Zorah rose and walked across the short space of floor to the steps with an oddly elegant stride. And it was a stride, as if she were in open country, not inside a public hall. She moved as if she were in a riding habit rather than a crinoline skirt. She seemed unfeminine compared with the fragility of Gisela, and yet there was nothing masculine about her. As on every day of the trial before, she wore rich autumnal tones, reds and russets which flattered her dark skin but were highly inappropriate to such a somber occasion. Rathbone had failed at the outset to persuade her to look and behave with decorum. There was no point in adopting such a pattern now. No one would believe it.
For an instant, clear as sunlight on ice, she looked at Gisela, and the two women’s eyes met in amazement and hatred; then she faced Rathbone again.
In a steady voice, she swore as to her name and said she would tell the truth and the whole truth.
Rathbone plunged in before he could lose his courage.
“Countess Rostova, we have heard several people’s testimony of the events at Wellborough Hall as they saw them or believed them to be. You have made the most serious charge against Princess Gisela that one person can make against another, that she deliberately murdered her husband while he lay helpless in her care. You have refused to withdraw that charge, even in the face of proceedings against you. Will you please tell the court what you know of the events during that time? Include everything you believe to be relevant to the death of Prince Friedrich, but do not waste your time or the court’s with that which is not.”
She inclined her head very slightly in acknowledgment and began in a low, clear voice of individuality and unusual beauty.
“Before the accident we spent our time in the ordinary pursuits of the best kind of country house party. We rose when we pleased. It was spring, and occasionally still quite cold, so often we did not come downstairs until the servants had the fires lit for some little while. Gisela always breakfasted in her room anyway, and Friedrich frequently remained upstairs and kept her company.”
There was a brief flicker of amusement on the faces of two of the jurors, and then it died immediately to be replaced by a swift flush of the color of embarrassment.
“Then the gentlemen would go out riding or walking,” Zorah continued. “Or if the weather were unpleasant, would go into the smoking room and talk, or the billiard room, the gun room or the library and talk. Rolf, Stephan and Florent spoke together quite often. The ladies would walk in the gardens if it was fine, or write letters, paint, play a little music, or sit and read or exchange stories and gossip.”
There was a murmur from the gallery, perhaps of envy.
“Sometimes luncheon would be a picnic. Cook would pack a hamper and one of the footmen would take a dogcart with everything for us. We could join him whenever we fancied, beside a river, or a glade in the wood, or an open field by a copse of trees, wherever seemed most attractive.”
“It sounds charming …” Rathbone put in.
Harvester rose to his feet. “But irrelevant, my lord. Most of us are acquainted with how the wealthy spend their time when in the country. Countess Rostova is surely not suggesting this most pleasant way of life is responsible for the Prince’s death?”
“I shall not allow our time to be wasted too far, Mr. Harvester,” the judge replied. “But I am inclined to allow Countess Rostova to paint a sufficient picture for us to perceive the household more clearly than we do so far.” He turned to the witness stand. “Proceed, if you please. But be guided, ma’am. We require that this shall pertain to the Prince’s death before much longer.”
“It does, my lord,” she replied gravely. “If I may describe one day in detail, I believe it will become understandable. You see, it is not one domestic incident which was the cause, but a myriad of tiny ones over a period of years, until they became a burden beyond the will to bear.”
The judge looked puzzled.
The jurors were obviously utterly confused.
People in the gallery shifted in anticipation, whispering to one another, excitement mounting. This was what they had come for.
Harvester looked at Zorah, then at Rathbone, then at Gisela.
Gisela sat, pale as ice, without responding. For any change in her expression, she might not have heard them.
“Then proceed, Countess Rostova,” the judge ordered.
“It was before the accident, I cannot remember exactly how many days, but it is immaterial,” she resumed, looking at no one in particular. “It was wet and there was quite a sharp wind. I rose early. I don’t mind the rain. I walked in the garden. The daffodils were magnificent. Have you smelled the wet earth after a shower?” This remark seemed directed towards the judge, but she did not wait for any reply. “Gisela rose late, as usual, and Friedrich came down with her. Indeed, he was so close behind her he accidentally trod on the hem of her skirt when she hesitated coming in through the door. She turned and said something to him. I cannot remember exactly what, but it was sharp and impatient. He apologized and looked discomfited. It was somewhat embarrassing because Brigitte von Arlsbach was in the room, and so was Lady Wellborough.”
Rathbone took a deep breath. He had seen the look of surprise and distaste on the jurors’ faces. He did not know whether it was for Zorah or for Gisela. Whom did they believe?
Please God that Hester was right. Everything rested upon one fact and all she had deduced from it.
“Please continue, Countess Rostova,” he said with a crack in his voice. “The rest of this typical day, if you please.”
“Brigitte went to the library to read,” Zorah resumed. “I think she was quite happy alone. Lady Wellborough and Evelyn von Seidlitz spent the morning in the boudoir, talking, I imagine. They both love to gossip. Gisela asked Florent to accompany her to the village. I was surprised, because it was raining, and she hated the rain. I think he does too, but he felt it would be ungallant to refuse her. She had asked him in front of everyone, so he could not do so politely. Friedrich offered to take her, but she said rather tartly that since Rolf had already expressed a desire to talk with him, he should stay and do so.”
“She did not appear to mind that Friedrich should spend time talking with Count Lansdorff?” Rathbone said with
