“Thank you, Countess Rostova, that is sufficient description.”
There was a gasp of amazement around the room, like the backwash of a tide after a great wave has broken. People looked at each other in disbelief.
The jurors looked at Zorah, then at the judge, then at Harvester.
“That is supposed to be relevant?” Harvester said, his voice rising sharply.
Rathbone smiled and turned back to Zorah.
“Countess, it has been suggested that you were jealous of the Princess because she replaced you twelve years ago in Prince Friedrich’s affections, and you have chosen this bizarre way of seeking your revenge. Are you jealous of her because it was she who married him and not you?”
A succession of emotions crossed Zorah’s face—denial, contempt, a bleak and bitter amusement; then suddenly and startlingly, pity.
“No,” she said very softly. “There is nothing in heaven or earth that would persuade me to change places with her. She was suffocated by him, trapped forever in the legend she had created. To the world they were great lovers, magical people who had achieved what so many of us dream of and long for. She was the reality. It was Antony and Cleopatra without the asp. That was what gave her her fame, her status. It defined who she was, without it she was no one, a sham. No matter how he depended upon her, or clung to her, or drained the life from her, she could never leave him, never even seem to lose her temper with him. She had built an image for herself and she was imprisoned within it forever, being sucked dry, having to smile, to act all the time. I didn’t understand that look on her face at the top of the stairs at the time. I knew she hated him, but I did not understand why.
“Then yesterday evening I was speaking with someone, and quite suddenly I saw Gisela trapped forever playing the role she had created so brilliantly, and I knew why she broke out of it the way only she could. She was a cold, ambitious woman, prepared to use a man’s love in any way she could, but I could not have wished that living incarceration on anyone. At least … I don’t think I could…. After all, the accident crippled him. He would never again be active, a companion to her. It was the last window of her cell in a final and utter imprisonment with him.”
There was silence in the room. No one spoke. Nothing moved.
“Thank you, Countess,” Rathbone said softly. “I have no more to ask you.”
Then the spell broke, and there was a low rumble of dismay turning to rage, almost a violence of confusion, the pain of breaking dreams.
Harvester spoke to Gisela, who did not answer. Then he rose. “Countess Rostova, has anyone at all—other than yourself, so you say—noticed this profound terror and despair in one of the world’s most beloved and fortunate women? Or are you utterly alone in your extraordinary perception?”
“I have no idea,” Zorah replied, keeping her voice level and her eyes steady on his face.
“But no one has ever, at any time, given you the slightest indication that he or she saw through the constant, twelve-yearlong, day-and-night, fair-weather-and-foul, public and private happiness and love to this tragedy you say was beneath it?” His tone was heavily sarcastic. He did not sink to melodrama, but his voice would have cut flesh.
“No …” she admitted.
“So we have only your word for it, your brilliant, incisive sight, which, now you are in the witness stand, morally in the dock, accused and desperate yourself, has shown you, and you alone, this incredible fact?”
She met his gaze without flinching, a very faint smile curling her lips.
“I am the first, Mr. Harvester. I shall be the only one for a very short time. If I can see what you cannot, that is because I have two advantages over you; I have known Gisela far longer than you have, and I am a woman, which means I can read other women as you never will. Does that answer your question?”
“Whether others follow eventually, Countess, remains to be seen,” he said coldly. “Here, today, you stand alone. Thank you … if not for truth, at least for a most original invention.”
The judge looked at Rathbone inquiringly.
“No more questions, thank you, my lord,” he answered.
Zorah was excused and returned to her seat.
“I should like to recall Lady Wellborough, if your lordship pleases,” Rathbone continued.
Emma Wellborough came from the body of the court, looking pale, startled, and now considerably frightened.
“Lady Wellborough,” Rathbone began, “you have been present during Countess Rostova’s testimony …”
She nodded, then realized that was inadequate and replied in a shaking voice.
“Her description of events in your home, prior to Prince Friedrich’s accident, is it substantially true? Is that how you conducted your lives, how you spent your days?”
“Yes,” she said very softly. “It … it didn’t seem as … as trivial as she made it sound … as … pointless. We were not really … so … drunken …” Her voice trailed off.
“We are not making judgments,” Rathbone said, and then he knew it was a lie. Everyone in the room was making judgments, not only of her but of all her class and of Felzburg’s royal family. “All we need to know,” he went on a little hoarsely, “is if those were the pursuits of your time, and if the Prince and Princess had the relationship of closeness Countess Rostova described, forever together, largely at his insistence. She tried to break away, find herself a little time alone or with other company, but he was always there, clinging, demanding?”
She looked bewildered and profoundly unhappy. Had he taken her too far?
She hesitated so long he felt his heart beating, his pulse racing. It was like playing a fish on a line. Even at the last moment he could still lose.
“Yes,” she said at last. “I used to envy her. I saw it as the greatest love story in the world, what every girl dreams of …” She gave a jerking little laugh that ended almost in a choke. “A handsome prince, and Friedrich was
