Then would she ever be the same again? Or would something inside her be broken, some hope, an ability to trust not only people, but life itself?
Hester sat on the hard seat, pressed in on either side by the curious and critical, aware of their breathing, of their slight movement, the creak of corsets and faint rustle of fabric, the smell of damp wool and the sweat of tension and excitement.
She looked across at Callandra and saw the exhaustion in her face. Her skin was papery and without any color, gray, almost as if it were dirty. The lines between nose and mouth were deeply etched. As almost always, her hair was escaping its pins. She looked every day of her years.
Hester ached to be able to comfort her, to offer anything at all that would help, but there was nothing. She knew the bruising and terrible pain she had felt when she believed it could have been Charles. She was almost ashamed of her relief to know that it was not, no matter how humiliating the truth. Platitudes would only make it seem that she did not understand, and it was not the time to reach out and touch, even take a hand. She thought about it, and once she moved as if to lean across, then changed her mind. What might be read into it that she did not mean? Hope, a false importance to what was being said at that instant, even a despair she did not intend.
Pendreigh was still calling character witnesses, but he was now reduced to Fermin Thorpe. They had debated whether to call him or not. He hated Kristian, but he would occupy time, which was now their only hope. He loved to talk, reveling in the sound of his own voice. He was a conserver, frightened of change, frightened of losing his power and position. Kristian was an innovator who challenged him, questioned things, jeopardized his authority. There had been particular instances, not long enough ago to forget, when Thorpe had lost. The memory and the resentment were there in his face as he took the stand. Pendreigh had known it; both Hester and Callandra had made certain he had no illusions. They had even told him the story in detail. But the only alternative was to end the defense with Monk still not here, and that they could not do.
So, Fermin Thorpe stood in the high witness box, smiling, a tight, narrow little grimace, staring down at Pendreigh in the middle of the floor, and the judge and jury waited for them to begin; impatiently, it was time- wasting.
Pendreigh smiled. He understood vanity and he knew his own power.
“Mr. Thorpe,” he said cautiously. “So the court can understand the value of your testimony, the years of experience you have had upon which to base any judgment, both of men and of medicine, perhaps you would tell me the details of your career?”
There was a sigh of impatience from the judge, and Mills half rose to his feet, but it would be pointless to object, and he knew it. Pendreigh had every right to establish his witness, to give every ounce of weight to his testimony that he could.
Thorpe was grateful. It showed in the easing of his body, the way he relaxed his shoulders and began to speak, at some length, of his achievements.
Pendreigh nodded without once interrupting him or hastening him on. Finally, when they came to the point of his offering an opinion on Kristian’s character, Hester found herself aching with the tension in her body. Her shoulders were stiff, her hands knotted so tightly her nails hurt her palms. There had been no alternative, but still she was sick with fear. This was Thorpe’s chance to savor revenge. Had Pendreigh the skill to control him? She dared not look at Callandra.
“So you have worked with many physicians and surgeons and had the responsibility for their behavior, their skill, ultimately even their employment by the hospital?” Pendreigh said graciously.
“Yes. Yes, I have,” Thorpe answered with satisfaction. “I suppose you could say that in the end it was all my responsibility.”
“An extraordinary burden for one man,” Pendreigh agreed deferentially. “And yet you never flinched from it.”
Mills stood up. “My lord, I think we are all agreed that Mr. Thorpe has a great responsibility, and that he has discharged it with skill and conscience. I feel we are now wasting the court’s time by going over that which is already established.”
“I have to agree, Mr. Pendreigh,” the judge said a trifle sharply. “Please ask your questions regarding Mr. Thorpe’s estimate of Dr. Beck’s character, not his medical skills. We have no doubt of them. You have given them to us abundantly over the last few days.” His impatience and lack of sympathy were only too apparent.
“Yes, my lord, of course,” Pendreigh conceded. He turned to Thorpe. “You have always selected your staff with the utmost care, not only for their medical skill but for their moral character as well, as is your charge. May the court assume that in keeping Dr. Beck you did not alter those high standards, or make any exception?”
Thorpe was caught. He had been planning to damn Kristian, to taste a very public revenge for past defeats, but he could not do so now without ruining himself. The anger of it, the momentary indecision even at this date, as he saw his victory sliding away, was all so clear in his face Hester could have spoken his thoughts aloud for him.
“Mr. Thorpe?” Pendreigh frowned. “It is surely an easy question. Did you maintain the same high standards as you always have in keeping Dr. Beck in your employ and allowing him to operate on the sick and vulnerable men and women who came to your hospital for help . . . or did you, for some personal reason, allow a man you did not trust to keep such a position?”
“No! Of course I didn’t!” Thorpe said, then instantly realized he had been forced into committing himself. He flushed dark red.
“Thank you,” Pendreigh accepted, moving backwards and indicating that Mills might now question the witness.
Mills stood up, dapper and confident. He opened his mouth to speak to Thorpe.
Hester froze. Thorpe was bursting to undo what he had said, his eyes pleading with Mills somehow to create the chance for him.
The entire room was silent. If only it mattered as much as it seemed to. Whatever Thorpe said would make little real difference. It was emotional; the facts were not touched.
“Mr. Thorpe,” Mills began.
“Yes?” Thorpe leaned a little forward over the rail of the witness box, staring down at Mills below him.
