William Monk 11 - Slaves of Obsession

listen to others. It was a quality she could not help but like. His name was Robert Casbolt, and he was introduced not only as Alberton’s business partner and friend since youth, but also Judith’s cousin.
    The other man present was American. As one could hardly help being aware, that country had in the last few months slipped tragically into a state of civil war. There had not as yet been anything more serious than a few ugly skirmishes, but open violence seemed increasingly probable with every fresh bulletin that arrived across the Atlantic. War seemed more and more likely.
    “Mr. Breeland is from the Union,” Alberton said courteously, but there was no warmth in his voice.
    Hester looked at Breeland as she acknowledged the introduction. He appeared to be in his early thirties, tall and very straight, with square shoulders and the upright stance of a soldier. His features were regular, his expression polite but severely controlled, as if he felt he must be constantly on guard against any slip or relaxation of awareness.
    The last person was the Albertons’ daughter, Merrit. She was about sixteen, with all the charm, the passion and thevulnerability of her years. She was fairer than her mother, and had not the beauty, but she had a similar strength of will in her face, and less ability to hide her emotions. She allowed herself to be introduced politely enough, but she did not make any attempt to pretend more than courtesy.
    The preliminary conversation was on matters as simple as the weather, the increase in traffic on the streets and the crowds drawn by a nearby exhibition.
    Hester wondered why Callandra had thought she and Monk might find these people congenial, but perhaps she was merely fond of them and had discovered in them a kindness.
    Breeland and Merrit moved a little apart, talking earnestly. Monk, Casbolt and Judith Alberton discussed the latest play, and Hester fell into conversation with Daniel Alberton.
    “Lady Callandra told me you spent nearly two years out in the Crimea,” he said with great interest. He smiled apologetically. “I am not going to ask you the usual questions about Miss Nightingale. You must find that tedious by now.”
    “She was a very remarkable person,” Hester said. “I could not criticize anyone for seeking to know more about her.”
    His smile widened. “You must have said that so many times. You were prepared for it!”
    She found herself relaxing. He was unexpectedly pleasant to converse with; frankness was always so much easier than continued courtesy. “Yes, I admit I was. It is …”
    “Unoriginal,” he finished for her.
    “Yes.”
    “Perhaps what I wanted to say was unoriginal also, but I shall say it anyway, because I do want to know.” He frowned very slightly, drawing his brows together. His eyes were clear blue. “You must have exercised a great deal of courage out there, both physical and moral, especially when you were actually close to the battlefield. You must have made decisions which altered other people’s lives, perhaps saved them, or lost them.”
    That was true. She remembered with a jolt just how desperateit had been, how remote it was from this quiet summer evening in an elegant London withdrawing room, where the shade of a gown mattered, the cut of a sleeve. War, disease, shattered bodies, the heat and flies or the terrible cold, all could have been on another planet with no connection to this world at all except a common language, and yet no words could ever explain one to the other.
    She nodded.
    “Do you not find it extraordinarily difficult to adjust from that life to this?” he asked. His voice was soft, but edged with a surprising intensity.
    How much had Callandra told Judith Alberton, or her husband? Would Hester embarrass her with the Albertons in future if she were to be honest? Probably not. Callandra had never been a woman to run from the truth.
    “Well, I came back burning with determination to reform all our hospitals here at home,” she said ruefully. “As you can see, I did not succeed, for several reasons. The chief among them was that no one would believe I had the faintest idea what I was talking about. Women don’t understand medicine at all, and nurses in particular are for rolling bandages, sweeping and mopping floors, carrying coal and slops, and generally doing as they are told.” She allowed her bitterness to show. “It did not take me long to be dismissed, having to earn my way by caring for private