A Breach of Promise - Anne Perry [39]
“Sir Oliver is making a clumsy argument!” Sacheverall protested. He stared at Rathbone. “Are you finished? Have you no better case than that to offer?”
Rathbone had not, but this was certainly not the time to say so.
“Not at all,” he denied blandly. “I am explaining what I intended by the question, since you misinterpreted it.”
“You are saying Mrs. Lambert organized a wedding without any assurance that there was a bridegroom?” Sacheverall challenged, the laughter of derision all but bubbling through his words.
“I am suggesting it was a misunderstanding, not villainy,” Rathbone answered, aware how lame the argument was, in spite of its probable truth. Except that he was convinced Melville was holding something back so important it amounted to a lie. There was something elusive about the man, and he had no idea what it was. He had taken his case on impulse, and he regretted it.
Sacheverall dismissed the idea and returned to his seat, with his back half towards Rathbone.
“Sir Oliver?” the judge enquired.
There was nothing more to say. He would only make it even worse.
“No, thank you, my lord. Thank you, Mrs. Lambert.”
Sacheverall had nothing more to add. He was wise enough not to press the issue. He was winning without having to try.
It was already late for luncheon. The court adjourned.
Rathbone walked out with Melville. The crowd stared at them. There were several ugly words said quite clearly enough to hear. Melville kept his eyes straight ahead, his face down, his cheeks flushed. He must have been as aware of them as Rathbone was.
“I didn’t know about the wedding until it was all planned!” he said desperately. “I heard, of course, bits and pieces. I didn’t even realize it was supposed to be me!” They were passing through the entrance hall of the courthouse. Rathbone held open the doors.
“I know that sounds ridiculous,” Melville went on. “But I didn’t listen. My mind was on my own ideas: arches and lintels, colonnades, rows of windows, depths of foundations, front elevations, angles of roofs. Women are often talking about fashion and who is going to marry whom. Half the time it is only gossip and speculation.”
“How can you have been so stupid?” Rathbone snapped, losing his temper at the idiocy of it, all the unnecessary embarrassment.
“Because I suppose I wanted to,” Melville answered with astounding honesty. “I didn’t want it to be true, so I ignored it. If you care about one thing enough, you can exclude other things.” Now they were outside in the sharp wind and sunlight. His eyes were the blue-green of seawater. “I care about buildings, about arches, and pillars and stone, and the way light falls, about color and strength and simplicity. I care about being able to design things that will long outlast me, or anyone I know, things that generations after us will look at and feel joy.”
He pushed his hands into his pockets hard and stared at Rathbone as they walked along the street towards the busy restaurant where they could purchase luncheon. They brushed past people barely noticing them.
“Have you ever been to Athens, Sir Oliver?” he asked. “Have you seen the Parthenon in the sunlight?” His eyes were alight with enthusiasm. “It is pure genius. All the measurements are slightly off the true, to give an optical illusion of perfect grace to the observer … and it succeeds brilliantly.” He flung his arms out, almost hitting a middle-aged man with a gray mustache. He apologized absently and continued to Rathbone. “Can you imagine the minds of the men who built that? And here we are two thousand years later struck silent with awe at its