to enter the petitioner's bed. From that time forward, if the court will pardon my frankness, all conjugal intercourse was at an end." He pauses to underline the gravity.
The story's convincing, Helen grants the barrister that; it has a simple thrust to it, like a sermon. The truth is more bitty, harder to explain. She feels a sudden temptation to stand up and say, There was no key in my door. Don't tell me he was burning for me, because I won't believe it.
"The respondent made a wild demand for a separation on grounds of incompatibility—though there are of course no such grounds in British law," Bovill adds. "The petitioner very correctly invited his wife's parents, and his own brother, General Codrington, to mediate. The conclusion was that the respondent agreed to resume at least the appearance of married life."
The house was in chaos, Helen remembers. Quarrels in corners, scenes in the hall, lukewarm soup ... One of the girls hurled a wooden block through a stained glass window.
When she manages to turn her attention back to Bovill, he's describing their way of life in Malta. "The respondent's behaviour became increasingly erratic: in private, moody, flippant, and self-aggrandizing; in public, spendthrift, loquacious, and coquettish." The barrister's tone darkens. "In the year i860 she began to be seen constantly in the company of Lieutenant Mildmay—who we learn from Bombay has refused, on advisement, to submit to an examination."
The cur! To think Mildmay once sobbed into her lap, kissed her ankle. How hard would it have been for him, at the safe distance of a few thousand miles, to answer No, not so, nothing of the sort, an impeccable lady?
"I look forward to my learned friend's explanation," remarks Bovill with a lifted eyebrow.
My learned friend, that must mean Hawkins. It's as bad as the House of Commons.
"In the meantime I will leave it to the jury's discernment to deduce why Mildmay, this former confidential friend of the respondent's, might be unwilling to enlighten the court with regard to his relations with her."
A few gruff laughs from men in the crowd. Helen stiffens: two women on the bench in front are looking over their shoulders at her. One mutters something to the other. Helen worries her lip, wishes her veil were thicker. She's not the only lady wearing one, but the others all seem too old or dowdy to be the notorious Mrs. Codrington, as the Spectator called her on Saturday. Yes, for lack of anyone to talk to at Eccleston Square she's been reading the papers again, with a painful hunger.
"The petitioner, being an early riser, had to be in bed by midnight," Bovill explains, "whereas Mrs. Codrington would insist on staying at parties to dance, only coming home in the Admiralty gondola at two, three, or even four o'clock, escorted by an officer—usually either Lieutenant Mildmay, or the co-respondent named in this case, Colonel David Anderson."
The barrister holds up what Helen takes for a toy. When it turns out to be a scale model of the gondola, she almost laughs aloud. It's the kind of ingenious little device her daughters love. The audience cranes to see the jury examine the roofed-in cabin. This is verging on a sideshow: what magic will the mountebank produce from his pocket next?
A little dark man steps into the box as the first witness and swears his oath. Helen's sure she's never seen him before, but he turns out to be one of the boatmen.
"Signor Scichma, how long is the passage across the harbour at Valetta, from the town centre to Admiralty House?" asks Bovill.
"One quarter of one hour, sir," articulates the Italian. He sounds coached, to Helen.
"Does the door have a pane of glass?" Bovill holds up the model again, tapping the cabin.
"Si, but nobody see inside if the light out in there."
"In the cabin."
"Si."
"In English, if you please. Your answer is yes?"
"Yes, sir."
"On the nights when Colonel Anderson or Lieutenant Mildmay happened to be in the cabin with Mrs. Codrington, was the light on inside, generally?"
"No, no. Only a light in the bow of the boat."
"Did you notice anything else in particular, on those nights?"
An obedient nod. "The gondola get, how you say it, out of trim."
A gasp of satisfaction goes up from the audience, and Judge Wilde raps his gavel, but lightly.
Behind her veil, Helen's face is hot and tight. How can she ever have thought of a gondola as a romantic setting? This beetle's-eye perspective on her past turns everything to mud.