Hester reached out and took Martha in her arms, holding her thin body closely and feeling the dry sobs that racked through her.

"Of course, there was nothing you could do," Hester said gently. "You had to work to eat. So do all of us. Sometimes it is all you can do to support yourself, and if you go under, what use is that to anyone?"

"I wish I knew where they were!" Martha said desperately. "I look at Lieutenant Sheldon with his face all twisted and burned like that until half of him hardly looks human, and I see the look in Perdita's eyes, and she was so in love with him… and now she can hardly bring herself to look at him straight, let alone touch him… and I wonder what happened to those poor little souls. I should have found some way to help! Who's going to love them, if not me?"

"I don't know," Hester said honestly. False words of comfort now would only leave Martha thinking she did not understand or believe the enormity of her anguish. Hester held her even closer. "We can't change what has already happened, but we can try to do something about Gabriel and Perdita. She's got to learn to understand, to forget his disfigured face and see the man inside… that beauty matters so much more. That is what will love her in return. To the devil with Athol Sheldon and his ideas."

Martha gave a jerky little laugh, half choking. "He means well," she said, straightening herself up and pushing back some of her hair which had fallen askew from its pins. "He just doesn't realize…"

Hester poured fresh tea, which was still hot and steaming fragrantly. She passed one of the cups over to Martha.

Martha smiled and fished in her pocket for a handkerchief to blow her nose.

Hester sipped her own tea and took a piece of shortbread.

"Thank you for bringing my letter up," she said conversationally. "It was written from Scotland. Have you ever been there?"

Martha dabbed her eyes and settled to listen with interest to Callandra Daviot's account of her journeys.

The Lamberts were not open to negotiation of any sort. Killian Melville was sued for breach of promise and the case came to trial very rapidly. It was naturally attended by a great deal of gossip and speculation. Such an event had not happened in society in some while, and it was on everyone's lips.

Oliver Rathbone had given his word to defend Melville, so although he still had no further information which he could use, he was in court with a calm face and a steady smile to face Wystan Sacheverall, acting for Miss Zillah Lambert but, of course, paid by and instructed by her parents.

The jury had already been selected: a group of men more embarrassed by their position than usual and-quite obviously to even the casual eye-wishing they were not involved in what was a private and domestic matter. Looking at them, Rathbone wondered how many of them had daughters of their own. Above half of them were of an age to be coasidering their own children's marriages.

How many of them had made rash promises in their youth and lived to regret them, or at least attempted to retract them? Were their own marriages happy? Were their experiences of domestic family life ones they would wish upon another? So much might hang upon things Rathbone would never know. They would remain two rows of well-to-do men of varying ages, different appearances and characteristics, with only two things in common: the reputation and the personal means to become a juror; and a degree of discomfort at finding themselves obliged to make a decision they would much rather not.

The judge was a smallish man with mild features and remarkably steady, candid blue eyes. He spoke very quietly. One was obliged to listen in order to hear what he said.

The first witness called was Barton Lambert. He looked angry and unhappy as he strode across the open space in the front of the room and climbed the steps to the witness-box. His cheeks were flushed and his arms and body stiff.

Beside Rathbone, Killian Melville bit his lip and looked down at the table. He had seemed thoroughly wretched throughout their preparation, but no matter what Rathbone had said, any argument or estimate he had offered about the probable outcome, Melville had refused to be swayed from his decision to fight.

Sacheverall moved forward. He was a plain man with rather large ears, but he had a confidence which lent him a certain grace, and he had a good height and broad shoulders. His fair hair was in need of cutting, and curled up at his collar. His voice was excellent, and he knew it.

Barton Lambert took the oath to tell the truth, the whole of it, and nothing else.

Sacheverall smiled at him. "We all appreciate that this is a most distressing experience for you, Mr. Lambert, and that you bring this action at all only to defend your daughter's good name. We realize that there is no animosity in your action, and no desire to inflict embarrassment or pain upon anyone-"

The judge leaned forward. "Mr. Sacheverall, there is no need to state your case. We require you simply to prove it, if you will be so good," he said gently. "If you will give us the facts, we shall draw our own conclusion. We assume all parties to be honorable, until shown otherwise. Please provide your evidence."

Sacheverall looked taken aback. Apparently he did not know Mr. Justice McKeever.

Rathbone knew him only by repute. He hid his smile.

"My lord," Sacheverall acknowledged. "Mr. Lambert, will you please tell the court how you first made the acquaintance of Killian Melville, and in what circumstances he was introduced to your daughter, Miss Zillah Lambert, upon whose behalf you are bringing this suit."

"Of course," Lambert said gruffly, and cleared his throat and then coughed, raising a large hand to his mouth. "I had a little capital i wanted to spend. Create something beautiful out of what I had earned." He looked at Sacheverall for approval and continued when he saw him nod. “I thought of a building… something real handsome… different… new. I had several architects recommended to me." He moved uncomfortably. "Saw all their plans. Young Melville was one of 'em. Liked his the best, by a long way. The others were adequate… but pedestrian compared wi' his." He took a deep breath, filling his lungs. "I sent for him. Liked him straight off. Modest enough, but sure of 'imself. Looked me straight in the eye." He coughed again. "He wanted the job, I could see that, but he wasn't going to curry favor for it. His designs were good, and he knew it."

"You commissioned him to draw the plans for your new building?" Sacheverall concluded.

"Yes sir, I did. And it was the admiration of all my acquaintances, and many strangers, when it was built. In Abercorn Place, it is, in Maida Vale." There was a ring of pride in Lambert's voice when he said it. Whatever his feelings for Melville currently, he still regarded his work with delight. "You may have seen it…" he added hopefully.

"Indeed I have," Sacheverall agreed. "It is very beautiful. Was it at this time that you came to know Mr. Melville socially and invited him to your home?"

"It was. Not at first, you understand," he explained, "but as the building was nearing completion. Naturally he had to come and consult with me from time to time. Very diligent, he was. Left nothing to chance."

"Not a careless man?" Sacheverall noted.

Rathbone knew what he was doing, but he could not stop him. He looked at the jurors' faces. They were all men of property, by definition, or they would not be jurors. They would understand Lambert's feelings and identify with them, even if their own estates were on a vastly smaller scale.

"Not at all," Lambert said vehemently. "Wouldn't employ a careless man. I couldn't have got where I am, sir, if I couldn't judge a man's ability in his profession." He took another deep breath, as if steadying himself. "Thought I could judge a man's personal character as well. Would have sworn Melville was as honorable as any man I've known. Looks as if I'm not as clever as I thought, doesn't it?"