Slaves of Obsession - Anne Perry [6]
Casbolt’s voice held it too: the knowledge of something too deep ever to be forgotten, and yet which could be shared because they had endured it together; he, she and Daniel Alberton.
Nothing overt was said during the entire course of the meal, and certainly nothing remotely offensive. But Monk formed the opinion that Casbolt did not much like Breeland. Perhaps it was no more than a dissimilarity in temperament. Casbolt was a sophisticated man of wide experience and charm. He was at ease with people, and conversation came naturally to him.
Breeland was an idealist who could not forget his beliefs, or allow himself to laugh while he knew others were suffering, even for the space of a dinner. Perhaps it was a certain strangeness, being far away from his home at a time of such trial, and among strangers. And obviously he could not help responding to Merrit’s youth and her charm.
Monk had some sympathy with him. He had once been as passionate about great causes, brimming with zeal over injustices that affected thousands, perhaps millions. Now he felt such heat only over individuals. He had tried too often to affect the course of law or nature, and tasted failure, learning the strength of the opposition. He still tried hard and grieved bitterly. The anger seized up inside him. But he could also lay it aside for a space, and fill his heart and mind with the sweet and the beautiful as well. He had learned how to pace his battles—at least sometimes—and to savor the moments of respite.
The last course was almost completed when the butler came to speak to Daniel Alberton.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said in little above a whisper. “Mr. Philo Trace has called. Shall I tell him you are engaged, or do you wish to see him?”
Breeland swiveled around, his body stiff, his expression so tightly controlled as to be almost frozen.
Merrit was far less careful to hide her feelings. The color rose hot in her cheeks and she glared at her father as if she believed he were about to do something monstrous.
Casbolt glanced at the others in apology, but his face was alive with interest. Monk had the fleeting impression that Casbolt actually cared what he thought, then he dismissed it as ridiculous. Why should he?
Alberton’s expression made it plain that he had not expected the caller. For a moment he was taken aback. He looked at Judith questioningly.
“By all means,” she said with a faint smile.
“I suppose you had better ask him to come in,” Alberton instructed the butler. “Explain to him that we are at dinner, and if he cares to join us for fruit, then he is very welcome.”
There was an uncomfortable silence while the butler retreated, and then returned, ushering in a slender, dark-haired man with a sensitive, mercurial face, the type whose expression conveyed emotion and yet perhaps hid his true feelings. He was handsome, as if charm came easily, and yet there was something elusive about him, and private. Monk judged him to be perhaps ten years older than Breeland, and the moment he spoke it was apparent he came from one of those Southern states which had recently seceded from the Union and with whom the Union was now at war.
“How do you do,” Monk replied when they were introduced, after the butler had brought another chair and discreetly set an additional place at the table.
“I’m truly sorry,” Trace said with some embarrassment. “I seem to have the wrong evening. I certainly did not intend to intrude.” He looked for a moment at Breeland, and it was clear they already knew each other. The animosity between them crackled in the air.
“That’s quite all right, Mr. Trace,” Judith said with a smile. “Would you care for a little fruit? Or a pastry?”
His eyes lingered on her with pleasure and a certain earnestness.
“Thank you, ma’am. That is most generous of you.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Monk are friends of Lady Callandra Daviot. I cannot remember whether you met her or not,” Judith continued.
“No, I didn’t, but you told me something of