William Monk 11 - Slaves of Obsession

and having to build the first lie between them. Earlier in their knowledge of each other they had fought bitterly. He had thought her opinionated, quick-tongued and cold-natured, a woman whose passion was all bent towards the improvement of others, whether they wished it or not.
    And she had thought him selfish, arrogant and essentially cruel. This morning he would have smiled at how happy they both were. Now it twisted inside him like a torn muscle, a pain reaching into everything, blinding all other pleasures.
    He opened the door and closed it behind him.
    She was there, straightaway, giving him no time to recompose his thoughts. All his earlier words fled.
    She misunderstood, thinking it to do with his search along the river.
    “You found something ugly,” she said quickly. “What is it? To do with Breeland? Even if he’s guilty, that doesn’t mean Merrit is.” There was so much conviction in her voice he knew she was frightened that somehow she was mistaken, and Merrit had played a willing part.
    It was the perfect chance to tell her what he had really found, uglier than she could imagine, but about himself, notBreeland. He could not do it. There was a beauty in her he could not bear to lose. He remembered her in Manassas, bending over the soldier, half covered in blood, tending to his wounds, willing him to live, sharing his pain and giving him her strength.
    What would she think of a man who had made money out of dealing with the profits of slaving? He had never been more ashamed of anything in his life, anything he knew about. Or more afraid of what it would now cost him … and he realized that was the most precious thing he would ever have.
    “William! What is it?” There was an edge of fear in her voice and in her eyes. “What did you find?”
    She was concerned for Merrit, and perhaps for Judith Alberton. She could not guess that it was her own life that was threatened, her happiness, not theirs.
    The truth stuck in his throat.
    “Nothing conclusive.” He swallowed. “I didn’t find any trace of the barge coming back up the river. I’ve no idea whose it was. Probably someone who lent it willingly, or it was stolen from someone who daren’t report it. Or maybe they stole it themselves.” He wanted to touch her, as he usually did, feel the warmth of her body, the eagerness of her response, but self-disgust held him back, closing him in like a vise.
    She moved back again, a flicker of hurt in her face.
    It was the first taste of the overwhelming loneliness to come, like the fading of the sun before nightfall.
    “Hester!”
    She looked up.
    He had no idea what to say. He could not face the truth. He had had no time yet to work out what words to use.
    “I think Shearer may be the one who killed Alberton.” It was a lame thing to fill the place of what was in his mind. It was hardly a revelation.
    She looked a little puzzled. “Well, it would explain the odd time with the train, I suppose,” she conceded. “A conspiracy between Shearer and Breeland which Merrit did notknow about? Perhaps she and Breeland were at the yard earlier, and that was when she dropped the watch?” Then her face clouded. “But why would they go there? It doesn’t make sense. Why was Daniel Alberton there anyway, at that time of night?” She frowned. “Was it something to do with Merrit running away, do you suppose? And he was still there when Shearer came to steal the guns?” She shook her head. “It doesn’t sound likely, does it?”
    It did not. There was still some major fact they were missing. He had to concentrate hard to make himself feel that it mattered.
    “Are you hungry?” she asked, her eyes bright again.
    “Yes,” he lied. He guessed she had gone to some trouble. Now that he thought about it, there was a warm, savory odor coming from the kitchen.
    She smiled. “Fresh game pie and vegetables.” She looked pleased with herself. “I found a woman today. She’s Scottish. Her name is Mrs. Patrick. She’s a bit fierce, but she’s a terrific cook, and she’s prepared to come every weekday afternoon for three hours, which is good, because most people like to do all day or not at all. Some even expect to live in.” She searched his face. “She’s half a crown a week. Do you think that will be all right?”
    He did not even think to add it up. “Excellent! Yes. If you like her, then make it permanent.”
    “Thank you.” Her voice lifted. “I do appreciate it.” She touched him lightly,