William Monk 09 - A Breach of Promise

person, a fit companion for your daughter, a friend; or as an employee, a person of inferior rank?”
    “Certainly not!” Barton Lambert was affronted. Of all things, he was not socially arrogant. No one impressed him by birth or rank, except Her Majesty the Queen. She was an entirely different matter. He was intensely patriotic, and she was the head of his country and the seat of his ultimate loyalty. “Killian Melville was good enough to speak to anyone, and I introduced him as such,” he said sharply. “My daughter was brought up to respect a man who earned his way and left the world a better place than he found it.” It was said with a note of challenge, and he swiveled around to look at the jurors as he spoke. If he had to parade his family’s shame before the gentlemen of society, he would do it with his head high and his standards unmistaken by any.
    Against his will, Rathbone liked the man already.
    “Quite.” Sacheverall nodded, inclining his head a trifle towards the jurors. “You introduced him to your home and family as an equal. You offered him complete hospitality.”That was a statement, not a question. He proceeded to the point. “And he became friendly with your wife and daughter?”
    “He did.”
    “He visited regularly and was at ease in your company …” Sacheverall glanced at Rathbone. “Or should I say he appeared at ease?” he corrected.
    “Yes sir.”
    “You became fond of him?”
    “I always liked him,” Lambert acknowledged. In all the time he had been on the stand he had not looked at Melville. Rathbone was acutely aware of it, and he was certain Melville was also.
    “Did you take him with you to social events outside your home?”
    “From time to time. He wasn’t one for a lot of dining out and polite conversation, and I don’t think he danced.”
    Rathbone stood up. “My lord, no one disputes that Mr. Lambert and his family were gracious and friendly towards Mr. Melville and showed him the greatest hospitality, and that Mr. Melville in turn was grateful to them and held them in the highest personal regard. The only matter of issue is whether he feels himself suited to marry Miss Lambert, desired to do so, and actually contracted such an agreement. Mr. Melville contends that Miss Lambert mistook the nature of his regard for her and Mrs. Lambert assumed something that was not in fact so. It is even imaginable that Miss Lambert herself knew this but did not feel able to extricate herself from what had become an embarrassing situation.”
    Mr. Justice McKeever smiled. “All manner of things are imaginable, Sir Oliver. We will restrict ourselves to what is demonstrable. However, Mr. Sacheverall, I take Sir Oliver’s point that no one disputes the fact that a warm friendship developed between Mr. Melville and Mr. Lambert’s family, especially his daughter. Such friendships do not always end in marriage. Please proceed with your case.”
    Sacheverall bowed, but he turned back to Lambert withperhaps a fraction less confidence in his stance and the set of his shoulders.
    “During the course of their friendship, did Mr. Melville on occasion escort your daughter to certain functions, keep her company, walk and talk with her, tell her of his exploits, adventures, plans for the future? Did he share ideas with her, tastes in art, literature and music? Did he read poetry together with her, show her the drawings of his work, share jokes and humorous episodes? In general, did he pay court to her, Mr. Lambert?”
    Rathbone glanced sideways at Melville, but he was staring straight ahead.
    “He did all of those things, sir, as you well know,” Lambert answered grimly. Sacheverall’s words must have brought back memories to him, because now his reluctance was gone and he was plainly both hurt and angry. He no longer avoided Melville but looked straight at him, challengingly, all his bewilderment clear in his face.
    Rathbone felt a sinking inside him. There was no defense against his kind of honesty. Had he been a juror he could have found only one way. Killian Melville was guilty, and it was almost impossible to believe well of him. No man could court a girl in the manner Lambert described and not expect that she would read it as a declaration of love. Anyone would. Not even a fool could mistake it.
    He looked sideways again at Melville now. His fair head was bent forward and there was a flush in his cheeks. His eyes were filled with despair, as if he were trapped with no