Fido clings to the edge of her desk and strains to take a breath. "I deeply regret the publicity. But it should die away soon, as I've no intention of going into the witness box."
Bessie Parkes tilts her small head. "Haven't you been served with a subpoena yet?"
Fido shakes her head.
"Did you or did you not approve that affidavit?"
"Yes, but—"
"Then you'll be obliged to appear, on pain of fine or imprisonment."
Fido sucks her lips in panic. "I mean to write to Mrs. Codrington's solicitor again. There's still time; the case won't come up for several weeks, I understand—"
"Monday, according to my father," says Bessie Parkes crisply.
She's been forgetting that Joseph Parkes is a lawyer. "Monday?" She can hardly form the word. This is Thursday.
"An unexpected reconciliation between the parties in another case has created a sudden opening in the court's schedule."
Fido blanches, gets to her feet. "I—I'm not well."
"Oh, you're hoping a doctor's note will let you off? I doubt that very much, Miss Faithfull." Bessie flips open her watch.
"The Cause means everything to me," sobs Fido, "and I won't be forced into anything that will do it the slightest harm."
"I wonder, have you the slightest grasp of what harm you've done already?" And she sweeps out of the office.
***
FIDO JUST NEEDS TO GET HOME AND LIE DOWN. A little steam, a few cigarettes, and surely her lungs will loosen a little. Monday, Monday. She won't think that far; she can't spare the breath. Four days to live through, and then whatever comes after. She'll have to take these appalling hours one at a time. The fearlessness of the reformer, the world-changer, has dropped away; she's plain Miss Faithfull of the rectory again, wheezing with fright.
"A clerk was here, from a Mr. Few's chambers," Johnson tells her as soon as she steps through the front door.
Fido stares at her maid. "Did he—did he say what it concerns?"
Johnson shakes her head, neutral as ever. "He has something to put into your own hands, that's all he said. He'll call again this afternoon."
Her pulse stops for a second. The subpoena.
She can't; she simply can't. It's not just the mortification of standing up in court, in four days' time; Fido believes she could muster the strength for that, if conscience required it. No, it's the choice that lies before her: to damn a man by swearing on oath to what she really can't remember, for all her efforts—or to admit that she can't remember, and has perjured herself, and so destroy her friend's whole case.
Impossible.
She's been putting off answering a note from her favourite sister. She scribbles a reply now, standing at her desk, afraid to sit down in case she loses momentum.
October 4
My dear Esther,
I can't express how ashamed I am that our parents have learned from the newspapers of my reluctant association with this Codrington case. Please assurethem that I hoped to spare them and all the family this distress by keeping my name clear of the business—but in vain.
How sweet of you, Esther, to offer to accompany me to the Matrimonial Causes Court. But I must tell you that I will not be appearing as a witness. I go abroad today and will stay away until the trial's conclusion. If you please, if you hear what's said of me, don't believe any real evil of
Your sister,
Emily
In flight Fido finds a kind of steely strength. She's packed in half an hour. She picks up her velvet choker, studded with all the small treasures of the Kent shore, holds it in her palm for a moment, wraps it in its linen strip, and puts it back in the bureau drawer. She leaves instructions with Johnson to tell the others to say, if anyone asks, that their mistress is gone abroad on private business. "Accept no documents in my name, on any consideration, remember."
"Yes, madam." The maid's sallow face is as blank as ever.
The servants read the newspapers too, Fido remembers; they must see right through me.
If she never receives the wretched summons, surely she can't be found guilty of having defied it? She wishes she knew more about the law. Not for the first time, she curses the sporadic, gappy nature of even the best female education. It occurs to her to consult a solicitor of her own—there's Mr. Markby, who represented the press in that ridiculous plagiarism case about the rules of bridge—but no, she can't bear to explain to him that she approved (without