William Monk 07 - Weighed in the Balance

had still been ill, or a child.
    She told the coachman to go slowly, so Bernd and Dagmar would get to Hill Street before them.
    When they arrived and pulled up, Robert was ready. The door was flung open and Bernd stood there, white-faced, Dagmar a step behind him.
    “Hello, Father,” Robert said calmly, the ravages of emotion not visible in his face in the rain-spattered lamplight. “Would you give me a hand down? It’s fearfully cold in here, in spite of the rug. I hope there’s a decent fire in the withdrawing room.”
    Bernd hesitated, searching Robert’s eyes as if he could barely believe it. Then he almost fell forward and put his arms out to lift him, awkwardly at first, trying to look as if he were only helping him, but in the coach light the tears were bright on his cheeks and his hands trembled.
    Robert looked beyond him at Dagmar.
    “You’d better go inside, Mother,” he said clearly. “You’ll freeze standing out here. There’s a fog rising.” He forced himself to smile at her, then gradually it became real, filled with light, memories of all the tenderness he had known as surely as he knew anything at all.
    Hester climbed out after him and followed them up the steps and inside. She was unaware of the night air, chill around her, or of the facts that the edge of her skirt was wet from the gutter and her feet were numb with cold.
    Victoria left for Robert’s side as soon as she received the letter—in fact, she returned with the coach the footman had taken to deliver it. Robert saw her alone. For once the door was closed, and Hester waited in the withdrawing room with Bernd and Dagmar.
    Bernd paced the floor, turning at either end of the room, his face pale, his eyes returning each time to the door.
    “What will she do?” he demanded, staring at Hester. “What will she say to him? Will she be able to accept him or speak of his … parentage?” He too could not bring himself to call Gisela the boy’s mother.
    “Considering who her father was, she of all people will understand,” Hester said quietly but with total assurance. “Will Robert be able to accept that?”
    “Yes,” Dagmar said quickly, but she was smiling. “One is not answerable for one’s father’s sins. And he loves her, more than he ever would an ordinary woman who had no trials or sorrows of her own. I hope he has the courage to ask her to marry him. And I hope she will have the faith to accept him. Will she, do you think?” She did not even glance at Bernd to see if he approved. She had no intention of allowing him to disapprove.
    “Yes,” Hester said firmly. “I believe she will of her own accord. I think he will persuade her. But if she should doubt, then we shall give her the strength.”
    “Of course we shall,” Dagmar agreed. “They will have a different kind of happiness from most people’s, but it will be every bit as profound … perhaps more so.” She looked up at Bernd and held out her hand.
    He stopped pacing and took it, holding it hard, so tightly she winced, but she did not move to withdraw it. He smiled at Hester and nodded his head a little jerkily.
    “Thank you …”

12
    T
HE FOLLOWING MORNING
was Saturday, and Hester slept in. She awoke with a jolt, remembering that the case was far from over. They still did not have any idea who had killed Friedrich. Legally, if not morally, Gisela remained the injured party, and Zorah had slandered her by saying that she was guilty of murder. The jury would have no alternative but to find for Gisela, and she would have nothing to lose now by asking for punitive damages. She had no reputation to enhance by mercy. She was a ruined woman and might need every ha’penny she could wrest from anyone. She might find her only solace in vengeance against the person who had brought about this whole disaster.
    And with Zorah’s defeat would go Rathbone’s. At worst, Zorah could even be charged with Friedrich’s murder herself.
    Hester rose and dressed in the best gown she had with her, a plainly tailored dark rust red with a little black velvet at the neck.
    It was not that she felt her appearance mattered to the issue, it was simply that the act of taking care, of doing her hair as flatteringly as possible, of pinching a little color into her cheeks, was an act of confidence. It was like a soldier shining his boots and putting on his scarlet tunic before going intobattle. It was all morale, and that was the first step towards victory.
    She arrived at