own.
She had not even thought of that. Neither had any of the other governors, so far as she knew. What a group of incompetents they were! All they had spoken of when they met was the hospital's reputation.
And he had assumed she was ill-naturally. Why else would she consult him with trembling body and husky voice?
'I am not ill,' she said, meeting his eyes with apology and pain. 'I am troubled by fear and conscience.' At last it was said, and it was the truth, no evasions. She loved him. It eased her to admit it in words, without evasion at last She stared at his face with all its intelligence, passion, humor, and sensuality. Whatever he had done, that could not suddenly be torn out. If it came out at all, it would leave a raw wound, like the roots of a giant tree ripping out of the soil, upheaving all the land around it.
'By what?' he asked, staring at her. 'Do you know something about Prudence Barrymore's death?'
'I don't think so-I hope not…'
'Then what?'
This was the moment.
'A short while ago,' she began, 'I accidentally intruded on you while you were performing an operation. You did not see or hear me, and I left without speaking.' He was watching her with a small pucker of concern between his brows. 'I recognized the patient,' she went on. 'It was Marianne Gillespie, and I fear that the operation was to abort the child she was carrying.' She did not need to go on. She knew from his face, the total lack of surprise or horror in it, that it was true. She tried to numb herself so she would not feel the pain inside. She must distance herself from him, realize that she could not love a man who had done such things, not possibly. This abominable hurt would not last!
'Yes it was,' he said, and there was neither guilt nor fear in his eyes. 'She was with child as a result of rape by her brother-in-law. She was in the very early stages, less than six weeks.' He looked sad and tired, and there was fear of hurt in his face, but not shame. 'I have performed abortions on several occasions before,' he said quietly, 'when I have been consulted early enough, in the first eight or ten weeks, and the child is a result of violence or the woman is very young indeed, sometimes even less than twelve years old'-or if she is in such a state of ill health that to bear the child would, in my judgment, cost her her own life. Not in any other circumstances and not ever for payment.' She wanted to interrupt him and say something, but her throat was too tight, her lips stiff. 'I am sorry if that is abhorrent to you.' A ghost of a smile touched his mouth. 'Very sorry indeed. You must know how deeply I care for you, although it has never been right that I should tell you, since I am not free to offer you anything honorable-but whatever you feel about it, I have thought long and deeply. I have even prayed.' Again the self- mocking humor flashed and disappeared. 'And I believe it to be right-acceptable before God. I believe in those cases a woman has the right to choose. I cannot change that, even for you.'
Now she was terrified for him. He would be caught, and that would mean professional ruin and imprisonment. She was aching inside with the tension of fear.
'Victoria Stanhope,' she said huskily, her heart full of memories of a girl in a pink dress, her face drawn, her eyes full of hope, and then despair. She had to know this one last thing, and then dismiss it forever. 'Did you operate on her?'
His face shadowed with grief.
'No. I would have, since the child was the result of both incest and seduction-her brother Arthur, God help him- but she was only four months from term. It was too late. There was nothing I could do. I wish there had been.'
Suddenly the whole picture was different. It was not abortion for money but an attempt to help some of the weakest and most desperate people to cope with a situation beyond their bearing. Should he have? Or was it still a sin?
Surely not? Surely it was compassion-and wisdom?
She stared at him, unable to grasp the joy of it, the immeasurable relief that washed over her. Her eyes were prickling with tears and her voice was trapped somewhere in her throat.
'Callandra?' he said gently.
She smiled, a ridiculous, radiant smile, meeting his eyes with such intensity it was like a physical touch.
Very slowly he began to smile too. He reached out his hand across the desktop and took hers. If it occurred to him that she had thought also that he had killed Prudence, he did not say so. Nor did he ask her why she had not told the police. She would have told him it was because she loved him fiercely, unwillingly and painfully, but it was far better for all that such things be unsaid. It was known between them, and understood, with all the other impossibilities which did not need words now.
For several minutes they sat in silence, hands clasped, staring across the desk and smiling.
Rathbone entered court in a white-hot anger. Lovat-Smith sat somberly at his table, knowing he had lost. He looked up at Rathbone without interest, then saw his expression and stiffened. He glanced up at the dock. Sir Herbert was standing with a faint smile on his lips and an air of calm confidence, nothing so vulgar or ill-judged as jubilation, but unmistakable nonetheless.
'Mr. Rathbone?' Judge Hardie looked at him question-ingly. 'Are you ready to present your closing argument?'
Rathbone forced his voice to sound as level as he could.
'No, my lord. If it please the court, I have one or two further witnesses I should like to call.'
Hardie looked surprised, and Lovat-Smith's eyes widened. There was a faint rustle around the public benches. Several of the jurors frowned.
'If you think it necessary, Mr. Rathbone,' Hardie said doubtfully.
'I do, my lord,' Rathbone replied. 'To do my client complete justice.' As he said it he glanced up at the dock and saw Sir Herbert's smile fade just a fraction and a tiny furrow mark his brows. But it did not last The smile reappeared; he met Rathbone's eyes with confidence and a brilliance which only the two of them knew was contempt.
Lovat-Smith looked curious, shifting his glance from Rathbone to the dock and back again, sitting up a little straighter at his table.
'I would like to call Dr. James Cantrell,' Rathbone said clearly.
'Call Dr. James Cantrell,' the usher repeated in a loud voice.
After several seconds he duly appeared, young, thin, his chin and throat spotted with blood where he had cut himself shaving in his nervousness. He was a student doctor and his career hung in the balance. He was sworn in and Rathbone began to ask him long, detailed questions about Sir Herbert's immaculate professional behavior.
The jury was bored, Hardie was growing irritated, and Lovat-Smith was quite candidly interested. The smile never faltered on Sir Herbert's face.
Rathbone struggled on, feeling more and more absurd- and hopeless-but he would give Monk all the time he could.
Hester had arranged with another nurse to take care of her duties for a few hours, promising to return the favor in due course at double the hours. She met Monk at his lodgings at six in the morning. Every minute must be made use of. Already the sun was high, and they did not know how long Rathbone could give them.
'Where shall we begin?' she asked. 'I have been thinking, and I confess I do not feel nearly as optimistic as I did before.'
'I was never optimistic,' he said savagely. 'I'm just certain I'm not going to let that bastard walk away.' He smiled at her bleakly, but there was something in it which was not warmth-he was too angry for that-but even deeper. It was total trust, the certainty that she understood and, without explanation, shared his feeling. 'He didn't advertise and he didn't tout for business. Somewhere there is a man or woman who did that for him. He will not have accepted women without money, so that means society-old or new-'
'Probably old,' she interrupted wryly. 'Trade, which is new society, comes from the genteel upper working classes with social ambitions-like Runcorn. Their morals are usually very strict. It's the older money, which is sure of itself, which flouts convention and is more likely to need abortions-or to feel unable to cope with above a certain number of children.'
