William Monk 09 - A Breach of Promise

something that Rathbone did not. Something that mattered.
    Rathbone drew in a breath to ask yet again, then knew it would be a waste of time.
    “Do you want me to settle?” he asked, searching Melville’s face, trying to see beyond the clear, aquamarine eyes into the man inside. What was there beyond brilliance of ideas, the mass of technical knowledge, the dreams in stone of a thousand generations of history stored and made new? What were the private dreams and emotions of the man himself, his likes and dislikes, the fears, the laughter, the memories? Or weren’t there any? Was he empty of everything else?
    “I won’t marry her,” Melville repeated softly. “I never asked her to marry me. If I settle now, say I was wrong when I wasn’t, what will happen to all the other men in the future, if I give in?”
    “You haven’t given in,” Rathbone answered. “You were beaten.”
    Melville turned and walked away, his shoulders hunched, his head down. He bumped into someone and did not notice.
    Aching for him, confused and angry, Rathbone hurried after him, determined at the least to find him a hansom and see that he was not harried or abused any further. He caught up with him and escorted him as far as the back entrance. He glared at a couple of men who would have approached Melville, and strode past them, knocking one aside roughly.
    At the curb he all but commandeered a hansom and half threw Melville up into it, giving the driver Melville’s address and passing him up a more than generous fare.
    When the cab was safely on its way, he went back into the courthouse having no idea what he was going to do the next day. When the case resumed he would have to try to find something to change the present opinion. What was there? The last witness had turned the balance beyond redeeming. His only hope was to attack, but what good could that do now? Melville was ruined whatever the result. The only possible advantage would be to save him something financially. And perhaps Barton Lambert, at least, might be willing to do that He had no need of money.
    Rathbone’s last hope of achieving that by force, if he could not by appeal to clemency, would be to know something about Lambert, or his family, which Lambert would very much prefer to have kept in silence.
    But if Monk could not find it within the next twelve hours, then there was nothing left.
    Personally, Rathbone would advise Melville to leave England and try to build his career in some other country where the scandal would not follow him or where they had a more liberal view towards men’s private lives. There certainly were such places, and his genius was international, unlike language. Thank God he was not a poet!
    Ahead of him, Zillah Lambert was standing next to her parents. He recognized her first, seeing her bright hair, its luxuriant waves catching the light from the lamps above her. She still looked bemused, uncertain about the bustle and clatteraround her, like an animal caught in a strange place. He had seen people shocked like that many times. These halls had witnessed so much human agony too raw to be disguised by any dignity or self-protection, too new yet to have found a mask.
    Sacheverall walked up to them, still smiling.
    Delphine saw him and her expression immediately altered to one of charm and gratitude.
    “Mr. Sacheverall,” she said earnestly. “I cannot tell you how grateful we are for your diligence in our cause, in Zillah’s cause. It has been a most distressing time for all of us, but for her especially.” She lowered her voice a little, but since she had moved closer to Rathbone without seeing him, and farther from Zillah, he could still hear her if he gave his attention. “Of course, it will take a little while for her to recover from the shock of all this. Such a revelation is fearful for a young girl to have to hear. She will need all our kindness and encouragement.”
    “I promise you she will receive it,” Sacheverall said warmly. “Her innocence in this matter is quite obvious to anyone. I have been very moved by her dignity throughout this whole ordeal. She is a remarkable person.”
    “Indeed she is,” Delphine agreed, smiling and looking downward hastily, not to seem too immodest. “I admit, Mr. Sacheverall, I am far prouder of her than perhaps some would approve. But how many girls of her age could have borne themselves under this pressure and kept out bitterness from their nature, or hysteria, or a note of