William Monk 07 - Weighed in the Balance

years he could see no professional future clearly ahead.
    The court had already been called to order. The judge was looking at him, waiting.
    “Sir Oliver?” His voice was clear and mild, but Rathbone had learned there was an inflexible will behind the benign face.
    He must make his decision now, or the moment would be taken from him.
    He rose to his feet, his heart pounding so violently he felt as if they must see his body shake. He had not been as nervous as this the very first time he stood up before a court. But he had been far more arrogant then, less aware of the possibilities of disaster. And he had had immeasurably less to lose.
    He cleared his throat and tried to speak with a resonant, confident tone. His voice was one of his best instruments.
    “My lord …” He was obliged to clear his throat again. Damnation! Harvester must know how frightened he was. He had not even begun, and already he had betrayed himself. “My lord, I call the Countess Zorah Rostova to the stand.”
    There was a murmur of surprise and anticipation around the gallery, and Harvester looked taken aback but not alarmed. Perhaps he thought Rathbone foolish, or knew he was desperate, probably both.
    Zorah rose and walked across the short space of floor to the steps with an oddly elegant stride. And it was a stride, as if she were in open country, not inside a public hall. She moved as if she were in a riding habit rather than a crinoline skirt. She seemed unfeminine compared with the fragility of Gisela, and yet there was nothing masculine about her. As on every day of the trial before, she wore rich autumnal tones, reds and russets which flattered her dark skin but were highly inappropriate to such a somber occasion. Rathbone had failed at the outset to persuade her to look and behave with decorum. There was no point in adopting such a pattern now. No one would believe it.
    For an instant, clear as sunlight on ice, she looked at Gisela, and the two women’s eyes met in amazement and hatred; then she faced Rathbone again.
    In a steady voice, she swore as to her name and said she would tell the truth and the whole truth.
    Rathbone plunged in before he could lose his courage.
    “Countess Rostova, we have heard several people’s testimony of the events at Wellborough Hall as they saw them or believed them to be. You have made the most serious charge against Princess Gisela that one person can make against another, that she deliberately murdered her husband while he lay helpless in her care. You have refused to withdraw that charge, even in the face of proceedings against you. Will you please tell the court what you know of the events during that time? Include everything you believe to be relevant to the death of Prince Friedrich, but do not waste your time or the court’s with that which is not.”
    She inclined her head very slightly in acknowledgment and began in a low, clear voice of individuality and unusual beauty.
    “Before the accident we spent our time in the ordinary pursuits of the best kind of country house party. We rose when we pleased. It was spring, and occasionally still quite cold, so often we did not come downstairs until the servants had the fires lit for some little while. Gisela always breakfasted in her room anyway, and Friedrich frequently remained upstairs and kept her company.”
    There was a brief flicker of amusement on the faces of two of the jurors, and then it died immediately to be replaced by a swift flush of the color of embarrassment.
    “Then the gentlemen would go out riding or walking,” Zorah continued. “Or if the weather were unpleasant, would go into the smoking room and talk, or the billiard room, the gun room or the library and talk. Rolf, Stephan and Florent spoke together quite often. The ladies would walk in the gardens if it was fine, or write letters, paint, play a little music, or sit and read or exchange stories and gossip.”
    There was a murmur from the gallery, perhaps of envy.
    “Sometimes luncheon would be a picnic. Cook would packa hamper and one of the footmen would take a dogcart with everything for us. We could join him whenever we fancied, beside a river, or a glade in the wood, or an open field by a copse of trees, wherever seemed most attractive.”
    “It sounds charming …” Rathbone put in.
    Harvester rose to his feet. “But irrelevant, my lord. Most of us are acquainted with how the wealthy spend their time when in the country. Countess Rostova is surely not