Rathbone believed her. Her earnestness was transparent and he thought he heard a thread of disappointment she herself was surprised to discover. Something confused her, but as yet he had no idea what it was.
“Please continue,” he prompted. “Tell me exactly what occurred. Was Mr. Breeland ever out of your sight?”
“Not for more than a few moments,” she replied. “He did not leave his apartment. It was nearly midnight, and we were still talking about what we should do.” Pride and tenderness flickered in her for a moment. “He was concerned for my reputation, more than I was myself. If I should have slept the night in his sitting room no one in America would have known it, and that was all my concern. But he cared for me, and it troubled him.”
Rathbone was better aware than she how rapidly word traveled, and it flashed through his mind to wonder how much Breeland’s concern was for her reputation as it might affect him as her future husband. But it was an uncharitable impulse, and he did not speak it aloud.
She swallowed. In spite of her attempt at calm, and her undoubted courage, the effort was costing her dear.
“A little before midnight a young boy came with a message for Lyman. It was a note. He tore it open and read it immediately. It said that my father had changed his mind about selling the guns, but for obvious reasons he could not say so in front of Mr. Trace. He would return him his money later, and explain that Lyman’s arguments regarding slavery had won him over and he could no longer in good conscience sell the guns to the Confederates. Lyman was to go to the railway station at Euston Square and the guns would be delivered to him there. Liverpool was the best port for them to be shipped to America.” She was watching him intently, willing him to believe her.
He recognized that she was almost certainly using Breeland’s words for the explanation, but he did not interrupt her.
“That was what he did,” she continued. “We packed up immediately, taking what was of most importance to him. There was hardly time to do even that. But the guns were the most valuable of all. They were part of the battle for freedom, and a cause that is just must always take precedence over a few material possessions.”
“You helped him pack?” he asked.
“Naturally. I had only a few things myself.” Again the tiny smile touched her face. She must have been thinking back now on her own hasty departure, in the name of love and principle, with only what she could put into a bag she could carry in her hand. He tried to imagine what precious things gathered in her short lifetime she had had to leave behind. And apparently she had done it without serious regret. He thought how deeply, how unselfishly, she must love Breeland. It hurt him with surprising force that he might be utterly unworthy of it. When he spoke his voice had more anger in it than he had intended.
“And who was this note from? I presume it was signed?”
“Yes, of course,” she said indignantly. “He would hardly have acted upon it, leaving everything, had he not known who sent it.”
“Who did?”
Color deepened in her face, and there was a moment’s confusion as she realized how much depended upon the truth of the issue, and that she thought, after all, not knew it.
“It was signed by Mr. Shearer,” she said defiantly. “Of course in light of the … murders …” She gulped. She seemingly could not bring herself to say her father’s name in this connection. Her chin came up. “But when we got to Euston Square the guns were there, already loaded onto a wagon. Lyman never left me for more than a few moments, and that was after the guns were delivered, and he paid Shearer the money. He had written authority to accept on my father’s behalf, and it was all perfectly in order. I … I was so happy my father had at last seen the justice of what Lyman was fighting for and changed his mind.”
“But you did not think to return home and tell him so?”
Misery filled her eyes. “No,” she answered very quietly. “I loved Lyman and still wanted to go with him to America. I … I was still angry that my father had taken so long to see what had been plain to me from the beginning. Slavery is wicked. Treating a human being like a possession can never be right.”
He did not know what to think. The story made no sense, and yet he did not think she was lying to him. She believed what she said. Had Breeland somehow duped her? If he had not murdered Alberton himself, then had he employed someone else to do it? Perhaps this man Shearer? “Tell me about your journey north to Liverpool and what happened there,” he instructed.
“How can it matter?” She was puzzled.
“Please do so,” he insisted.
“Very well. Lyman showed me to a carriage where I was reasonably comfortable and told me to wait for him while he spoke to the guard. He returned in about ten minutes, and shortly after that the train pulled out.”
“Who else was in the carriage?” he interrupted.
“How can it matter? No one I know. I did not speak to them. An old man with a lot of whiskers. A woman with a dreadful hat, quite the ugliest I have ever seen, red and brown. Why would anyone wear red and brown together? I don’t know who else. It’s all unimportant.”
“Where did the train stop?” he pressed.
Obediently she described the journey in its monotonous details.
He wrote down her answers in rapid, almost illegible notes.
“And in Liverpool?”
She told him of Breeland’s trouble in having the guns stored temporarily, of finding space on a ship bound first for Queenstown in Ireland, then for New York. With every new fact she spoke of, the pictures became more real, the more he was convinced her story was told from experience rather than imagination.
“Thank you,” he said at last. “You have been very patient, Miss Alberton, and you have helped greatly in your defense.”
“I will not allow you to defend me at Lyman’s expense!” she said quickly, leaning forward across the table, her face flushed. “Please understand that. I shall dismiss you, or whatever it takes, if …”
“I understood you when you first told me, Miss Alberton,” he said calmly. “I shall not do so; you have my word. I cannot promise what the court will do, and I have never promised to anyone what a jury will do. But for myself, I can answer absolutely.”
She sank back. “Thank you, Sir Oliver. Then I shall be very glad if you will act for me and … and do what you can.”
He rose to his feet, feeling a twist of pity for her, almost like a physical spasm. She was so young, a child, trying to behave like a woman, trying to keep a dignity she was so close to losing. He wished profoundly he could have comforted her, that either her mother or father were here, even that Breeland was … damn him. But all he could do to help her was to remain formal, keep the fierce control she depended upon.
“I shall return to tell you how I am progressing,” he said carefully. “If you do not see me for a few days, it is because I am working on your behalf. Good day, Miss Alberton.” He turned a little quickly, not waiting to look at her as the tears spilled from her brimming eyes.
Rathbone was driven to see Lyman Breeland by curiosity as well as by duty, but it was still not a task he expected to find either easy or pleasant.
He was received in a room markedly similar to the one in the women’s section of the prison, with the same bare lime-washed walls, simple table and two wooden chairs.
In some ways Breeland was exactly what Rathbone had expected: tall, lean, a hard body used to exercise. One would have judged him a man of action. “Military” was the first thing that came to mind because of his upright bearing and a certain pride in him, even in these crushing circumstances. He was dressed in a plain shirt and trousers an inch or two short for him. Presumably they were borrowed. He would have left the battlefield at Manassas in his dirty, bloodstained uniform.