That was not true. He had chosen to embrace the fullness of living, instead of playing on the edge and lying to himself that he was retaining control, when all he was doing was abstaining from experience, running away from himself.
He despised cowardice as much as he did self-deception.
He hailed the next hansom and gave the driver his address in Fitzroy Street. He could not go back on his decision, whatever it cost.
He had been home for nearly an hour when Hester came in. She looked tired and frightened. She hesitated even before she took off her jacket. It was linen, of the dusty blue-gray she liked so well. Her eyes searched his anxiously.
He knew what disturbed her, more even than her fear for Judith or Merrit Alberton. It was his evasion over the last few days, the distance he had opened between them. He must bridge it now, whatever the result.
“How is she?” he asked. The words were trivial. He could have asked her anything. What mattered was that he met her eyes.
She saw the difference. It was almost as if he had touched her with the old intimacy. Something inside her warmed like a flower opening.
“She is frightened for Merrit,” she answered. “I hope Oliver can make as powerful an argument as Deverill did. I wish Breeland would reach out to Merrit. She looks so alone there.” Again it was not the words that mattered, but the softness in her mouth, the fact that her eyes did not even flicker away from his.
“He believes in his cause,” he said, wishing beyond almost anything else that he could avoid this moment, that somehow it would go away. “He can see a million slaves and the moral wrong of their state, the mass injustice and cruelty—but he doesn’t dare to look at the loneliness or the need of one human who needs him. It is too … personal, too intimate, too close under his own skin.”
She unfastened the pin that secured her hat and took off the hat itself, all the time watching him. She knew he had not yet reached the point of what he was saying.
“Does he love Merrit?” she asked.
“Is that what matters?”
She stood quite still. She did not know why, her puzzlement was in her eyes, but she sensed he was asking for reasons deeper than the mere words he used, or the personal question.
“It’s part of it,” she said carefully. “The issues he fights for matter as well.”
“And Philo Trace?” he went on. “He loves Judith. I suppose you’ve seen that?”
A smile touched her mouth, then vanished. “Of course I’ve seen it. It’s so plain even she has seen it. Why?”
“And does she care that he’s a Southerner, fighting for the slave states?”
Her eyes widened a little. “I have no idea. Why do you ask? You like him? So do I.” “But you abhor slaving. …”
The shadow was at the back of her eyes. She knew he still had not said what he needed to, although she could not guess what it would be. Would the warmth go from her then? Would these be the last few seconds he would ever look at her and see that undisguised tenderness in her face, and the honesty? Could he stretch the minutes out, make them last so he would never forget?
“Yes,” she agreed.
“I learned something about myself when I went down to the river looking for Shearer.” Now there was no going back.
She understood. She saw the fear in him. She knew the darkness already. She could not have forgotten that first, terrible, drowning fear in Mecklenburg Square, the horror which had nearly destroyed him. It was her courage which had made him fight.
Now she came forward, standing just in front of him, so closely he could smell the perfume of her hair and skin.
“What did you find out?” she asked, only the slightest tremor in her voice.
“One of the shipping companies knew me. The man expected me to be wealthy.…” This was every bit as difficult as he had expected. Her clear eyes allowed no evasions or euphemisms. If he lied now he would never be able to regain what he lost.
“As a policeman?” Her face was white, her voice catching in her throat. He knew she envisioned corruption. She was shaking her head a little, denying the possibility.
“No!” he said quickly. “Before that. As a banker.”
She did not understand. It was time to put it into unmistakable words, words that could not be misunderstood or evaded anymore.
“Doing business with men who had made their money out of slaving … and it seems I knew it.” He must say it all. Easier now than raising the subject again later. “I was bargaining for Arrol Dundas, my mentor. I don’t know whether I told him that that was where the money came from … or not. Perhaps I misled him.”
For a moment she was silent. Time ballooned out to seem like eternity.
“I see,” she said at last. “Is that why you’ve been … away … these last few days?”
“Yes …” He wanted her to know how ashamed he was, he needed her to know it, but the words were too trite. None of them meant enough for the bitter weight of regret now that he should have allowed himself to be without honor. He had degraded his own worth.
She smiled, but her eyes were filled with sadness. She reached out her hand and touched his cheek. It was a soft gesture. It did not dismiss what he had done, or excuse it, but it set it in the past.
