The William Monk Mysteries_ The First Three Novels - Anne Perry [508]
“I would.” There was no doubt in Damaris’s voice, none at all. She looked up at Hester. “What can we do for Alex? It would be monstrous if she were hanged for that. Any mother worth a damn would have done the same!”
“Testify,” Hester answered without hesitation. “Tell the truth. We’ve got to persuade the jury that she did the only thing she could to protect her child.”
Damaris looked away, her eyes filling with tears.
“Do I have to tell about Valentine? Peverell doesn’t know! Please …”
“Tell him yourself,” Hester said very quietly. “He loves you—and he must know you love him.”
“But men don’t forgive easily—not things like that.” The despair was back in Damaris’s voice.
Hester felt wretched, still hoping against all likelihood that it was not Peverell.
“Peverell isn’t ‘men,’ ” she said chokingly. “Don’t judge him by others. Give him the chance to be all—all that he could be.” Did she sound as desperate and as hollow as she felt? “Give him a chance to forgive—and love you for what you really are, not what you think he wants you to be. It was a mistake, a sin if you like—but we all sin one way or another. What matters is that you become kinder and wiser because of it, that you become gentler with others, and that you have never repeated it!”
“Do you think he will see it like that? He might if it were anyone else—but it’s different when it’s your own wife.”
“For heaven’s sake—try him.”
“But if he doesn’t, I’ll lose him!”
“And if you lie, Alexandra will lose her life. What would Peverell think of that?”
“I know.” Damaris stood up slowly, suddenly all her grace returning. “I’ve got to tell him. God knows I wish I hadn’t done it. And Charles Hargrave, of all people. I can hardly bear to look at him now. I know. Don’t tell me again, I do know. I’ve got to tell Pev. There isn’t any way out of it-lying would only make it worse.”
“Yes it would.” Hester put out her hand and touched Damaris’s arm. “I’m sorry—but I had no choice either.”
“I know.” Damaris smiled with something of the old charm, although the effort it cost her was apparent. “Only if I do this, you’d better save Alex. I don’t want to say all this for nothing.”
“Everything I can. I’ll leave nothing untried—I promise.”
12
ALEXANDRA SAT ON THE WOODEN BENCH in the small cell, her face white and almost expressionless. She was exhausted, and the marks of sleeplessness were plain around her eyes. She was far thinner than when Rathbone had first seen her and her hair had lost its sheen.
“I can’t go on,” she said wearily. “There isn’t any point. It will only damage Cassian—terribly.” She took a deep breath. He could see the rise of her breast under the thin gray muslin of her blouse. “They won’t believe me. Why should they? There’s no proof, there never could be. How could you prove such a thing? People don’t do it where they can be seen.”
“You know,” Rathbone said quietly, sitting opposite her and looking at her so intensely that in time she would have to raise her head and meet his eyes.
She smiled bitterly. “And who’s going to believe me?”
“That wasn’t my point,” he said patiently. “If you could know, then it is possible others could also. Thaddeus himself was abused as a child.”
She jerked her head up, her eyes full of pity and surprise.
“You didn’t know?” He looked at her gently. “I thought not.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “But if he was, how could he, of all people, abuse his own son?” Her incomprehension was full of confusion and pain. “Surely if—why? I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I,” he answered frankly. “But then I have never walked that path myself. I had quite another reason for telling you, one of very much more urgent relevance.” He stopped, not fully sure if she was listening to him.
“Have you?” she said dully.
“Yes. Can you imagine how he suffered? His lifelong shame, and the fear of being discovered? Even some dim sense of what he was committing upon his own child—and yet, the