William Monk 03 - Defend and Betray

journalists racing to find the first hansomsto take them to their papers, those who had been unable to find room inside shouting questions, people standing around in huddles, everyone talking.
    Then outside on the steps he was uncertain whether to search for Hester or to avoid her. He had nothing to say, and yet he would have found her company pleasing. Or perhaps he would not. She would be full of the trial, of Rathbone’s brilliance. Of course that was right, he was brilliant. It was even conceivable he would win the case, whatever winning might be. She had become increasingly fond of Rathbone lately. He realized it now with some surprise. He had not even thought about it before; it was something he had seen without its touching the conscious part of his mind.
    Now he was startled and angry that it hurt.
    He walked down the steps into the street with a sudden burst of energy. Everywhere there were people, newsboys, costermongers, flower sellers, men with barrows of sandwiches, pies, sweets, peppermint water, and a dozen other kinds of food. People pushed and shouted, calling for cabs.
    This was absurd. He liked both Hester and Rathbone—he should be happy for them.
    Without realizing what he was doing he bumped into a smart man in black with an ivory-topped cane, and stepped into a hansom ahead of him. He did not even hear the man’s bellow of fury.
    “Grafton Street,” he commanded.
    Then why was there such a heaviness inside him, a sense of loss all over again?
    It must be Hermione. The disillusion over her would surely hurt for a long time; that was only natural. He had thought he had found love, gentleness, sweetness—Damn! Don’t be idiotic! He did not want sweetness. It stuck in his teeth and cloyed his tongue. God in heaven! How far he must have forgotten his own nature to have imagined Hermione was his happiness. And now he was further betraying himself by becoming maudlin over it.
    But by the time the cab set him down in Grafton Street some better, more honest self admitted there was a place for tenderness,the love that overlooks error, that cherishes weakness and protects it, that thinks of self last, and gives even when the thanks are slow in coming or do not come at all, for generosity of spirit, laughter without cruelty or victory. And he still had little idea where to find it—even in himself.
        The first witness of the next day was Valentine Furnival. For all his height, and already broadening shoulders, he looked very young and his high head could not hide his fear.
    The crowd buzzed with excitement as he climbed the steps of the witness stand and turned to face the court. Hester felt a lurch almost like sickness as she saw his face and recognized in it exactly what Damaris must have seen—an echo of Charles Hargrave.
    Instinctively she turned her head to see if Hargrave was in the gallery again, and if he had seen the same thing, knowing now that Damaris was the boy’s mother. As soon as she saw him, his skin white, his eyes shocked, almost unfocused, she knew beyond question that he understood. Beside him, Sarah Hargrave sat a little apart, facing first Valentine on the stand, then her husband next to her. She did not even try to seek Damaris Erskine.
    In spite of herself, Hester was moved to pity; for Sarah it was easy, but for Hargrave it twisted and hurt, because it was touched with anger.
    The judge began by questioning Valentine for a few moments about his understanding of the oath, then turned to Rathbone and told him to commence.
    “Did you know General Thaddeus Carlyon, Valentine?” he asked quite conversationally, as if they had been alone in some withdrawing room, not in the polished wood of a courtroom with hundreds of people listening, craning to catch every word and every inflexion.
    Valentine swallowed on a dry throat.
    “Yes.”
    “Did you know him well?”
    A slight hesitation. “Yes.”
    “For a long time? Do you know how long?”
    “Yes, since I was about six: seven years or more.”
    “So you must have known him when he sustained the knife injury to his thigh? Which happened in your home.”
    Not one person in the entire court moved or spoke. The silence was total.
    “Yes.”
    Rathbone took a step closer to him.
    “How did it happen, Valentine? Or perhaps I should say, why?”
    Valentine stared at him, mute, his face so pale it occurred to Monk, watching him, that he might faint.
    In the gallery Damaris leaned over the rail, her eyes desperate.