“I will see if I can learn anything,” Hester said quickly, glad of the chance to do something herself. “Baron and Baroness Ollenheim knew them both quite well. If I ask the right way, she may tell me quite a lot about Gisela. After all, it is possible she has no great feelings about Zorah. She won, and apparently easily.”
“Won?” He frowned.
“The battle between them,” she said impatiently. “Zorah was his mistress before Gisela came—at least, she was one of them. Afterwards he never looked at anyone else. Zorah has plenty of reason to hate Gisela. Gisela has none to hate her. Probably she is so devastated by Friedrich’s death she has no interest in revenge for the slander. Once she is proved innocent, she may be quite happy simply to retire from the public scene as a heroine again— even a merciful one. She will be even more admired for it. People will adore her …”
Suddenly his expression quickened. The light returned to his eyes as he grasped an idea.
“Hester, you are remarkably perceptive! If I could persuade Gisela that mercy would be in her own best interest, that it would paint her the greater heroine even than before, that may be our only answer!” He slipped down off the desk and started to pace back and forth across the floor, but this time it was not from tension but nervous energy as his brain raced. “Of course, I shall have no direct communication with her. It will all have to be implied in open court. I must make it double-pronged.”
He waved his hands, held apart to illustrate his idea. “On the one side, make mercy seem so appealing she will be drawn to it. Show how she will be remembered always for her grace and dignity, her compassion, the great qualities of womanhood that will make the whole world understand why Friedrich gave up a crown for her. And on the other, show how ugly revenge would be upon a woman who has already lost once to her and who has been shown to be mistaken—but a loyal patriot in that she was willing to risk everything to bring to light the fact that Friedrich really was indeed murdered and did not die a natural death, as everyone had supposed.”
He increased his pace as his mind grasped more ideas. “And I can very subtly show that not to be grateful to her for that, at least, would suggest to some that possibly she would rather his murderer escape. She cannot allow anyone to think that.” His fist clenched. “Yes! I believe at last we have the beginning of some kind of strategy.” He stopped in front of her. “Thank you, my dear.” His eyes were bright and gentle. “I am most grateful. You have helped immensely.”
She found herself blushing under his gaze, suddenly unsure how to respond. She must remember this was only gratitude. Nothing had really changed.
“Hester … I …”
There was a knock on the door.
Simms put his head in. “Major Bartlett is here to see you, Sir Oliver. He has been waiting some ten minutes. What shall I tell him?”
“Tell him I want another ten,” Rathbone said. Then he looked at Simms’s startled face and sighed. “No, don’t tell him that. Miss Latterly is leaving. Tell Major Bartlett I apologize for keeping him waiting. I have just received urgent information on another case, but I am now ready to see him.”
“Yes, Sir Oliver.” Simms withdrew with a look of restored confidence. He was a man with a profound respect for the proprieties.
Hester smiled in spite of a sense of both relief and disappointment.
“Thank you for seeing me without notice,” she said gravely. “I shall let you know of anything I am able to learn.” And she turned to leave.
He moved past her to open the door, standing so close to her she could smell the faint aromas of wool and clean linen—and sense the warmth of his skin. She walked out into the open office, and he turned to speak to Major Bartlett.
Hester returned to Hill Street determined to face the truth regarding Robert as soon as an opportunity arose, and if it did not, she would have to create one.
As it happened, she had very little time to wait. The doctor called again early that evening, and after he had seen Robert, he asked to speak to Hester alone. There was a boudoir on the second floor which was readily available. She closed the door.
He looked grave, but he did not avoid her eyes, nor did he try to smooth over with false optimism the bitterness of what he had to say.
“I am afraid I can do no more for him,” he said quietly. “It would be unjustified, and I think cruel, to hold out any real hope that he will walk again, or …” This time he did hesitate, trying to find a delicate way of phrasing what he needed to explain.
She helped him. “I understand. He will be able to use no part of his lower body. Only the automatic muscles of digestion will work.”
“I am afraid that is true. I’m sorry.”
Even though she had known it, to have it spoken made her aware that some foolish part of her had hoped she was wrong, and that hope was now dead. She felt a profound weight settle, hard and painful, inside her. It was as if a final light had gone out.
The doctor was looking at her with great gentleness. He must hate this as much as she did.
She forced herself to lift her head a fraction and keep her voice steady.
“I shall do all I can to help them accept it,” she promised. “Have you told the Baroness, or do you wish me to?”
“I have not told anyone else yet. I would like you to be there when I do. She may find it very difficult.”
“And Robert?”
“I have not told him, but I believe he knows. This young woman he mentions, Miss Stanhope, seems to have prepared him to some extent. Even so, hearing it from me will be different from merely thinking of it. You know him better than I do. From whom will it be least difficult for him?”
“That depends upon how his parents react,” she replied, not knowing how real their hope may have been. She feared Bernd would fight against it, and that would make it far more difficult. Dagmar would have to face reality for both of them. “Perhaps we should allow them to choose, unless that proves impossible.”
