Weighed in the Balance (23 page)

“Will he not?” she went on. “After all, it concerns not only the life and death of people you knew quite well but perhaps the murder of a man who could once have been your king.”

Dagmar stopped even pretending to sew. The fabric slipped out of her hands.

“If anyone had told me three months ago that this could happen, I would have said they were ridiculous. It is so completely absurd!”

“Of course, you must have known Gisela,” Hester prompted. “What was she like? Did you care for her?”

Dagmar thought for a moment. “I don’t suppose I did know her, really,” she said at length. “She was not the sort of woman one knows.”

“I don’t understand …” Hester said desperately.

Dagmar frowned. “She had admirers, people who enjoyed her company, but she did not seem to have close friends. If
Friedrich liked someone, then she did; if he did not, then for her that person barely existed.”

“But Friedrich did not dislike you,” Hester said, hoping profoundly that was true.

“Oh, no,” Dagmar agreed. “I think in a slight way we were friends, at least better than mere acquaintances, before Gisela came. But she could make him laugh, even when he had thought he was tired, or bored, or weary with duty. I could never do that. I have seen him at the kind of long banquets where politicians make endless speeches, and he was growing glassy-eyed pretending to listen.” She smiled as she remembered, for once forgetting Robert in the garden below, or the slight breeze stirring the curtains.

“Then she would lean across and whisper something to him,” she continued. “And his eyes would brighten; it would all matter again. It was as if she could touch his mind with just a word, or even a glance, and give him of her vitality and laughter. She believed in him. She saw everything that was good in him. She loved him so very much.” She stared into the distance, her face soft with memory, and perhaps a touch of envy for such a perfect closeness of heart and mind.

“And he must have loved her,” Hester prompted. She tried to imagine it. With the people she cared about most, she seemed to be always on the brink of some misunderstanding or other, if not a downright quarrel. Was it a shortcoming in her? Or did she choose the wrong people to be drawn to? There was some darkness in Monk which every so often would close her out. It seemed unbreachable. And yet there were moments when she knew, as surely as she knew anything on earth, that he wanted never to hurt her, whatever the cost to himself.

“Absolutely and without reservation,” Dagmar said wistfully, cutting across Hester’s thoughts. “He adored her. One always knew where she was in a room, because every now and then his eyes would go to her, even if he was talking to someone else.

“And he was so proud of her, her grace, and wit, and the way she carried herself, her elegance and style of dress. He expected everyone to like her. He was so happy if they did, and could not understand it if they did not.”

“Were there many who did not?” Hester asked. “Why did the Queen dislike her so intensely? And, it seems, the Countess Rostova?”

“I don’t know of any reason, except that, of course, the Queen wanted him to marry Brigitte von Arlsbach,” Dagmar explained. “Gisela did encourage him to kick over the traces rather.” She smiled at some memory. “He was very used to doing everything he was told. Royal protocol is pretty rigid. There was always some equerry or adviser to remind him of the proper attitude, the correct behavior, whom he should speak to, spend time with, compliment, and who should be ignored, what was improper. Gisela would just laugh and tell him to please himself. He was Crown Prince; he should do as he liked.”

She shrugged. “Of course, that is not the way it is. The higher one’s calling, the more one must obey one’s duty. But she was not born even to aristocracy, let alone royalty, so she did not understand that. I think for him that was a great deal of her charm. She offered him a kind of freedom he had never known. She poked fun at the courtiers who ruled his life. She was witty and outrageous and full of fun.” Dagmar took a deep breath and let it out in a snort. “To Ulrike she was only irresponsible, selfish and ultimately a danger to the throne.”

“But would she not have grown out of such behavior were she to have married him?” Hester asked. “I mean, with the Queen’s approval?”

“I don’t know,” Dagmar answered ruefully. “The approval was never given.”

The leaves were falling gently in the garden. A swirl of wind carried a handful against the window. Dagmar looked anxiously towards Robert.

“Did Brigitte love Friedrich?” Hester said quickly.

Dagmar looked back. “I don’t think so. But she would have married him, as her duty, and, I expect, made a good queen.”

“The Countess Rostova must hate Gisela passionately to make such an accusation.” Hester was learning nothing that was the slightest help. All this would make Rathbone’s case worse, not better. “It must be more than merely envy. Do you think she is being prompted by someone else who has a deeper motive?” She leaned forward a little. “Who does she know who might receive some personal gain from making a charge which cannot possibly be proved?”

“I have wondered that myself,” Dagmar said, frowning. “And I have racked my brain to think of an answer. Zorah was always an extraordinary creature, willful and eccentric. Once she was nearly killed trying to defend some quite mad revolutionary. It was in ’48. The wretched man was making a ridiculous speech in the street, and a crowd attacked him. Zorah strode in shouting like a … a barrack room soldier. Called them terrible names and fired a pistol over their heads. Heaven only knows where she got it from, or how she knew how to use it!” Her voice rose in incredulity. “The most absurd thing about it all was that she didn’t even agree with what the man was saying.” She shook her head. “And yet she can be most kind as well. I have known her to take time and trouble to care for people no one else would bother with, and do it so discreetly I knew only by accident.”

Hester found herself liking Zorah in spite of herself. She did not wish to. Zorah had beguiled Rathbone into an impossible situation. Hester resented her doubly for having the skill to intrigue him so he lost his sense of judgment, something she had seen no one else do, and for the danger she had led him into. If she wished to ruin herself, that was her privilege, but to ruin someone else was inexcusable.

But Hester must concentrate on the present need. What she did or did not feel about Zorah personally was irrelevant.

“Could she be in love with someone who is using her in this?” she asked, regarding Dagmar with intelligent interest.

Dagmar considered. “It is the sort of thing she would do,” she agreed after a moment. “In fact, some mistaken love, or misplaced idealism, is about the only thing which makes any sense. Perhaps she trusts him to come forward with some fact which will rescue her at the last moment.” Her eyes softened. “Poor Zorah. What if he doesn’t? What if he is merely using her?”

“To what purpose? Perhaps we are beginning at the wrong end. We should be considering who would benefit from this trial. Who will?”

Dagmar was silent for so long Hester thought she might not have heard.

“Who will benefit politically?” Hester asked again.

“I don’t see how anyone can,” Dagmar answered thoughtfully. “I have racked my head, but the situation doesn’t seem to affect anything that I can think of. I am afraid it is just a stupid mistake made by a woman who has allowed her imagination and her envy to overrule her sense, and it will destroy her. I am very sorry about it.”

Bernd’s opinion was quite different, when Hester managed to speak to him alone and introduce the subject, this time a trifle more skillfully. She had just returned from an errand in the rain and was brushing the water off her skirt where her cloak had not covered it when Bernd crossed the hall, a newspaper in his hand.

“Oh, good afternoon, Miss Latterly. I see you got wet. There is a good fire in the withdrawing room if you wish to warm yourself. I am sure Polly would bring you some tea, and perhaps crumpets if you wish.”

“Thank you,” she accepted eagerly. “Will I not disturb you?” She glanced at the newspaper.

“No, not at all.” He shook it absently. “I’ve finished. Full of scandal and speculation, mostly.”

“I am afraid now that the trial is nearing, people are beginning to wonder a great deal,” she said quickly. “The story is romantic, and although the charge seems unfounded, one cannot help wondering what is the truth behind it.”

“I should imagine revenge,” he replied with a frown.

“But how can she be revenged when she will lose the case?” Hester argued. “Could it have to do with the Queen?”

“In what way?” He looked puzzled.

“Well, apparently the Queen strongly dislikes Gisela. Is Zorah a great friend of the Queen’s?”

Bernd’s face hardened. “Not that I am aware.” He started towards the withdrawing room as though to end the conversation.

“You don’t think the Queen’s dislike could be behind this, do you?” Hester asked, hurrying after him. It was an idea which had a glimmer of sense. Ulrike had apparently never forgiven Gisela, and perhaps now she felt Gisela was somehow to blame for Friedrich’s death—if not directly, then indirectly. “After all,” she continued aloud as they went into the withdrawing room and Bernd pulled the bell rope, rather hard, “he might never have had the accident in the first place if he had not been in exile. And even if he had, he would have received different treatment had he been at home. Maybe, in her mind, she had convinced herself from one step to another, until now she really believes Gisela capable of murder. Maybe …” She swung around in front of him as he sat down, her wet skirts cold against her legs. “She has probably not seen Gisela for twelve years. She knows only what other people have told her and what she imagines.”

The maid answered the summons of the bell, and Bernd ordered afternoon tea for two and hot buttered crumpets.

“I think it unlikely,” he said when the maid had gone and closed the door. “It is a very unpleasant affair, but not one in
which I have any part. I would prefer to discuss your opinion of how we may best help my son. He does appear in these last few days to be better in spirits … although I do not wish him to become too dependent on the young woman, Miss Stanhope. She is not strong enough to employ on any permanent basis, and also, I think, not suitable.”

“Why did the Queen hate Gisela even before she married Friedrich?” Hester said desperately.

His face froze. “I do not know, Miss Latterly, nor do I care. I have sufficient grief in my own family not to be concerned with the self-inflicted misfortune of others. I should appreciate your advice upon what sort of person to employ to be with Robert permanently. I thought you might know of a young man of good character, gentle disposition, perhaps one with a leaning towards reading and study, who would like a position which offers him a home and agreeable company in return for such help as Robert needs.”

“I shall make inquiries, if you wish,” she replied with a sinking heart, not only for Rathbone but for Victoria. “There may well be someone the job would suit very nicely. Is that what Robert wishes?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Is that what Robert wishes?” she repeated.

“What Robert wishes cannot be obtained,” he said, his voice tight with pain. “This is what he requires, Miss Latterly.”

“Yes, Baron Ollenheim,” she conceded. “I will make inquiries.”

7

M
ONK SET OUT
on his journey northward with far more pleasure than the situation warranted. Evelyn was on the same train, and he looked forward to time in her company. She was delightful, elegant, always feminine. She carried her enjoyment of life and people in such a manner it spilled over onto all around her. Her humor was infectious, and he found himself laughing as well.

He left Venice with regret. Its beauty made it unlike any other city, and he would never again see light on rippling water without thinking of it. But there was also a sadness there. It was a city in decay, and occupied by a foreign army, a society looking to the past and disturbed and angry, fighting for the future. The people were divided among Venetians, who were crushed and resentful, awaiting the moment to strike back; Austrians, who knew they were away from home, in an old and lovely culture which did not want them; and expatriates, who belonged nowhere and lived on memories and dreams which even they no longer believed.