There was a wave of reaction from the gallery.
Harvester half rose in his seat, but his protest was lost in a general noise.
The judge banged his gavel for silence and a return to order.
Rathbone looked at Rolf, then at Gisela. She seemed almost bloodless, her eyes huge and hollow, but he had no idea whether it was fear, horror, mortification at such public disclosure, or an old grief reawakened.
The noise still had not subsided. He turned to Zorah.
She seemed as surprised and confused as anyone.
The judge banged his gavel again. Order returned.
“Count Lansdorff?” Rathbone said distinctly.
Rolf would not now be stopped. “Had Friedrich put her aside, he could have married a more suitable woman, one who would have given the country an heir,” he continued. “There are many young women of noble birth and spotless reputation, pleasing enough in manner and appearance.” He did not look away from Rathbone, but his face tightened in reluctance. “The Baroness von Arlsbach would have been perfect; she would always have been perfect. The Queen begged him to marry her. She had every virtue, and is deeply loved by the people. Her family is unblemished. Her own reputation grows higher by the month.”
He ignored the people, even the jurors, every set of eyes scanning the benches to see if she was present. “She has dignity, honor, the loyalty of the people and the respect of all those who meet her, native and foreigner alike,” he continued. “But he chose that woman instead.” His eyes flickered for a moment to Gisela and away again. “And we are left barren!”
“That is a tragedy which has affected many dynasties, Count Lansdorff,” Rathbone said sympathetically. “We are not unfamiliar with it here in England. You will have to amend your constitution so the crown may pass laterally through the female line.” He ignored Rolf’s expression of incredulity. “But you could not know when Prince Friedrich married Gisela that that union would be childless, and it is unjust to be so certain that it is Gisela’s doing, and willfully so.”
He lowered his voice a little. “Many women long desperately to have a child, and when they do not have one, they put a brave face to the world and hide their grief by pretending it is not there. It is a very private and deeply personal affliction. Why should anyone, even a princess, parade it for the public to see, or to pity?”
Rolf said with tense, almost sibilant bitterness, “Gisela’s barrenness is of her own choosing. Do not ask me how I know it!”
“I must ask you,” Rathbone insisted. “It is a harsh charge, Count Lansdorff. You cannot expect the court, or anyone, to believe you unless you can substantiate it!” He smiled a trifle wryly at the irony.
Rolf remained silent.
Harvester rose to his feet, his face flushed. “My lord … this is iniquitous! I …”
“Yes, Mr. Harvester,” the judge said quietly. “Count Lansdorff, you will either retract your remarks about the Princess Gisela, and admit them to be untrue, or you will explain your grounds for making them and allow the court to decide whether they believe you or not.”
Rolf stood to attention again, straightening up and squaring his shoulders. He looked beyond Rathbone and the plaintiff’s and defendant’s tables to somewhere in the gallery, and without thinking, Rathbone turned and looked also. The judge followed Rolf’s eyes, and the jury swiveled to stare.
Rathbone saw Hester, and next to her a young man in a wheelchair, his fair brown hair catching the light. Behind him, also in the aisle, were an older man and woman of unusually handsome appearance. Presumably, from the way they regarded him, they were his parents. This was the patient Hester had spoken of. She had said they were from Felzburg. It was not unnatural they should feel compelled to come to the trial, after what the newspapers had said.
Rathbone turned back to the witness stand.
“Count Lansdorff?”
“Gisela is not barren,” Rolf said between his teeth. “She had a child from an illicit affair many years before she married Friedrich—”
There was a gasp of indrawn breath around the room so sharp it was a hiss. Harvester shot to his feet, then found he had no idea what to say. Beside him, Gisela was as white as paper.
One of the jurors coughed and choked.
Rathbone was too stunned to speak.
“She did not want it,” Rolf went on, his voice stinging with contempt. “She wanted to get rid of it, abort it—” Again he was forced to stop by the noise in the courtroom. The gallery erupted in anger, revulsion and distress. A woman screamed. Someone called out curses, random, indiscriminate.
The judge banged his gavel, his eyes puckered with distress.
Harvester looked as if he had been struck in the face.
Rolf’s voice, harsh and loud, cut across them all.
“But the father wanted the child, and told her he would expose her if she destroyed it, but if she bore it, alive, he would take it and love it.”
There was sobbing in the gallery.
The jurors were ashen-faced.
“She gave birth to a son,” Rolf said. “The father took it. He struggled for a year to care for the boy himself, then he fell in love with a woman of his own rank and station, a woman of gentleness and nobility who was prepared to raise the boy as her own. Conceivably, the boy has never known he was not hers.”
