The Sins of the Wolf - Anne Perry [139]
“Thank you, Dr. Moncrieff,” Argyll said quickly. “That is all I mean to ask you.”
Gilfeather rose slowly, almost ponderously, to his feet.
Moncrieff faced him steadily. He was not naive enough to think the next few minutes would be easy. He was aware that he had altered, if not the tide of the battle, at least the pitch and the heat of it. In Argyll he had been facing a friend; Gilfeather was the enemy.
“Dr. Moncrieff,” he began softly. “I expect few of us here can imagine the horror and privation you and other workers in the medical field must have faced during the war. It must have been truly terrible. You spoke of hunger, cold, exhaustion and fear. Is that true, no dark exaggeration?”
“None,” Moncrieff said guardedly. “You are correct, sir. It is an experience that cannot be adequately imagined.”
“It must place the most extraordinary strain upon those called upon to endure it?”
“Yes sir.”
“I accept that you could not share it with me, for example, other than in the most superficial and unsatisfactory way.”
“Is that a question, sir?”
“No, unless you disagree with me?”
“No, I agree. One can communicate only those experiences for which there is some common language or understanding. One cannot describe sunset to a man who has not sight.”
“Precisely. That must leave you with a certain loneliness, Dr. Moncrieff.”
Moncrieff said nothing.
“And a closeness to those with whom you have shared such fearful and profound times.”
Moncrieff could not deny it, even though to judge from his face he could perceive where Gilfeather was leading him.
The jurors leaned forward, listening intently.
“Of course,” he conceded.
“And very naturally a certain impatience with the blandness and uncomprehension, perhaps even uselessness, of certain of the women who have no idea whatever of anything more dangerous or demanding than household management?”
“These are your words, sir, not mine.”
“But accurate, sir? Come, you are on oath. Do you not ache to share the past you speak of with such passion now?”
Moncrieff’s expression did not flicker.
“I have no need to, sir. It is beyond sharing by me, or anyone else, except in words that are spoken by the shabby and believed by the ignorant.” He leaned forward, his hands gripping the rail. “But neither do I insult the women who remained at home caring for homes and children. We all have our own challenges, and our virtues. It is too easy to compare, and I think a profitless exercise. As women who manage the domestic economy do not understand the women who went to the Crimea, so, perhaps, those who went away do not know, or pretend to know, the hardships of those who stayed at home.”
“Very well, sir. Your courtesy does you credit,” Gilfeather said between his teeth, the smile vanished from his face. “But nevertheless a closeness must exist, a relief to share what must still cause you deep emotion?”
“Of course.”
“Tell me, sir, did Miss Latterly always appear as dowdy as she does here today? She is a young woman, and not of displeasing form or feature. This must have been an extraordinary ordeal for her. She has been confined first in Newgate Prison in London, and now here in Edinburgh. She is on trial for her life. We cannot judge fairly her charms from the way in which we see her now.”
“That is true,” Moncrieff agreed carefully.
“Did you like her, Doctor?”
“There is little time for friendship, Mr. Gilfeather. Your question admirably illustrates your assumption that those who were not there cannot comprehend what it was like. I admired her and found her excellent to work with, as I have already said.”
“Come, sir!” Gilfeather said grimly, his voice suddenly raised and harsh. “Do not be disingenuous with me! Do you expect us to believe that in two years you were so dedicated to your duty day and night that the natural man never emerged in you?” He spread his hands wide, his face smiling. “You never once, during lulls in battle, times when the summer sunshine shone in the fields, when there was time