William Monk 11 - Slaves of Obsession

remarkable grace, and he was reminded again what a beautiful woman she was.
    “I will keep you informed,” he promised. It was not quite the answer she had requested, but it was all he would commit himself to do. He wondered, as the footman showed him out, how deeply he might regret such a promise. He could imagine no outcome of this issue which would not bring with it deep and terrible pain. There seemed no answer which would not add to Judith Alberton’s loss.
    He had no difficulty in obtaining an interview with Merrit. He stood in the small, bare room in the prison where she was being held prior to trial. It was stone-walled, washed with lime, the floor made of stone blocks. The hinges of the iron door were bedded deep into the jamb on one side, and the lock bit into the other, as if some desperate person might fling himself against it in a blind effort to escape.
    There was a table where he could sit and presumably write notes, if he wished, although there was no inkwell. A pencil would have to suffice. There was a second chair for the accused.
    When she came in he was again surprised. He had expected someone very girlish, angry, frightened and very possibly disinclined to cooperate with him. Instead he saw a young woman who would never rival her mother in beauty but who nevertheless had some remnant of both charm and dignity, in spite of being very obviously exhausted, her fair hair scraped back and pinned, by the look of it, without benefit of a mirror. Since she had not yet been convicted of any crime, except in public opinion, she still wore her own clothes, a blue muslin dress with a white collar which exaggerated the pallor of her skin. It was clean and fresh. Her mother must have had it sent for her.
    “The wardress says you are Sir Oliver Rathbone, and you are to represent me,” she said very quietly. “I presume thatmy mother has engaged you.” It was barely a question. They both knew that there was no other explanation.
    He began to reply, but she cut across him. “I did not have any part in the murder of my father, Sir Oliver.” Her voice trembled only very slightly. “But I will not allow you to use me in order to blame Mr. Breeland.” She lifted her chin a fraction as she spoke his name and the corner of her mouth softened.
    “Perhaps you had better tell me what you know, Miss Alberton,” he replied, indicating the chair opposite for her to be seated.
    “Only if it is understood that I will not be manipulated,” she answered. She stood quite still, waiting for his word before committing herself even to listen.
    He had a sudden sense of how very young she was. Her loyalty was blind, absolute and perhaps the most precious thing to her. He could believe she defined herself by such a value, the ability to love totally, even at such a terrible cost. It was part of being sixteen. He could hardly remember such unequivocal passion. He hoped he had once been so ardent, so careless of hurt to himself, placing love before all.
    Time and experience had blunted that … too much. Perhaps if he had not been afraid to love like that he would not have lost Hester. But that was a useless thought now, and too brilliantly painful to indulge, even in passing. That was much too real, too wholehearted.
    “I have no intention of trying to manipulate you,” he said with a fierceness that even surprised him. “I would like to know the truth, or at least as much of it as you can tell me. Please begin with simple facts. We may go on to deduction and opinion later. Perhaps you would begin with the day of your father’s death, unless you feel there is something relevant earlier.”
    She sat down obediently and composed herself, folding her hands.
    “Mr. Breeland and Mr. Trace both wished to purchase the guns that my father had for sale. Each, of course, for his own side in the civil war in America. Mr. Trace representedthe Confederacy, the slave states; Mr. Breeland is for the Union, and against slavery anywhere.” The ring of pride and anger in her voice was unmistakable. Rathbone could not help identifying with her in that much at least.
    He did not interrupt.
    “My father said that he had already promised to sell the entire shipment of guns, above six thousand of them, to Mr. Trace,” she continued. “And he would not change his mind, no matter what Mr. Breeland, or I, for that matter, would say to him. Every argument against slavery was tried, every horror and injustice, every monstrosity of human