An hour later, still only midafternoon, Rathbone was sitting in his chambers reading papers on a case coming up in a day or two. There was a sharp rap on the door, and as soon as he answered it opened and a stocky man with thick, prematurely gray hair came in.
Rathbone knew him immediately; his reputation was impressive. It was Mr. Justice Ingram York, a man far senior to Rathbone though he was only ten or twelve years older. He had been elevated to the bench early in his career and had presided over some of the most famous cases in the last two decades.
He nodded slightly, standing just in front of the door, having closed it as he came in. He was expensively dressed. His cravat alone probably cost more than many people’s entire wardrobes. His features were good, as he must have been aware, except that his mouth was a little ungenerous; but now he was smiling with a degree of satisfaction.
Rathbone rose to his feet as a matter of courtesy, and out of respect for York’s seniority.
“Well done, Rathbone,” York said quietly. “Very complicated case. I was concerned that the weight of evidence would confuse the jury, but you sorted it out for them with great lucidity. You put that duplicitous devil away for a good many years and possibly set an example for a few others to follow.”
“Thank you,” Rathbone said with both pleasure and surprise. He had not expected a man of York’s eminence to call by to express his satisfaction.
York smiled. “Wondered if you’d care to come to dinner tomorrow evening? Asked Allan and his wife as well. He made a very good showing, I thought. He’s a sound man.”
“Thank you, I’d be delighted,” Rathbone said. It was only after York had given him the time and address, then excused himself and left, that Rathbone sat back and wondered if York was aware that Rathbone’s wife, Margaret, was no longer with him. The invitation was a signal honor, and Rathbone admitted to himself how pleased he was to receive it. It was a kind of acceptance he had not expected so soon. Now he was uncertain if he was going to be embarrassed to arrive alone.
It took only a moment’s reflection to settle the question as to whether there was an alternative. It was months since he had spoken to Margaret personally. Such communication as they had had was entirely through third parties, usually her mother.
Looking back now, he could see that possibly there had been something lacking in their relationship, an understanding deeper than the exchanges of pleasant conversation, even the physical tenderness they had shared in the beginning. Had they ever really understood each other? He had thought so. He had seen a gentleness in her, a rare and very lovely dignity. He still remembered how her mother had unintentionally humiliated her when she was still single, trying to persuade Rathbone, as an eligible bachelor, of Margaret’s virtues. It had made her desperately ashamed, and yet she had tried to put him at ease and allow him to escape without seeming rude.
Instead he had found himself actually wanting to dance with her, even to get to know her better. Her intelligence and honor set her above and apart from the other young women at that particular function. He could not recall now what the event had been; all he remembered was Margaret.
But that was over. Surely the gossip among the legal community would have reached York’s ears? He would be perfectly aware that Margaret had not accompanied Rathbone anywhere in more than a year. It was hardly unnoticeable.
What about Lady York? Would she find her dinner table less than balanced because of it? Perhaps she would have invited some other woman? How embarrassing.
Of course he had expected all this. It was part of the sense of loss. With Margaret he had believed himself happy and at the beginning of a whole new time of peace in his life. He felt a completeness he had never possessed before. Now alone, his feelings of failure were acute. Being alone now was nothing like the occasionally rather pleasant solitude he had known well before his marriage. Back then he had been in love with Hester, and he had hesitated to make any decisive move, uncertain if he really wished his comfort disrupted.
How absurd that seemed, looking back, even cowardly. Hester had never used that word to him, but he could not help wondering if she had thought it.
Should he have said anything to York about his single status? Hardly. It would have been inappropriate, even faintly ridiculous.
He would go, and perhaps enjoy himself. He had done well with this very difficult trial. It was a celebration, and he had earned his place in it.
Rathbone dressed immaculately, as always. Elegance came to him quite naturally. He arrived at the Yorks’ magnificent house exactly at the time the invitation had mentioned. He was used to precision and he imagined York might be also. The door opened before he had time to pull the bell rope, as if the footman had been watching for him, as indeed he might.
Rathbone thanked him, gave him his hat, and was escorted across the tessellated marble floor to the double doors of the withdrawing room. The footman opened them and announced him quietly.
“Sir Oliver Rathbone, sir, ma’am.” He waited as Rathbone went in then closed the doors behind him without sound.
The withdrawing room was very large, more than twenty feet long and at least as wide. The floor was luxuriously carpeted; the curtains on the four high windows were of a rich wine color, dark as burgundy, and in spite of the summer evening they were drawn closed. That part of the room faced the street, Rathbone realized; it was a quiet street but perhaps too open to passersby for comfort.
The furniture echoed the same warm colors, and the chandeliers were reflected in polished wooden surfaces and the glass-fronted cabinets against the farthest wall. The mantelpiece was a superb piece of carving, simple in architecture but elaborate in decoration. It was the centerpiece around which all else was ordered.
York himself was standing beside it. He was clearly comfortable, his suit expertly cut to hide his expanding waistline, a cigar in his hand. He was very much master of the situation. But it was York’s wife Rathbone looked at, with interest, then with surprise. The latter feeling sent a jolt running through him, almost of warning, a reminder to himself that he was no judge of character where women were concerned.
He had expected someone rather ordinary, assuming York had married for financial, social, and dynastic reasons, probably with affection but certainly not out of the kind of passion that overrode reason. Everything he knew about the man, and his very considerable reputation, spoke of a person who never acted rashly. As a lawyer he had taken wise cases, never crusading ones. His political views were discreet. His two sons appeared to be cut from the same cloth: solid, intelligent, but without fire.
Beata York did not in any way fit with that conception. She was older than Margaret-at least in her late forties-but she had a far more turbulent face. Her gray eyes were wide and burning with intelligence. Her hair was surprisingly fair, gold so pale as to be almost silver. At first Rathbone thought that she was truly beautiful, then thought the impression must be due to her gown; she was exquisitely dressed in some soft color that was neither gray nor cream. Then she smiled at him and moved forward to greet him, and he knew he had been right to begin with: she was beautiful.
“Good evening, Sir Oliver.” Her voice was low, even a little husky. “I was so glad you were able to come. It would seem incomplete to celebrate without you.” If she had expected his wife, there was no hint of it in her expression.
“Thank you for having me,” he answered, meeting her gaze. “It would be a poor celebration alone. And I believe the verdict was absolutely right; he was a man much in need of being removed from society and prevented from doing further damage.”