The Sins of the Wolf - Anne Perry [144]
Gilfeather opened his mouth, then closed it again. He was well beaten and he knew it. He had provoked a force of nature, and the storm had broken over him.
“I have no more questions,” he said grimly. “Thank you, Miss Nightingale.”
Rathbone had been staring at her.
“Go and help her,” he hissed at Argyll.
“What?”
“Assist her!” Rathbone said fiercely. “Look at her, man!”
“But, she’s …” Argyll began.
“Strong! No she’s not! Get on with it!”
The sheer fury of Rathbone’s voice impelled him to his feet. He plunged forward just as Florence reached the bottom of the steps and all but collapsed.
In the gallery people craned forward anxiously. One man rose as if to leave his place.
“Allow me, madam,” Argyll said, grasping Florence’s arm and holding her up. “I feel you have exhausted yourself on our behalf.”
“It is nothing,” she said, but she clung to him all the same, allowing him to take a remarkable amount of her weight. “Merely a little breathlessness. Perhaps I am not as well as I had imagined.”
Quite slowly he escorted her, without asking the court’s permission, as far as the doors out, every man and woman in the room watching him with bated breath, and then amid a sigh of approval and respect, he returned to his place.
“Thank you, my lord,” he said solemnly to the judge. “The defense next calls the prisoner, Miss Hester Latterly.”
“It is growing late,” the judge said sharply, his face creased with ill-suppressed rage. “The court will adjourn for today. You may call your witness tomorrow, Mr. Argyll.” And he slammed down the gavel as if he would break the shaft of it in his hand.
Hester climbed the steps of the witness-box and turned to face the court. She had slept little, and the few moments she had had were fraught with nightmares, and now that the moment had come, it seemed unreal. She could feel the railing beneath her hands, the wood of it smoothed by a thousand other clenched fingers and white knuckles; the judge with his narrow face and deep-set eyes seemed the figment of yet another nightmare. Her senses were filled with an incomprehensible roaring sound, without form or meaning. Was it people in the gallery talking to each other, or only the blood thundering through her veins, cutting her off from the sights and sounds plain to everyone else?
In spite of all the promises to herself, her eyes searched the gallery for Monk’s hard, smooth face, and she found instead Henry Rathbone. He was looking at her, and although from that distance she could not see him clearly, in her mind’s eye his clear blue eyes had never been plainer, and the gentleness and the hurt for her brought a rush of emotion beyond her control. She knew him ridiculously little. She had had just a few moments with Oliver in his house on Primrose Hill, a quiet evening supper (overcooked because they were late), the summer evening in the garden, the starlit sky above the apple trees, the scent of honeysuckle on the lawn. It was all so familiar, so sweet, the pain of it almost intolerable. She wished she had not seen him, and yet she could not tear her eyes away.
“Miss Latterly!”
Argyll’s voice jerked her back to the present and to the proceedings that had at last begun.
“Yes … sir?” This was her chance to speak for herself, the only chance she would be given between now and the verdict. She must be right. She could not afford a mistake of any sort, not a word, a look, a gesture that could be interpreted wrongly. She might live, or die, upon such tiny things.
“Miss Latterly, why did you respond to Mr. Farraline’s advertisement for someone to accompany his mother from Edinburgh to London? It was a post of short duration, and far beneath your skill. Did it pay extraordinarily well? Or were you so greatly in need of funds that anything at all was welcome?”
“No sir, I accepted it because I thought it would be interesting, and agreeable. I had never