Rose stood in the shadows watching Mr Digby as he raised the axe and brought it down on the wood, cracking the log in half. His expression was fixed into a frown and there was a faint sheen of perspiration on his brow as he hefted the axe again. He had been going at the wood for at least ten minutes and showed no sign of stopping.
It was a curious feature of his personality, this need to be occupied much of the time. She had observed him when he sat still and there was this energy about him, ebbing and flowing, as if it took a lot of effort not to jump up and start doing some physical task.
After a final moment of hesitation, she stepped from the shadows and out into the sunshine, waiting for Mr Digby to notice her arrival.
‘Good afternoon, Miss Carpenter,’ he said, not taking his eyes off the wood in front of him, swinging the axe again and making the log splinter.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Digby.’
‘How is my father?’
‘Resting. He often has a lie down after lunch and will sleep for a few hours. Mr Watkins is sitting with him while I stretch my legs.’ She paused, watching as he threw the splinters of wood into a basket and selected another log to begin chopping up. ‘I wanted to check on you after the encounter in St Ives earlier.’
She saw his eyes widen in surprise. Rose had never struggled with saying what she was thinking. It was a trait that had got her into trouble on many occasions when she was younger. Now she could control her tongue a little better, but she did not see the point of skirting round a subject, talking in an abstract fashion when things were a lot clearer if you just came out and said what you meant.
‘Thank you, Miss Carpenter,’ he said, his expression turning serious. ‘I am quite well.’
‘Did you know those young men?’
‘No.’
‘Not many people would have stepped in like that, not when it was a matter between strangers.’
Mr Digby regarded her for a long moment and Rose wondered if he would dismiss her. There was a good chance he did not wish to talk about whatever it was that had prompted his impassioned speech about the damage a duel could cause, but she was curious enough to ask anyway.
‘I think I am done here,’ he said, looking at the impressive pile of wood he had chopped, heaped in the basket. ‘Would you care for a stroll by the river? I feel the need for some gentle exercise.’
‘That would be lovely, Mr Digby.’
He had shed his jacket and waistcoat at some point while wielding the axe and had rolled his shirtsleeves up to his elbow. Now he made no move to put on his discarded layers, instead disappearing inside with the jacket and waistcoat to deposit them.
They walked in silence around the side of the house and into the planted area of the garden. Beyond that a wide lawn stretched down towards the river. There was a path that wound along the banks, taking a route through the grounds of Meadow View and then out to the fields beyond. Rose had walked a few miles of it, ending up in the next pretty little village of Hemingford Abbots.
The path was a little overgrown this time of year, with long grass leaning in and early summer flowers adding little bursts of colour. Bees weaved their way from flower to flower and in the trees the birds chirped and sang. It was an idyllic scene, one that was ideal for discussing a sensitive topic.
For a while they did not say anything. Only when the path widened and they could walk side by side did Mr Digby begin to speak.
‘I am sure that you have heard the rumours about why I left England eight years ago, Miss Carpenter.’
‘I try not to listen to rumours, Mr Digby,’ Rose said, looking across at him. He looked troubled and she hoped she wasn’t adding to his worries, pressing him like this. ‘I know there was some trouble and you had to leave the country, but no more.’
He gave a wry smile that did not reach his eyes. ‘We always think people are talking about us whereas often they are much too involved in their own lives, preoccupied with their own troubles, to think of what anyone else is doing.’ He shook his head and then continued. ‘Eight years ago I made a stupid decision. I let my anger and my pride get the better of me and because of my actions a man died.’
‘That’s terrible. What happened?’
Mr Digby cleared his throat and uprooted a long piece of grass, pulling it apart as he spoke.
‘I was out with my friends, a group of carefree young men who had nothing more to worry about than how much we had lost at cards earlier in the evening. Everyone had imbibed a little too much and someone suggested we attend one of the dances at the Assembly Rooms. We were too drunk for it, but we were the sons of the wealthiest landowners in the area so they allowed us to enter.’
His eyes were fixed on a point in the distance and Rose wondered if it was cathartic for him to finally tell his story. She had the sense he didn’t often talk about what had happened all those years ago. ‘We drank some more, danced a little, and then I spotted Amelia Godrum. She was a young woman of nineteen, the sister of a man who lived close by, someone I had grown up with. I approached her and asked her to dance, even though by this time my footwork was sloppy and my words slurred.’
Rose found it hard to imagine Mr Digby losing control of himself, but she supposed eight years and a horrific tragedy would change a man.
‘We danced, but Frederick Godrum, Amelia’s brother, thought I held her too tightly. He was furious and followed me out of the Assembly Rooms. He called me a cad and a scoundrel and insisted I make things right with Amelia.’ Mr Digby shook his head and pulled another long piece of grass from the bank, starting to shred it. ‘I laughed and told him he was being ridiculous. I respected Amelia, but I was not going to marry her. There must have been something condescending in my tone for he became enraged and challenged me to a duel, saying I was without honour.’
Rose nodded slowly, realising why Mr Digby had been so impassioned when he had seen the two foolish young men contemplating a duel on the bridge in St Ives earlier.
‘What happened?’
‘I sobered up. I thought Frederick’s temper would have cooled, too, and when I set out for the spot chosen for the duel I never thought he would want to go through with it. We were friends, not especially close, but two men from similar worlds. I thought in the cold light of day he would accept my apology.’
‘But he didn’t?’
‘No. He was still furious and demanded I marry his sister. I laughed and told him he was being unreasonable.’ Mr Digby shook his head and threw the last piece of grass away with a flick of his hand. Rose could see every muscle in his body was tense as if his body wanted to flee rather than remember.
‘You faced him in a duel?’
‘I refused at first, but he called me a coward. I was twenty-two years old and back then I thought being a called a coward was the worst thing that could happen to a man, so I picked up a pistol.’
Rose wondered if he had shot his friend, hardly able to believe this measured, cool man next to her was capable of such an act of violence.
‘We paced and turned to face each other. Even then I thought he would shoot in the air. He would have made his point and honour would have been satisfied.’
Rose didn’t pretend to understand the intricacies of the rules of duels. They were a ridiculous way to settle a dispute and illegal for good reason.
‘He pointed the pistol at me, but I still believed he would shoot up. I raised my pistol, too, and I fired it once into the air.’
‘You didn’t shoot him?’
‘No. I would never have shot him.’
‘But he died?’
‘He pulled the trigger and his pistol misfired...’
Mr Digby swallowed and Rose saw the emotion in his eyes as he pressed on.
‘He turned the pistol round, to look down the barrel to see what had happened, and at that moment the shot was released.’
‘He shot himself?’
‘At close range, in the face.’
For a long moment Rose was quiet as she tried to take in everything Mr Digby had told her.
‘So, you see why I could not stand by when those foolish young men were posturing over some supposed insult and risking their lives to satisfy their honour. There is nothing worse than being responsible for the death of another man.’
‘You didn’t kill Mr Godrum,’ Rose said quietly.
‘I didn’t shoot him,’ Mr Digby corrected her quietly, ‘but I am responsible for his death.’
She didn’t feel able to argue with him although she wasn’t sure she agreed. For eight years this tragic event had eaten into his conscience, festering like a deep wound.
‘There were witnesses?’
‘Yes, his second and mine, and a doctor, as is proper.’
‘Yet you still had to leave the country?’
‘I may not have pulled the trigger on the pistol that killed Frederick, but duelling itself is illegal. His family were understandably devastated and his father made it known if I ever set foot in England again he would do everything in his power to ensure I was prosecuted.’
‘It is hard to reason with a grief-stricken man,’ Rose murmured.
‘Indeed. So, I stayed away. It was the right thing to do. None of Frederick’s family should have to go through the discomfort of spotting me on the street, of seeing me getting on with my life when Frederick is dead.’
‘You carry a lot of guilt with you, Mr Digby,’ Rose said, knowing she was overstepping. Although Mr Digby had felt it appropriate to confide in her after his actions on the bridge in St Ives, it didn’t mean he wanted her opinion on the choices he had made these last few years.
‘It is not misplaced, Miss Carpenter. I know what you are trying to say—over the years people have gently tried to tell me that it was not my fault. I did not challenge Frederick Godrum to a duel, I did not shoot him, I did not turn that pistol and make him look down the barrel. I know I did not do any of that, but his death would not have happened if it weren’t for me. If I had reacted differently, if I had not let my own pride get in the way of good sense, a young man would not have died. I have to take responsibility for that.’
Mr Digby had stopped walking and turned to face her, and Rose saw the anguish he was carrying manifest itself in his expression. Logic might tell Mr Digby he was not a murderer, but that did not stop him feeling like one.
Instinctively, she reached out and took his hand, looking down at her fingers entwined with his. It was inappropriate and uninvited, but Mr Digby did not pull away. Instead, he looked at her intently as if searching for something he had lost.
‘I have no right to tell you what to feel,’ Rose said quietly. ‘But I do understand why you were quite so vocal with those young men today. It must be difficult to see people about to make the same mistakes that ruined your life.’
‘Yes.’ He looked as though he wanted to say more, but the words wouldn’t come.
Rose felt a flood of compassion for this man. She had thought him distant and cool, sometimes even aloof. She had disliked him for the years he had spent away from his loving family, thinking him selfish not to realise what a wonderful thing it was to have parents who cared for you. Now she could see the pain he had suffered and the weight of the guilt he carried these past eight years and she could understand a little his need to stay away.
Here in Hemingford Grey, he was the son of a baron, one day due to inherit a profitable estate and a beautiful house. Life would follow a predictable but comfortable path—marriage, children and building the family wealth to pass down to the next generation. If he had stayed, every day he would be living a life Frederick Godrum would never get to experience. At least if he went elsewhere, spent his time in less hospitable parts of the world, it was punishment as well as penance for his actions.
‘Thank you for confiding in me,’ Rose said softly, unable to tear her gaze away from his. He had pale blue eyes that drew you in and she felt an inexplicable connection to him in that moment. His thumb grazed over the back of her hand, caressing the skin ever so gently, and Rose’s body swayed towards him.
There was a rustle in the undergrowth and Rose took a hurried step back as a dog appeared, shattering the moment. She felt momentarily stunned, confused at what had just passed between them. Quickly, she turned, knowing she would not be able to control the expression on her face and not wanting Mr Digby to see how much he had affected her.
‘Digby, it is you,’ a jovial voice called out as a man appeared around the bend in the path.
Mr Digby glanced at Rose and then seemed to compose himself, smiling at the approaching man and then crouching down to stroke the terrier that was impatiently jumping at his legs.