't. That is what is so frightening! It is like an absurd nightmare.' His voice was rising with fear, growing sharper. Looking at his face, his eyes, Rathbone believed him entirely. He had spent years refining his judgment, staking his professional reputation upon it. Sir Herbert Stanhope was telling the truth. He had no idea what Prudence Barrymore had meant, and it was his very confusion and ignorance which frightened him most, the complete loss of reality, events he could neither understand nor control sweeping him along and threatening to carry him all the way to destruction.
'Could it be some sort of malicious joke?' Rathbone asked desperately. 'People write strange things in their diaries. Could she be using your name to protect someone else?'
Sir Herbert looked startled, then a flicker of hope brightened his face. 'I suppose it is conceivable, yes. But I have no idea whom. I wish to God I had! But why would she do such a thing? She was only writing to her sister. She cannot have expected the letters ever to be public.'
'Her sister's husband, perhaps?' Rathbone suggested, knowing it was foolish even as the words were out.
'An affair with her sister's husband?' Sir Herbert was both shocked and skeptical.
'No,' Rathbone replied patiently. 'It is possible her sister's husband might read the letters. It is not unknown for a man to read his wife's letters.'
'Oh!' Sir Herbert's face cleared. 'Yes of course. That would be perfectly natural. I have done that from time to time myself. Yes-that is an explanation. Now you must find who the man is that she means. What about that man Monk? Can't he find him?' Then the moment's ease slipped away from him. 'But there is so little time. Can you ask for an adjournment, a continuance, or whatever it is called?'
Rathbone did not answer.
'It gives me much more ammunition with which to question Mrs. Barker,' he replied instead, then remembered with a chill that it was Faith Barker who had offered the letters to Monk in the conviction they would hang Sir Herbert. Whatever Prudence had meant, her sister was unaware of any secret the letters contained. He struggled to keep his disillusion from his face, and knew he failed.
