fall from grace,” Cornwallis said coolly. “The law requires that it be answered publicly, for the sake of everyone concerned.”
“Nonsense!” the bishop retorted. “How can it possibly be in Parmenter’s interest, or that of his family, let alone that of the church, that this should be dealt with in public? And it is not in the public’s interest, above all, that they should witness the decay and descent into madness of one of the leaders of their spiritual well-being.”
The butler came in quietly. “Dinner is served, sir,” he said with a bow.
The bishop glared at him.
Isadora rose. Her legs were shaking. “Mr. Cornwallis, would you care to come to the dining room?” What could she say to make this dreadful situation better? Did Cornwallis imagine she was part of this hypocrisy? How could she tell him she was not without in the same moment becoming disloyal and exhibiting a greater duplicity. He was a man who would value loyalty. She valued it herself. She had remained silent countless times when she disagreed. On a few occasions she had learned her error or shortsightedness afterwards, and was glad she had not displayed her lack of knowledge.
Cornwallis rose to his feet. “Thank you,” he accepted, and the three of them walked rather stiffly through to the very formal dining room in French blue and gold. For once Isadora’s taste had prevailed over the bishop’s. He had wished for burgundy carpets and curtains with heavy skirts to spread over the floor. This was less heavy, and the long mirror gave it a look of greater space.
When they were seated and the first course served, the bishop took up the point again.
“It is in no one’s interest to make this public,” he repeated, staring at Cornwallis over the soup. “I am sure you understand that.”
“On the contrary,” Cornwallis said very levelly. “It is in everyone’s interest. Most of all it is in Parmenter’s own interest. He maintains he is not guilty. He deserves the right to stand trial and demand of us that we prove it beyond a reasonable doubt.”
“Really …” The bishop was furious. His face was pink and his eyes hectically bright.
Isadora looked at him and felt overwhelmed with guilt. He did not look like a familiar friend who had temporarily lost his way and made a mistake. He was a stranger—and one she did not particularly like. She should not have felt that. It was inexcusable. Everything in her turned towards Cornwallis, calm and angry, certain of himself and his beliefs.
“That is a piece of sophistry, sir,” the bishop accused. “I will not insult you by suggesting the reasons.”
“Oh, Reginald!” Isadora said under her breath.
“What would you prefer we do, Bishop Underhill?” Cornwallis stared back at him. “Bundle Parmenter away secretly, without giving him the opportunity to prove his innocence or our necessity to prove his guilt? Leave him in a madhouse for the rest of his life to save our embarrassment?”
The bishop was scarlet. His hand trembled. “You have misquoted me, sir! That suggestion is appalling!”
It was precisely what he had implied, and Isadora knew it. How could she rescue him and maintain any integrity of her own?
“I am sure you are right, Mr. Cornwallis,” she said very guardedly without looking up at him. “I think we had not realized the consequences of what we were saying. We are not familiar with the law, and thank heaven nothing like this has ever happened before. Of course, we have had our misfortunes, but they have not included actual crime, only sins before the church.” She lifted her eyes to face him at last.
“Of course.” He was staring at her intently, and what she saw in his expression was not disgust but shyness, and admiration. It was as if a warmth had unfolded inside her. “It is … it is a tragedy we none of us are accustomed …” He faltered, not knowing what he wanted to say. “But I cannot step outside the ways of the law. I dare not, because I am not sure enough of what is true to take the judgment upon myself.” He laid his soup spoon on his plate. “But I believe I know what is right, at least as far as the necessity to learn the truth. It is extremely probable that Ramsay Parmenter killed Miss Bellwood because she was a forthright and offensive young woman who defied everything in which he believed.”
His voice dropped and his face was full of sadness. “He may have