William Monk 19 - Blind Justice

“I suppose you’ll be going home for a while now. Good lawyer you must have. All stick together, I expect. You being a larnt-up man, like, I suppose you’ll know your Shakespeare …”
    “ ‘First … kill all the lawyers,’ ” Rathbone said for him. He picked up his jacket, which was the only garment he had with him, apart from the clothes he stood in.
    The jailer grunted, annoyed at being robbed of his quote.
    “Actors, the lot of you,” he said irritably. “Strutting around and thinking everyone’s listening to yer.”
    “ ‘That struts and frets his hour upon the stage’ is meant for all of us,” Rathbone countered, coming to the door and waiting a step back while the man turned the heavy key.
    The jailer glared at him, knowing it was another quote but not able to place it.
    “
Macbeth
,” Rathbone supplied.
    “You tell ’im, Fancypants,” a voice called out from the cell opposite and along a bit. “Gonna miss you, I am. Till yer come back again!” He roared with laughter at his own humor.
    Rathbone smiled as he walked through the barred door and outinto the stone-floored space. He looked across at the cell the voice had come from. Inside there was a gaunt, stringy-haired man; his clothes were filthy, but they had once been good. Rathbone wondered what had happened to him. Maybe the clothes were stolen, or had been thrown out. Or, on the other hand, perhaps the accent and the aggressive manner were borrowed plumage, for self-protection.
    Rathbone lifted his hand in a small salute. “Keep it warm for me,” he replied. “I regret to say, I might well be needing it.”
    “Arrogant bastard,” the jailer said under his breath.
    Rathbone affected not to have heard him.
    He had his belongings restored to him and took a hansom back to his home. Only an hour later, as he went in through the front door to the familiar hallway, did he remember that everything else in the world had changed, for him. To the staff he had to be a different person. There would be no more awe, and perhaps even their respectful behavior toward him would now be superficial—merely good manners. He would have no idea what they really thought of him. Did he want to know?
    Not yet. There was too much else to think of. For right this moment he could come and go as he pleased. He could wash, have a decent cup of tea, eat what he wanted, and tonight sleep in his own bed, in the softness, enjoying the clean smell and the silence. He could get up when he wanted.
    That was reality now: he could stay in bed if he wanted because there was no work to do, no one to talk to, to care for, no challenge except to find something to occupy his mind, to keep himself from sinking into anger and despair.
    E ARLY IN THE AFTERNOON Henry Rathbone came to visit him.
    “Thank you,” Rathbone said immediately, choking a little on the words, his voice thick with emotion. He had not meant to lose his grip this way, but his father’s familiar face and the sound of his voice overwhelmed him.
    Henry turned away and looked for a place to sit while the butler, who had let him in, went away to fetch a fresh pot of tea and some hot, crumbly, buttery scones.
    “I paid it as soon as they let me. Would you like to come and stay a few days at Primrose Hill?” Henry asked, regarding Rathbone with extraordinary gentleness. He would say nothing of love, or of anxiety, or fear, certainly not of disappointment, but it was all there in his eyes. He found it embarrassing to speak of such emotions, and unnecessary. A lifetime of companionship, guidance, encouragement, and shared dreams and jokes had made such declarations of feeling redundant.
    An immediate refusal rose to Rathbone’s lips, then he bit it back. It would seem so callous, like a rejection. What he really felt was that it would add to his own guilt, already weighing him down, if his father were harassed by journalists or prodded with unintentionally cruel questions by his friends. People might hold him in some way responsible, by association. Henry would then be placed in the situation of having to defend Rathbone, to explain.
    Friends calling by might find Rathbone’s presence awkward. Perhaps they would remain away for that reason. It might place Henry in a position where he would have to refuse invitations, or ask that Rathbone be included. That would be excruciating for his father.
    It would be wonderful to be there in the familiar house, to walk down the long lawn in the evening, watch the