Slaves of Obsession - Anne Perry [89]
“The wardress says you are Sir Oliver Rathbone, and you are to represent me,” she said very quietly. “I presume that my 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 represented the 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 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