bench creaked as a single person shifted weight. A corset bone snapped. Someone's reticule slipped out of her hands and slithered to the floor with a clunk of coins.
One of the jurors sneezed.
Zorah looked at Rathbone, then away again. She did not speak.
Gisela faced them, and for the first time Rathbone was able to look at her without appearing to stare. In the box behind the rail, she looked even smaller, her shoulders more delicate, her head even a trifle large with its broad forehead and strong brows. No one could deny it was a face of remarkable character, and perhaps an illusion of beauty more meaningful than mere coloring or symmetry of features. She faced Harvester directly, unwaveringly, waiting for him to begin once she had sworn in a low, very pleasing voice as to her name. Her accent also was very slight, her use of English easy.
Harvester had obviously made the appropriate inquiries beforehand and knew better than to use her royal form of address. She had never been crown princess; such title as she had was courtesy.
"Madam," he began, his tone respectful of her widowhood, her legendary love, if not her status. "We have heard testimony in this court that the Countess Zorah Rostova has on several occasions made a most vile and appalling accusation against you, and that she has done it repeatedly, in private and in public places. She herself has never denied it We have heard from friends of yours that they were aware that very naturally it caused you great grief and distress."
He glanced briefly towards the gallery. "We have heard Baroness von Seidlitz say that it has provided fuel for enemies you may have in your native country who still bear you envy and ill will because of your marriage to the Prince. Would you please tell the court how your husband died? I do not desire to harrow your emotions by raising what can only be devastating memories for you. The briefest description will serve."
She gripped the railing with black-gloved hands as if to steady herself and stood silent for several seconds before summoning the strength to reply.
Rathbone groaned inwardly. It was worse than he had anticipated. The woman was perfect. She had dignity. Tragedy was on her side, and she knew not to play it too much. Perhaps it was Harvester's advice, perhaps her own natural good taste.
"He fell from his horse while out riding," she said quietly, but her voice was distinct, falling into the silence with all the burden of loss. Every word was perfectly audible throughout (he room. "He was very seriously injured. His foot was caught in the stirrup iron, and he was dragged." She took a deep breath and let it out softly. She lifted her strong, rather square chin. "At first we thought he was getting better. It is very difficult for even the best doctor to tell how serious an internal injury may be. Then suddenly he relapsed ... and within hours he was dead."
She stood absolutely immobile, her face a mask of hopelessness. She did not weep. She looked as if she were already exhausted by grief and had nothing left inside her but endless, gray pain, and ahead only an untold number of years of loneliness which no one could reach.
Harvester allowed the court to sense her tragedy, her utter bereavement, before he continued.
"And the doctor said the cause of death was his internal injuries?" he said very gently.
"Yes."
"After the funeral you returned to Venice, to the home you had shared with him?"
"Yes."
"How did you hear of the Countess Rostova's extraordinary charge?"
She lifted her chin a little. Rathbone stared at her. It was a remarkable face; there was a unique serenity in it. She had been devastated by tragedy, and yet the longer he looked, the less did he see vulnerability in the line of her lips or the way she held herself. There was something in her which seemed almost untouchable.
"First, Lady Wellborough wrote and told me," she answered Harvester. "Then other people also wrote. To begin with I assumed it was merely an aberration, perhaps spoken when... I do not wish to be uncharitable ... but I have been left no choice ... when she had taken too much wine."
"What motive can you imagine Countess Rostova having to say such a thing?" Harvester asked with wide eyes.
"I should prefer not to answer that," Gisela said with icy dignity. "Her reputation is well-known to many. I am not interested in