She waited impatiently.
He was looking at her as if trying to weigh in his mind her reactions.
“What is it?” she demanded. “What else?”
“Mrs. Alberton wants us to go to America and do everything we can to bring Merrit home—regardless of the circumstances—or her own wishes.”
“Us? Who is us?” she said instantly.
His smile was tired, wry. “You and me.”
“You … and me?” She was incredulous. “Go to America?” Even as she said it she could see a glimmer of sense, tiny, a spark of light in the darkness.
“If I find her,” he explained, “if I can persuade her to come back, or must bring her by force, I shall need help from someone else. And I shall need someone to chaperon her. I can’t arrive in England alone with her.” He was watching her as if he could read not just her words but her thoughts, and the emotions which lay deeper than that, perhaps what she refused to think.
The idea was overwhelming, even with the reasoning that sounded so eminently sensible. To America! Across the Atlantic to a country already in armed conflict with itself. No word of pitched battles had reached England, but without a miracle, it would be only a matter of time before it became war.
Yet she also saw in his eyes that he had made his own decision already, not in his mind, perhaps, but deeper than that. He had thought of plans, ways to persuade her. Was it for the adventure of it, the challenge, for a sense of justice, of anger for Daniel Alberton, for the arrogance of Breeland? Or out of a misplaced guilt, because it was Daniel Alberton who had asked him to help, and he had failed? It hardly mattered that it had been Breeland and not the blackmailer who had ruined him.
Or was it pity for Judith Alberton, who, in one dreadful night, had lost everything she loved most?
It was for Judith that Hester answered.
“All right. But are you sure Merrit didn’t have anything to do with it, even unwittingly? I think she was very deeply in love with Breeland. She thought of him as some kind of warrior saint.” She frowned. “I suppose you are sure it was Breeland? It couldn’t possibly have been the blackmailer … could it? After all, the price of his silence was guns.”
“No.” He lowered his eyes, as if protecting some inner hurt. “I found Breeland’s watch in the warehouse yard. It couldn’t have been there long; there was just a little mud on it, near where the cart tracks were. It would have been seen by anyone in daylight, and picked up. And since Alberton refused to sell him the guns, he would have no legitimate reason to be in the yard.”
She felt a dizzy sort of coldness sweep through her.
“Breeland’s watch?” she repeated his words. “What does it look like?”
“Look like?” He was puzzled. “A watch! A round, gold watch that you wear on a chain.”
“How do you know it was his?” she persisted, knowing argument was futile but still compelled to try.
“Because it had his name on it, and the date.”
“What date?”
A flicker of impatience crossed his face. He was too tired and too hurt for quibbles. “What does it matter?”
“What date?” she insisted.
He was staring at her; his shoulders sagged with exhaustion and disappointment. “June 1, 1848. Why? Why are you making an issue over it, Hester?”
She had to tell him. It was not something she could conceal, allow him to go to America unknowing.
“It wasn’t Breeland who dropped it,” she said very quietly. “He gave it to Merrit for a keepsake. She showed it to me the evening we had dinner there. She said she would never let it out of her sight.”
He looked at her as if he barely comprehended what she was saying.
“I’m sorry,” she added. “But she must have been there, whether it was willingly or not.” Another thought occurred to her. “Unless he took the watch from her and dropped it himself, on purpose.…”
“Why on earth would he do that?”
But she saw in his eyes that he had thought of the answer before she said it.
“To incriminate her … so we wouldn’t go after him … a sort of warning that he had her with him … a hostage.”
He sat silently, turning it over in his mind.
She waited. There was no point in detailing the possibilities. He could think of them all as well as she could, perhaps better. She poured more tea for both of them, well steeped, and now not quite so hot.
“Mrs. Alberton knows he might hold her hostage,” he said at last. “She wants us to try anyway.”
“And if she went willingly?” she asked. It had to be faced.
“She knows Merrit is hotheaded and idealistic and acts before she thinks, but she doesn’t believe that in any circumstances whatever she would condone murder.” Now he was looking at her, searching her eyes to read in them if she agreed.
“I hope she’s right,” she answered.
“You don’t think so?” he said quickly.
