Page 112 of Weighed in the Balance (William Monk 7)

“And yet you are not sure that she was happy?” Rathbone said with as much disbelief as he could manage. “Why do you say that? It would seem to me she had everything a woman could desire.”

An expression of rage and pity filled Zorah’s face, as an emotion entirely new to her swept away all old convictions.

“I saw her alone, standing at the top of the stairs,” she answered slowly. “The light was on her face, and I was in shadow at the bottom. She did not know I was there. For a moment she looked utterly trapped, like an animal in a cage. The expression on her face was terrible. I have never seen such despair before in anyone. It was a complete hopelessness …”

There was a silence of incredulity in the court. Even the judge was stunned.

“Then a door opened behind me,” Zorah went on, almost in a whisper. “And she heard the noise, and the look vanished. She made herself smile again, and came down the stairs with a sort of forced sparkle, her voice brittle.”

“Did you know the cause of this emotion, Countess?”

“Not at the time. I imagined then that it was fear that Friedrich would succumb to the pressure of family and duty, and that he would indeed return to Felzburg—and put Gisela aside. Even so, that would not explain the sense of panic I saw, as if she were … caged, fighting to escape something which clung and suffocated her.” She lifted her chin a little, and her voice was tight in her throat. “She was the last woman on earth I wanted to pity, and yet I could not forget the look I saw in her eyes as she stood there.”

There was silence in the court, a tension palpable in the air.

“And the rest of the evening?” Rathbone prompted after a moment.

“We continued drinking, playing games, laughing and making risqué jokes and cruel remarks about people we knew, or thought we did, and went to bed at about four in the morning,” Zorah answered. “Some of us went to our own beds, some of us didn’t.”

There was a growing rumble of disapproval from the gallery and looks of discomfort in the jury box. They did not like having their betters spoken of in such terms; even if some accepted it was true, they preferred not to be forced to acknowledge it. Others looked genuinely shocked.

“And that was a typical day?” Rathbone said wearily.

“Yes.”

“There were many like that?”

“They were almost all like that, give or take a detail or two,” she replied, still standing very upright, her head high in spite of having to look slightly down to the body of the court. “We ate and drank, we rode on horseback or in carriages or gigs. We raced a little. We had picnics and parties. We played croquet. The men shot birds. We rowed on the river once or twice. We walked in the woods or the garden. If it was wet, or cold, we talked or played the piano, or read books, or looked at pictures. The men played cards or billiards, or smoked. And, of course, they gambled on anything and everything—who would win at cards, or which servant would answer a bell. In the evenings, we had musical entertainment, or theatricals, or played games.”

“And Friedrich and Gisela were always as devoted as you have described?”

“Always.”

Harvester rose to his feet. “My lord, this is intrusive, unproven and still totally irrelevant.”

Rathbone ignored him and hurried on, speaking over the other lawyer’s protest, almost shouting him down.

“Countess Rostova, after the accident, did you ever visit Prince Friedrich in his rooms?”

“Once.”

“Would you describe the room for us, please?”

“My lord!” Harvester was shouting now as well.

“It is relevant, my lord,” Rathbone said even more loudly. “I assure the court, it is critical.”

The judge banged his gavel and was ignored.

“My lord!” Harvester would not be hushed. He was now on his feet and facing Rathbone in front of the bench. “This witness has already been impugned by circumstances. Her own interest in the matter is the issue before us. Nothing she says she saw—”

“You cannot impugn it before it is said!” Rathbone cried furiously. “She must be allowed to defend herself—”

“Not by—” Harvester protested.

The judge held up his hands. “Be silent!” he roared.

They both stopped.