Almost Heaven by Judith McNaught
Elizabeth steadfastly ignored that and launched into a swift but complete version of everything that had happened from the moment Robert came up behind her at Havenhurst. Finished, she stood up, ready to go in and tell everyone across the hall the same thing, but Delham continued to pillory her with his gaze, watching her in silence above his steepled fingertips. “Are we supposed to believe that Banbury tale?” he snapped at last “Your brother is alive, but he isn’t here. Are we supposed to accept the word of a married woman who brazenly traveled as man and wife with another man—”
“With my brother.” Elizabeth retorted, bracing her palms on the desk, as if by sheer proximity she could make him understand.
“So you want us to believe. Why, Lady Thornton? Why this sudden interest in your husband’s well-being?”
“Delham!” the duchess barked. “Are you mad? Anyone can see she’s telling the truth—even I—and I wasn’t inclined to believe a word she said when she arrived at my house! You are tearing into her for no reason—”
Without moving his eyes from Elizabeth, Mr. Delham said shortly, “Your grace, what I’ve been doing is nothing to what the prosecution will try to do to her story. If she can’t hold up in here, she hasn’t a chance out there!”
“I don’t understand this at all!” Elizabeth cried with panic and fury. “By being here I can disprove that my husband has done away with me. And I have a letter from Mrs. Hogan describing my brother in detail and stating that we were together. She will come here herself if you need her, only she is with child and couldn’t travel as quickly as I had to do. This is a trial to prove whether or not my husband is guilty of those crimes. I know the truth, and I can prove he isn’t.”
“You’re mistaken, Lady Thornton,” Delham said in a bitter voice. “Because of its sensational nature and the wild conjecture in the press, this is no longer a quest for truth and justice in the House of Lords. This is now an amphitheater, and the prosecution is in the center of the stage, playing a starring role before an audience of thousands all over England who will read about it in the papers. They’re bent on giving a stellar performance, and they’ve been doing just that. Very well,” he said after a moment “Let’s see how well you can deal with them.”
Elizabeth was so relieved to see him stand up at last that not even his last remarks about the prosecution’s motives had any weight with her. “I’ve told you everything exactly as it happened, and I’ve brought Mrs. Hogan’s letter here to verify the part about Robert. She will come here herself, as I said, if it’s necessary. She can describe him for everyone and even identify him from portraits I have of him—”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not Perhaps you’ve described him well for her and paid her to do this,” he remarked, again assuming the prosecutor’s role. “Have you promised her money for coming here, by the way?”
“Yes, but—”
“Never mind,” he clipped angrily. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It doesn’t matter?” she repeated dumbly. “But Lord Kyleton said the prosecution’s best case, and most damning case, has always been about my brother.”
“As I’ve just told you,” he said coldly, “it is not my primary concern at this moment I’m going to put you where you can hear what I’m saying for the next few moments without being seen by anyone. My assistant will come to escort you to the witness box.”
“Will—will you tell Ian I’m here?” she asked in a suffocated little voice.
“Absolutely not I want him to have his first glimpse of you along with everyone else. I want them to see his initial reaction and judge its validity.” With the duchess following behind be led them to another door, then stepped aside, and Elizabeth realized they were in a secluded alcove where they could see everything and everyone without being seen. Her pulse began to race as her senses tried to take in the entire kaleidoscope of color and movement and sound. The long, chamber with its high, vaulted ceilings was buzzing loudly with hundreds of muted conversations taking place in the galleries above and on the benches below, where lords of the realm sat, waiting impatiently for the trial to continue.
Not far from their alcove the scarlet-robed and bewigged Lord Chancellor was seated on the traditional red Woolsack, from where he would preside over the trial.
Below and about him were more grim-faced men in scarlet robes and powdered wigs, including eight judges and the Crown’s prosecutors. Seated at another table were men whom Elizabeth presumed to be Ian’s solicitors and their clerks, more grim-faced men in scarlet robes and powdered wigs. Elizabeth watched Peterson Delham striding forward down the aisle, and she tried desperately to see around him. Surely Ian would be seated at whatever table . . . her frantic gaze skidded to a stop, riveting on his beloved face. His name rose to her lips, and she bit down to stop herself from crying out to him that she was there. At the same time a teary smile touched her lips, because everything about him—even the nonchalant way he was sitting—was so achingly, beautifully familiar. Other accused men must surely have sat at rigid and respectful attention, but not Ian, she realized with a pang of pride and a twinge of alarm. As if he intended to display his utter contempt for the legality, the validity, of the proceedings against him, Ian was sitting in the accused box, his right elbow resting on the polished wooden ledge that surrounded him, his booted foot propped atop his knee. He looked dispassionate, cold, and in complete control.
“I trust that you’re ready to begin again, Mr. Delham,” the Lord Chancellor said irritably, and the instant his voice rose the great hall grew instantly quiet. In the galleries above and on the benches below, lords stiffened with attention and turned alertly toward the Chancellor—everyone did. Everyone, Elizabeth noted, except for Ian, who continued to lounge in his chair, looking impatient now, as if the trial was a farce taking his time away from weightier matters.
“I apologize again for this delay, my lords,” Delham said after pausing to whisper something to the youngest of Ian’s solicitors, who was seated at a table near Delham. The young man arose abruptly and started around the perimeter of the room—beading, Elizabeth realized, straight toward her. Turning back to the Lord Chancellor, Delham said with extreme courtesy, “My Lord, if you will permit me a little leeway in procedure at this time, I believe we can resolve the entire issue at hand without further debate or calling of witnesses.”
“Explain your meaning, Mr. Delham,” he commanded curtly.
“I wish to call a surprise witness to the witness box and to be permitted to ask her only one question. Afterward my lord prosecutor may question her at any length, and to any degree he desires.”
The Lord Chancellor turned to consult with a man Elizabeth surmised must be the bead prosecutor the Attorney-General. “Have you any objection, Lord Sutherland?”
Lord Sutherland arose, a tall man with a hawk nose and thin lips, garbed in the requisite scarlet robes and powdered wig. “Certainly not, my lord,” he said in a tone that was almost snide. “We’ve waited for Mr. Delham twice already today. What is one more delay in the execution of English justice?”
“Bring your witness forward, Mr. Delham. And after this I’ll countenance no more delays in these proceedings. Is that understood?”
Elizabeth actually jumped when the young solicitor stepped into the alcove and touched her arm. Her eyes riveted on Ian, she started forward on wooden legs, her heart thundering against her ribs, and that was before Peterson Delham said in a voice that carried to the highest tiers of seats, “My lords, we call to the witness box the Marchioness of Kensington!”
Waves of shock and tension seemed to scream through the huge chamber. Everyone leaned forward in their seats, but Elizabeth didn’t notice that. Her eyes were on Ian; she saw his entire body stiffen, saw his gaze snap to her face . . . and then his face hardened into a mask of freezing rage, his amber eyes turning an icy, metallic gold.
Shaking beneath the blast of his gaze, Elizabeth walked into the witness box and repeated the oath that was being read to her. Then Peterson D
Elizabeth swallowed and, tearing her gaze from Ian’s, said as loudly as she could, “Elizabeth Marie Cameron.”
Pandemonium erupted all around her, and white-wigged heads tipped toward one another while the Lord Chancellor called sharply for silence.
“Will the court permit me to verify this by asking the accused if this is indeed his wife?” Delham asked when order was restored.
The Lord Chancellor’s narrowed gaze swung from Elizabeth’s face to Ian. “Indeed.”
“Lord Thornton,” Delham asked calmly, watching Ian’s reaction, “is this woman before us the wife whose disappearance—whose murder—you have been accused of causing?”
Ian’s jaw clenched, and he nodded curtly.
“For the information of those present, Lord Thornton has identified this witness as his wife. I have no further questions.”
Elizabeth clutched the wooden edge of the witness box, her widened eyes on Peterson Delham, unable to believe he wasn’t going to question her about Robert.
“I have several questions, my lords,” said the Attorney-General, Lord Sutherland.
With trepidation Elizabeth watched Lord Sutherland stroll forward, but when he spoke she was staggered by the kindness in his voice. Even in her state of fright and desperation Elizabeth could actually feel the contempt, the male fury, being blasted at her from all around the chamber —everywhere but from him.
“Lady Thornton,” Lord Sutherland began, looking confused and almost relieved that she was here to clear up matters. “Please, there is no need to look frightened. I have only a few questions. Would you kindly tell us what brings you here at this late date, in what is obviously a state of great anxiety, to reveal your presence?”
“I—I came because I discovered that my husband is accused of murdering my brother and me,” Elizabeth said, trying to speak loudly enough to be heard across the echoing chamber.
“Where have you been until now?”
“I’ve been in Helmshead with my brother, Rob—”
“Did she say brother?” demanded one of the Crown’s solicitors. Lord Sutherland suffered the same shock that rocketed through the chambers causing another outbreak of conversation, which in turn caused the Lord Chancellor to call for order. The prosecutor’s shock, however, did not last very long. Recovering almost at once, he said, “You have come here to tell us that not only are you alive and unharmed,” he summarized thoughtfully, “but that you have been with the brother who has been missing for two years—the brother of whom no one has been able to find a trace—not your investigator, Mr. Wordsworth, nor the Crown’s investigators, nor even those hired by your husband?”
Elizabeth’s startled gaze flew to Ian and ricocheted in alarm from the glacial hatred on his face. “Yes, that’s correct.”
“And where is this brother?” For emphasis he made a sweeping gesture and looked around as if searching for Robert “Have you brought him so that we can see him as we’re seeing you—alive and unharmed?”
“No,” Elizabeth said. “I haven’t, but—”
“Please just answer my questions,” Lord Sutherland admonished. For a long moment he looked nonplussed, then he said, “Lady Thornton, I believe we would all like to hear why you left the safety and comfort of your home six weeks ago, fled in secrecy from your husband, and have now returned at this last desperate hour to plead that we have all somehow made a mistake in thinking your life or your brother’s life could be in danger. Begin at the beginning, if you please.”
Elizabeth was so relieved that she was being given a chance to tell her story that she related it verbatim, just as she’d rehearsed it in the coach over and over again— carefully leaving out parts that would make Robert seem like a bar or a madman bent on having Ian hang for murders he didn’t commit. With careful, rehearsed words she swiftly painted Robert as she truly saw him—a young man who had been driven by pain and deprivation to wrongly seek vengeance against her husband; a young man whom her husband had saved from the gallows or lifelong imprisonment by charitably having him put on a ship and taken abroad; a young man who had then suffered, through his own unintentional actions, great trials and even vicious beatings for which he had wrongly blamed Ian Thornton.
Because she was desperate and frightened and had practiced the speech so many times, Elizabeth delivered her testimony with the flat unemotionalism of a rehearsed speech, and in a surprisingly short time she was done. The only time she faltered was when she had to confess that she had actually believed her husband guilty of her brother’s beatings. During that awful moment her gaze slid penitently to Ian, and the altered expression on his face was more terrifying because it was bored—as if she were a very poor actress playing a role in an exceedingly boring play he was being forced to watch.
Lord Sutherland broke the deafening silence that followed her testimony with a short, pitying laugh, and suddenly his eyes were piercing hers and his raised voice was hammering at her. “My dear woman, I have one question for you, and it is much like my earlier one: I want to know why.”
For an inexplicable reason, Elizabeth felt icy fear starting to quake through her, as if her heart understood that something awful was happening—that she had not been believed, and he was now going to make absolutely certain that she would never be. “Why—why what?” she stammered.
“Why have you come here to tell us such an amazing tale in hopes of saving the life of this man from whom you admit you fled weeks ago?”
Elizabeth looked beseechingly to Peterson Delham, who shrugged as if in resigned disgust. In her petrified state she remembered his words in the anteroom, and now she understood them: “What I’ve been doing to her is nothing to what the prosecution will do to her story . . . . This is no longer a quest for truth and justice . . . this is an amphitheater, and the prosecution is bent on giving a stellar performance. . . .”
“Lady Thornton!” the prosecutor rapped out, and he began firing questions at her so rapidly that she could scarcely keep track of them. “Tell us the truth, Lady Thornton. Did that man”—his finger pointed accusingly to where Ian was sitting, out of Elizabeth’s vision—“find you and bribe you to come back here and tell us this absurd tale? Or did he find you and threaten your life if you didn’t come here today? Isn’t it true that you have no idea where your brother is? Isn’t it true that by your own admission a few moments ago you fled in terror for your life from this cruel man? Isn’t it true that you are afraid of further cruelty from him—”
“No!” Elizabeth cried. Her gaze raced over the male faces around and above her, and she could see not one that looked anything but either dubious or contemptuous of the truths she had told.
“No further questions!”
“Wail!” In that infinitesimal moment of time Elizabeth realized that if she couldn’t convince them she was telling the truth, she might be able to convince them she was too stupid to make up such a lie. “Yes, my lord,” her voice rang out. “I cannot deny it—about his cruelty, I mean.”
Sutherland swung around, his eyes lighting up, and renewed excitement throbbed in the great chamber. “You admit this is a cruel man?”
“Yes, I do,” Elizabeth emphatically declared.
“My dear, poor woman, could you tell us—all of us— some examples of his cruelty?”
“Yes, and when I do, I know you will all understand how truly cruel my husband can be and why I ran off with Robert—my brother, that is.” Madly, she tried to think of half-truths that would not constitute perjury, and she remembered Ian’s words the night he came looking for her at Havenhurst.
“Yes, go on.” Everyone in the galleries leaned forward in unison, and Elizabeth had the feeling the whole building was tipping toward her. “When was the last time your husband was cruel?”
“Well, just before I left he threatened to cut off my allowance—I had overspent it, and I hated to admit it”
“You were afraid he would beat you for it?”
“No, I was afraid he wouldn’t give me more until next quarter!”
Someone in the gallery laughed, then the sound was instantly choked. Sutherland started to frown darkly, but Elizabeth plunged ahead. “My husband and I were discussing that very thing—my allowance, I mean—two nights before I ran away with Bobby.”
“And did he become abusive during that discussion? Is that the night your maid testified that you were weeping?”
“Yes, I believe it was!”
“Why were you weeping, Lady Thornton?”
The galleries tipped further toward her.
“I was in a terrible taking,” Elizabeth said, stating a fact. “I wanted to go away with Bobby. In order to do it, I had to sell my lovely emeralds, which Lord Thornton gave me.” Seized with inspiration, she leaned confiding inches toward the Lord Chancellor upon the woolsack. “I knew he would buy me more, you know.” Startled laughter rang out from the galleries, and it was the encouragement Elizabeth desperately needed.
Lord Sutherland, however, wasn’t laughing. He sensed that she was trying to dupe him, but with all the arrogance typical of most of his sex, he could not believe she was smart enough to actually attempt, let alone accomplish it. “I’m supposed to believe you sold your emeralds out of some freakish start—out of a frivolous desire to go off with a man you claim was your brother?”
“Goodness, I don’t know what you are supposed to believe. I only know I did it.”
“Madam!” he snapped. “You were on the verge of tears. according to the jeweler to whom you sold them. If you were in a frivolous mood, why were you on the verge of tears?”
Elizabeth gave him a vacuous look. “I liked my emeralds.”
Guffaws erupted from the floor to the rafters. Elizabeth waited until they were finished before she leaned forward and said in a proud, confiding tone, “My husband often says that emeralds match my eyes. Isn’t that sweet?”
Sutherland was beginning to grind his teeth, Elizabeth noted. Afraid to look at Ian, she cast a quick glance at Peterson Delham and saw him watching her alertly with something that might well have been admiration.