William Monk 11 - Slaves of Obsession

is that right?”
    She looked abashed. “Yes. I wish now that I hadn’t said those things, but I believed them then. I was terribly angry.”
    “And you believed that Lyman Breeland wanted to purchase the guns for a highly honorable cause, far more honorable than that of Mr. Trace?”
    Her chin lifted sharply. “I knew it. I was in America. I witnessed the most terrible battle. I saw …” She gulped. “I saw so many men killed. I had never realized it would be so dreadful. Until you have seen a battle, heard it, smelled it … you can have no idea of what it is really like. We don’t begin to know what our soldiers endure for us.”
    There was a murmur of appreciation around the room, even of awe.
    Rathbone allowed the jury to see her remorse just long enough that he did not seem to be doing it deliberately, then he continued.
    “After your quarrel, where did you go, Miss Alberton?”
    “I went upstairs to my bedroom, packed a few personal belongings—toiletries, a change of costume—and I left the house,” she replied.
    “A change of costume?” He smiled. “You were wearing an evening gown?”
    “A dinner dress,” she corrected him. “But not suitable for travel, of course.”
    Deverill looked exaggeratedly weary. “My lord …”
    “Oh, yes, it does matter,” Rathbone said with a smile. He turned back to Merrit. “And then you left for Mr. Breeland’s rooms?”
    She flushed very slightly. “Yes.”
    “That must have been a very emotional time for you, and required courage and decision.”
    “My lord!” Deverill protested again. “We do not doubt that Miss Alberton has extraordinary courage. An attempt to arouse our sympathy—”
    “It has nothing whatever to do with courage, or sympathy, my lord,” Rathbone interrupted. “It is purely practical.”
    “I am glad to hear it,” the judge said dryly. “Proceed.”
    “Thank you. Miss Alberton, what did you do just when you arrived at Mr. Breeland’s rooms?”
    She looked confused.
    “Did you talk together? Eat something, perhaps? Change your clothes to the ones you had brought?”
    “Oh … we spoke for a little, of course, then he stepped out for a few moments while I changed my clothes.”
    Deverill murmured under his breath.
    “And the watch?” Rathbone asked.
    Suddenly there was utter silence in the room.
    “I …” Her face was white.
    Deverill was on the point of interrupting again.
    Rathbone wondered if he should remind Merrit that she had sworn to tell the truth, but he was afraid that she would consider the truth a small price to pay not to betray Breeland.
    “Miss Alberton?” the judge prompted.
    “I don’t remember,” she said, looking at Rathbone.
    He knew she was lying. In that moment she had recalled very clearly, but she would not say so. He changed the subject.
    “Was Mr. Breeland expecting you, Miss Alberton?”
    “No. No … he was very surprised to see me.” The color washed up her face. She was acutely conscious of the fact that she had gone uninvited. It seemed to Hester, seeing her discomfort, that Breeland had not welcomed her as a lover might, but rather as a young man would who had been taken very much by surprise and been obliged extremely hastily to rearrange his plans. She hoped that was not lost upon the jury.
    Rathbone was standing elegantly in the open space of the court, his head a little bent, the light shining on his fair hair.
    Hester glanced up at Breeland. He also looked self-conscious and uncomfortable, although it was not so easy to know for what cause.
    “I see. And after you had greeted each other, you had explained your presence, and he had permitted you to change your clothes, what did you do then?” Rathbone asked.
    “We discussed what we should do,” she replied. “Do I have to tell you what we said? I am not sure I can remember.”
    “It is not necessary. Were you together all the time?”
    “Yes. It was not so very long. At a little before midnight a messenger arrived with a note saying that my father had changed his mind and would sell Lyman the guns after all, and we should go straight to the Euston Square station with the money.”
    “Who wrote this note?”
    “Mr. Shearer, my father’s agent.”
    “Surely it surprised you? After all, your father had been adamant, only a few hours before, that it was completely impossible for him to change his mind. It was a matter of honor,” Rathbone pointed out.
    “Yes, of course I was surprised,” she agreed.