Alberton’s patient tones came with an effort which for an instant was naked in his face.
“There are many causes, my dear, and some of them conflict with each other. There are no ends I know of which justify dishonorable means. One must consider-”
“There is nothing which justifies slavery!” she said hotly, cutting across him with no thought for the respect she owed him, especially in company. “Too many people use sophistries to defend not risking themselves or what they own in a fight.”
Judith’s hand tightened on her silver fork, and she glanced at her husband. Breeland smiled. A flush of irritation crossed Casbolt’s face.
“And too many people rush in to espouse one cause,” Alberton replied, “without taking a moment to weigh what their partisanship might cost another cause, equally just and equally in need of their help, and perhaps as deserving of their loyalty.”
It was apparent it was no philosophical argument. Something of immediate and highly personal importance was at stake. One had only to glance at Lyman Breeland’s stiff shoulders and unsmiling face, at the high color in Merrit’s cheeks, at Daniel Alberton’s very evident impatience, to know that.
This time Merrit did not reply, but her temper flared very visibly. She was in many ways still not much more than a child, but her emotion ran so deep that Monk found the situation on the verge of embarrassment.
The entree plates were removed and cherry pie and cream were served. They ate in silence.
Judith Alberton made some pleasant remark about a musical recital she had been to. Hester expressed an interest Monk knew she did not feel. She did not care for sentimental ballads, and he wondered, looking at Judith’s remarkable face, if his hostess really did either. It seemed a taste at odds with the strength of her features.
Casbolt caught Monk’s eye and smiled as if secretly amused.
Gradually the conversation began again, gentle and well mannered, with an occasional shaft of wit. The pie was succeeded by fresh grapes, apricots and pears, then by cheese. Light gleamed on silver, crystal and white linen. Now and then there was laughter.
Monk found himself wondering why Breeland had been invited. Discreetly he studied the man, his expression, the tensions in his body, the way he listened to the conversation as if intent upon interpreting from it some deeper meaning, and waiting his chance to intercede with something of his own. Yet it never came. Half a dozen times Monk saw him draw breath and then fail to speak. He looked at Merrit, when she was speaking, and there was a momentary softness in his eyes, but he scrupulously avoided leaning close to her or making any other gesture which might appear intimate, whether to guard her feelings or his own.
He was polite with Judith Alberton, but there was no warmth in him, as if he were not at ease with her. Considering her remarkable beauty, Monk did not find that difficult to understand. Men could be intimidated by such a woman, become self-conscious and prefer to remain silent rather than to speak, and risk sounding less than as clever or as amusing as they would have desired. He was probably ten years younger than she, and Monk had begun to suspect he was in love with her daughter, without her approval.
Casbolt showed no such lack of ease. His affection for Judith was apparent, but then as cousins they had probably known each other all their lives. Indeed he made several references, often in jest, to events in the past they had shared, some of which had seemed disasters at the time but had now receded into memory and no longer hurt. The pain or laughter shared made a unique bond between them.
They spoke of summer visits to Italy when the three of them-she, Casbolt, and her brother Cesare-had walked the golden hills of Tuscany, found gentle and idiosyncratic pieces of statuary that predated the rise of Rome, and speculated on the people who might have made them. Judith laughed with pleasure, and Monk thought he saw a shadow of pain as well. He glanced at Hester, and knew she had seen it also.
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 her. A most interesting lady.” He sat down on the chair, which had been drawn up for him. He regarded Hester with pleasant curiosity. “Are you connected with the army also, ma’am?”
“Indeed she is,” Casbolt said enthusiastically. “She has had a remarkable career … with Florence Nightingale. I am sure you must have heard of her.”
“Naturally.” Trace smiled at Hester. “I’m afraid in America these days we are obliged to concern ourselves with all aspects of war, as I daresay you know. But I am sure it is not what you wish to discuss over dinner.”
“Isn’t that what you have come about, Mr. Trace?” Merrit asked, her voice cold. “You did not call socially. You admitted as much when you had mistaken the evening.”
Trace blushed. “I don’t know how I came to do that. I have already apologized, Miss Alberton.”
