The Quality of Mercy - By Barry Unsworth Page 0,83

Lyons between them had already spent a good part of this on bribes and rewards. It was the presumption of absolute right, the sense of outrage when this—to them—natural order of things was disputed.

Jane had been out somewhere; it was only now that he noticed this by her dress—he had been too occupied with his account to notice it before. At once, by some obscure association of ideas, he thought of Erasmus Kemp. The two would not have met since the evening of the reception at Bateson’s house; Jane was not one to make assignations, and Kemp would know that visiting her at home was the only way of being granted a private conversation. She had not referred to Kemp since that evening, but Ashton remembered how they had disappeared together, how they had shut themselves away. The very absence of comment, in one so open and frank as Jane, was significant—or so he reasoned.

“I am glad that I was able to become acquainted with Mr. Kemp,” he said. “It is good to have a face and form for one’s adversaries.”

“Yes, I suppose he must be regarded as an adversary.” The word had no weight in her mind; there was only his face, the blaze of the dark eyes fixed on her own. As if he could only explain, only express himself, as if his purposes only seemed real to him while his gaze was locked on hers. As if only she could meet his need. He was everything her brother detested, everything she too should detest. A man who had founded his fortune on the sugar plantations, on slave labor. But he wanted to change, he wanted to build, to create, to improve the lot of common people …

“A lot of force in him,” Ashton said. “I am not sure what kind of force it is. I would hesitate to call it moral. He seems equally intense in the pursuit of his financial interests as in the sphere of personal feeling. Not a man to sacrifice his time except on issues important to him, perhaps I can say dear to him. He was set on conversing privately with you, so much was clear to see.”

“It is true that he paid me particular attention.”

“Indeed, yes. That is to put it mildly.”

“He asked me if he might call when he returns from Durham.”

“And how did you answer him?”

“I consented to it.”

“I have been thinking … you know he is a very important figure in the Admiralty case that is pending—it is to be heard very shortly now. In fact it is he who has instituted the charges of mutiny and piracy. If it could be put to him that it is close to your heart, that you would be happy for a judgment favorable to our cause … If he could be persuaded to declare some change of mind, some new order of feeling—he has had time to consider and so on, he sees now that a charge of piracy cannot be sustained, as the negroes were not property, and those surviving much outnumbered the crew. He might even be brought to state the belief that the killing of the captain was justified, and even lawful, as it put a stop to a process of murder. In short, if he knew it was your wish, he might be prevailed upon to withdraw the suit and make a public statement of his reasons for so doing. Think what attention such a statement would receive, what a great triumph it would be for us, for the cause of abolition. Of course there is the evidence of eyewitnesses, but in the absence of a plaintiff, in the absence of anyone calling for a judgment, the case might founder—yes, it might founder …”

He had been walking back and forth, possessed by the splendor of this vision. Now he stopped and looked at her, perhaps becoming aware of her silence, the absence of approbation. He saw a look on her face he could not recall ever having seen there before, a look in which there was no slightest indulgence for him. His sister was regarding him coldly, as one might look at a stranger, someone for whom there was no kindness.

“Do you really think that I would ask such a favor, such a large favor, on the strength of the acquaintance I have with Mr. Kemp, an hour of conversation, less than an hour? Do you not see that to ask such a thing of such