expression he might have been discussing the transfer of a few acres of farmland, with no real perception of the passions and tragedies of which they were speaking.
Damaris watched him with wide eyes. Edith was silent. Randolph continued with his soup.
Felicia was so angry with him she had great difficulty in controlling her expression, and on the edge of the table her fingers were knotted around her napkin. But she would not permit him to see that he had beaten her.
Randolph put his spoon down. "I suppose you know what you are doing," he said with a scowl. "But it sounds very unsatisfactory to me."
"Well the army is rather different from the law." Peverell's expression was still one of interest and unbroken patience. "It's still war, of course; conflict, adversarial system. But weapons are different and rules have to be obeyed. All in the brain." He smiled as if inwardly pleased with something the rest of them could not see, not a secret pleasure so much as a private one. "We also deal in life and death, and the taking of property and land - but the weapons are words and the arena is in the mind."
Randolph muttered something inaudible, but there was acute dislike in his heavy face.
"Sometimes you make yourself sound overly important, Peverell," Felicia said acidly.
"Yes." Peverell was not put out of countenance in the least. He smiled at the ceiling. "Damaris says I am pompous." He turned to look at Hester. "Who is your barrister, Miss Latterly?"
"Oliver Rathbone, of Vere Street, just off Lincoln's Inn Fields," Hester replied immediately.
"Really?" His eyes were wide. "He is quite brilliant. I remember him in the Grey case. What an extraordinary verdict! And do you really think he would be prepared to act for Alexandra?"
"If she wishes him to." Hester felt a surge of self-consciousness that took her by surprise. She found herself unable to meet anyone's eyes, even Peverell's, not because he was critical but because he was so remarkably perceptive.
"How excellent," he said quietly. "How absolutely excellent. It is very good of you, Miss Latterly. I am sufficiently aware of Mr. Rathbone's reputation to be most obliged. I shall inform Mrs. Carryon."
"But you will not allow her to entertain any false notions as to her choices in the matter," Felicia said grimly. "No matter how brilliant" - she said the word with a peculiar curl of her lip as though it were a quality to be held in contempt - "this Mr. Rathbone may be, he cannot twist or defy the law, nor would it be desirable that he should." She took a deep breath and let it out in an inaudible sigh, her mouth suddenly tight with pain. "Thaddeus is dead, and the law will require that someone answer for it."
"Everyone is entitled to defend themselves in their own way, whatever they believe is in their interest, Mama-in-law," Peverell said clearly.
"Possibly, but society also has rights, surely - it must!" She stared at him defiantly. "Alexandra's ideas will not be allowed to override those of the rest of us. I will not permit it." She turned to Hester. "Perhaps now you will tell us something of your experiences with Miss Nightingale, Miss Latterly. It would be most inspiring. She is truly a remarkable woman."
Hester was speechless with amazement for a moment, then a reluctant admiration for Felicia's sheer command overtook her.
"Yes - by - by all means ..." And she began with the tales she felt would be most acceptable to them and least likely to provoke any further dissension: the long nights in the hospital at Scutari, the weariness, the patience, the endless work of cleaning to be done, the courage. She forbore from speaking of the filth, the rats, the sheer blinding incompetence, or the horrifying figures of the casualties that could have been avoided by foresight, adequate provisions, transport and sanitation.
* * * * *
That afternoon Peverell went first to see Alexandra Carlyon, then to Vere Street to speak to Oliver Rathbone. The day after, May 6, Rathbone presented himself at the prison gates and requested, as Mrs. Carlyon's solicitor, if he might speak with her. He knew he would not be refused.
It was foolish to create in one's mind a picture of what a client would be like, her appearance, or even her personality, and yet as he followed the turnkey along the gray passages he already had a picture formed of Alexandra Carlyon. He saw her as dark-haired, lush of figure