William Monk 11 - Slaves of Obsession

cruelty detailed, but he would not reconsider.” There were tears in her eyes, but she blinked them away furiously, annoyed with herself for betraying such emotion. “I quarreled with him.” She sniffed, then shook her head as she realized how inelegant it was.
    Rathbone offered her his handkerchief.
    She hesitated, then took it, simply so that she might blow her nose, and then continued.
    “Thank you. I was very angry indeed. I think the more so because I had always thought well of him before. I had never seen that side of him which …” She lowered her eyes, looking away from him. “Which could not admit when he had made a mistake, and yield to a better cause. I said some things to him I wish now I could take back. Not that they are not true, but I could not know they would be the last words he ever heard from me.”
    Rathbone did not wish to give her time to dwell on the thought.
    “You left the room. Where did you go?”
    “What? Oh. I went upstairs and packed a small valise with immediate necessities—linens, clean blouses, toiletries, that’s all.”
    “Where was Mr. Breeland during this quarrel?”
    “I don’t know. At his rooms, I suppose.”
    “He was not in your parents’ house?”
    “No. He did not overhear the quarrel, if that is what you are thinking.”
    “It occurred to me. Then where did you go?”
    “I left.” The color rose up her cheeks delicately. It made him more inclined to believe her awareness of just what a major step she had taken, and that she was as sensible of the risk to her reputation as her mother would have been. She took a deep breath. “I went out of the servants’ door, at the side of the house, and walked along the street until I came to the crossroads, where I found a hansom. I took it, directing the driver to Mr. Breeland’s rooms.”
    He did not need to ask the address. Monk had already told him.
    “And was Mr. Breeland at home?”
    “Yes. He welcomed me, most especially when I told him about the quarrel I had had with my father.” She leaned forward across the table. “But you must understand, he in no way encouraged me to defy my parents or behave in any way the least improperly. I require that you should fully believe that!”
    Rathbone was not sure what he believed, but it would be foolish to tell her so now. It was not the issue. He could not afford to be concerned with Breeland’s morality except as it showed itself in acts that were punishable in law.
    “I don’t question it, Miss Alberton. I need to know how you spent the rest of that night until you had left London altogether. Very precisely, if you please. Omit nothing.”
    “You think Lyman murdered my father.” Her eyes were direct, her voice perfectly steady. “He did not. What he told Mr. Monk is the exact truth. I know it because I was with him. We spent the evening speaking together and planning what we should do.” A first smile touched her lips; it seemed like self-mockery of another more innocent time. “He tried to persuade me to make peace with my parents. He warned me that his country was at war. He explained to me that honor required he join his regiment and fight. But of course I understood that already. I simply wished to be his wife and wait for him, support him and do everything I could myself to help in the fight against slavery. I never imagined I was going to sail off into a new and peaceful life somewhere else.”
    Rathbone believed her. Her earnestness was transparent and he thought he heard a thread of disappointment she herself was surprised to discover. Something confused her, but as yet he had no idea what it was.
    “Please continue,” he prompted. “Tell me exactly what occurred. Was Mr. Breeland ever out of your sight?”
    “Not for more than a few moments,” she replied. “He did not leave his apartment. It was nearly midnight, and we were still talking about what we should do.” Pride and tenderness flickered in her for a moment. “He was concerned for my reputation, more than I was myself. If I should have slept the night in his sitting room no one in America would have known it, and that was all my concern. But he cared for me, and it troubled him.”
    Rathbone was better aware than she how rapidly word traveled, and it flashed through his mind to wonder how much Breeland’s concern was for her reputation as it might affect him as her future husband. But it was an uncharitable impulse, and he did not speak it aloud.
    She swallowed. In spite