William Monk 09 - A Breach of Promise

the truth. If he did not, then he could see no strategy at all which would avoid defeat. Perhaps Melville had not realized quite how damaging that would be to him, not only financially but also professionally. Barton Lambert would certainly cease to support him or employ him. Lambert was a man of influence. Melville might very well find his entire career jeopardized, regardless of his brilliance.
    Rathbone forced himself to smile and face Sacheverall.
    “This is not over yet,” he said with infinitely more confidence than he felt. “Let us await the conclusion before we assess the damage, and to whom. I have no wish to cause injury, but I shall represent my client’s interests with all the vigor at my disposal.”
    “Naturally.” Sacheverall was not disturbed. He had regained his composure and he knew he had little to fear. Victory was only an inch from his grasp, and in his mind he could already feel it. “One would expect no less of you,” he added, but his smile lacked any anxiety that Rathbone might win.
    He called one more witness, and then the court was adjourned for the weekend. The crowd dispersed from the gallery with unusual quietness and good order. It was an ominous sign. They were not expecting any surprises, no turn in events to spark their interest or change what to many was already a foregone conclusion.
    Melville rose to leave also and Rathbone put his hand out and grasped his arm, gripping it unintentionally hard. He saw Melville wince.
    “You’re not going,” he said grimly, “until you tell me the truth. I don’t think you realize just what you’re facing. This could ruin you.”
    Melville sat down again, turning to stare at him. Around them the crowd had moved away. There was hardly anyone left except the ushers and court officials.
    “You need a lot more than talent to succeed in the arts,” Rathbone went on quietly but clearly. “You need patronage, inarchitecture more than almost anything else. Your plans are stillborn if they never get off the paper.” He saw the pain tighten Melville’s face but he had to go on. If he did not succeed in persuading him now it could be too late. “You have to have a wealthy patron who believes in you and is willing to spend tens of thousands of pounds to build your halls and houses and theaters. You are not big enough yet to defy society, and you will very soon find that out if you lose this case without any excuse to offer.”
    Melville blushed. “You want me to try to blacken her name?” he asked angrily. “Suggest that I suddenly found out something about her so appalling I couldn’t live with it? That she was a thief? A loose woman? A drunkard? A spendthrift? A gambler? I can’t. And if I could”—his lip curled in disgust—“would that endear me to society, do you suppose? How many wealthy men would then wish to have me in their close acquaintance, to observe their wives and daughters and then tell the world their weaknesses!”
    “I don’t want you to tell the world!” Rathbone answered back with equal sharpness, and still holding Melville’s wrist, ignoring the last few people leaving the room, looking at the lawyer and his client curiously. “I meant you to tell me so I can understand the battle I am supposed to be fighting. I don’t need you to tell me that blackening Zillah Lambert’s name, with or without justification, will not help you. But with the truth, I may be able to reach a settlement out of court. It wouldn’t be victory, but it would be a great deal better than any other alternative facing you now.”
    “I know nothing to her detriment,” Melville insisted. “Do you think I am being noble and letting her family sue me without a word in my defense? Is that what you imagine?” There seemed to be a brittle ring of amusement in him, as if the idea were funny.
    “I don’t know what to think.” Rathbone half turned as the last woman went out of the doors and the usher looked at him enquiringly. “But if there is nothing about Zillah, then I mustconclude that Sacheverall is right and it is something to do with you.”
    He had longed to read an answer, a vulnerability or a fear in Melville’s eyes which would give him the clue he needed, but there was nothing. Melville remained staring at him with a blank, defiant despair.
    “Is there someone else you love?” Rathbone guessed. “It doesn’t excuse you, but it would at least explain—to me, if no one else.”
    “There is no one else I wish to