Weighed in the balance - Anne Perry [107]
Several of the jurors nodded. One pursed his lips.
There was a murmur of commiseration from the gallery.
Harvester glanced at Gisela, who sat motionless. She had removed her gloves, and her hands lay on the table in front of her, bare but for the gold wedding ring on her right hand and the black mourning ring on the left. Her hands were small and strong, rather square.
“Proceed,” Harvester said softly.
“The Countess Zorah Rostova was also present among the dinner guests,” Wellborough said, his voice thick with distaste, and there flickered across his eyes and mouth something which could have been anxiety.
Rathbone thought of Monk’s last trip to Wellborough, and wondered precisely how he had elicited Wellborough’s cooperation, almost fruitless though it had proved.
Harvester waited.
The room was silent except for the slight whispers of breathing. A woman’s whalebone corset creaked.
“Countess Rostova said that she had no doubt that Princess Gisela would be well provided for and that the grief would be assuaged in time,” Wellborough continued. His mouth tightened. “I thought it a tasteless remark, and I believe that someone else passed a comment to that effect. To which she replied that considering Gisela had murdered Friedrich, the remark was really very mild.”
He was prevented from going any further by the gasps and murmurs from the body of the court.
The judge did not intervene but allowed the reaction to run its course.
Rathbone found his muscles clenching. It was going to be every bit as hard as he had feared. He looked sideways at Zorah’s powerful profile, her long nose, eyes too widely spaced, subtle, sensitive mouth. She was insane, she must be. It was the only answer. Was insanity a plea in cases of slander? Of course not. It was a civil case, not a criminal one.
He did not mean to look at Harvester, least of all to catch his eye, but he found himself doing it. He saw what he thought was a flash of rueful humor, but perhaps it was only pity and knowledge of his own unassailable case.
“And what was the reaction around the table to this statement. Lord Wellborough?” Harvester asked when the noise had subsided sufficiently.
“Horror, of course,” Wellborough answered with anxiety. “There were those who chose to assume she must mean it in some kind of bizarre humor, and they laughed. I daresay they were so embarrassed they had no idea what else to do.”
“Did the Countess Rostova explain herself?” Harvester raised his eyebrows. “Did she offer a mitigation as to why she had said such an outrageous thing?”
“No, she did not.”
“Not even to Lady Easton, her hostess?”
“No. Poor Lady Easton was mortified. She hardly knew what to say or do to cover the situation. Everyone was acutely uncomfortable.”
“I should imagine so,” Harvester agreed. “You are quite sure the Countess did not apologize?”
“Far from it,” Wellborough said angrily, his hands gripping the edge of the railing of the box as he leaned forward on it. “She said it again.”
“In your hearing, Lord Wellborough?”
“Of course in my hearing!” Wellborough said. “I know better than to repeat something in court which I do not know for myself.”
Harvester’s composure was unruffled. “Are you referring to that same dinner party or to some other occasion?”
“Both …” Wellborough straightened up. “She made the statement again that evening when Sir Gerald Bretherton remonstrated with her, protesting that she surely could not mean such a thing. She assured him that she did—”
“And what was the reaction to her charge?” Harvester interrupted. “Did anyone argue with her, or did they dismiss it as bad behavior, possibly the act