The tavern door snapped shut behind Henry with a loud click.
From their seats around crudely built tables or from leaning positions upon the wooden kegs, a few local fishermen stared in silence. A woman strummed a lyre in the corner—though it seemed to lack some of its strings—and the discordant sound struck the air with strain.
Their eyes shifted to the counter, where another gentleman reached for a tankard. He flicked a coin to the proprietor. “You might invest in new floorboards, fellow.” His mustache twitched. “And a new instrumentalist, in the doing.” As if he’d already known Henry was present, his eyes lifted with a smile. “Lord Sedgewick, won’t you join me?”
Henry approached the counter, laid his palms flat. “Mr. Swinton.”
“In flesh and blood, my lord.” He bowed with exaggeration. “Won’t you join me for a tankard of ale? I am afraid this establishment can boast of very little else.”
“I recall the place to be your choice.”
“Ah, so it was.” The gentleman leaned forward, grinning. “But that was for your sake, my lord. I wished to spare you any embarrassment possible.”
“There is no embarrassment, I assure you.” Henry produced the note from his pocket. “Good day—”
“Wait a minute.” The man’s fist snatched the fabric of Henry’s coat. “I have waited a great many years for this, as described in my letter. Indeed, I had no inkling as to where he’d gone after he departed Cheltenham in the middle of the night—”
“Consequences of gambling.” Henry shrugged him off. “Your debt is paid, Mr. Swinton.”
“I tend to see it differently.” The man’s mustache twitched for the second time. “Dash it all, why didn’t he deliver himself? Does he always send another fellow to pay for his own folly? I do wonder, my lord, what the good residents of Northston would think if they knew the behavior of a certain gentleman—”
Henry’s hand groped for the man’s cravat. “I wonder what they would say if I were to crush your throat, Mr. Swinton? If we are so eager to give them gossip, I shall be more than inclined to oblige you.”
Mr. Swinton’s eyes bugged. “No.” His breath was raspy, panicked. He struggled out of Henry’s grip and shuffled backward, knocking his tankard with his elbow. The liquid dripped from the counter, even as he rescued the note from ruin. “No, my lord, you see—”
Henry glared at him.
He shifted, colored, then looked away. “As you said before, my lord,” he said. “The debt is paid.” Stuffing the note inside his coat, he stormed from the tavern.
The door clicked shut behind him.
And Henry’s shoulders caved the same time his heart sank lower in his chest. For mercy’s sake, how long would he have to endure all this? His father should have never written such a will. Should never have made such stipulations, such unbearable stipulations.
But then again, his father hadn’t known what would happen years after his death. He hadn’t known what Henry would do on some quiet night, or how the blood on his hands would change everything.
If only he had.
If only they all had.
“Mr. Arnold.” Having just posted her letter, Ella spotted the brown-coated man on the street, his face scarcely visible under the large hat.
He must not have heard her, because he continued on his way in hurried steps.
Ella darted after him. “Mr. Arnold!”
The large hat turned. Underneath, a shadowed pair of eyes met hers and widened. His lips hesitated as if he had forgotten her name.
Perhaps she had never introduced herself. “Mr. Arnold, I am ever so pleased to see you.” She reached for his hand and gave a slight squeeze. “You do remember me, don’t you?”
“Why, yes, miss.” He withdrew his hand diffidently and ducked his chin. “’Twas a day I won’t be forgettin’ none too easy.”
“How fares the littlest?”
“Well, miss. The Almighty be watchin’o’er her—o’er us all, I reckon.”
Lord Sedgewick certainly was not.
“An’ e’erything is startin’ to look bright again.” He shook his head. “I sure couldn’t be seein’ how after the fire an’ all, but with the new house—”
“New house?”
“Yes, miss—”
“However did you manage to find a place so quickly? After you were forced to leave—”
“Leave, miss?” He pushed his hat back. “We wouldn’t e’er want to leave.”
“But Lord Sedgewick—”
“Settled us on a different patch o’ land, not far from where we was before. ‘Twas a bigger house an’ all. Ground richer too. But Lord Sedgewick said it was fittin’ on account of my missus being with child again.”
“Oh.”
How had he arranged all that so quickly? And why had he never told her, even when she accused him of her false suspicions?
“I—I didn’t realize.”
“Fine man, his lordship. Came to the new place e’ery day for a week after the fire, helpin’ an’ all, cheerin’ up the children, bringin’ things for the missus.” A smile stretched across his weathered face. “Even helped me start on the barn with his own hands, he did.”
His own hands? Couldn’t he have sent a servant?
“Well, I best be goin’, miss.” Mr. Arnold tipped the brim of the large hat. “Good day to you, now.”
Good day, indeed. How was she supposed to face his lordship now?
She was already waiting for him in the phaeton when he returned. He settled next to her in silence, took the reins, and brought the horses to a slow trot out of town.
“My letter is sent.” Her voice took on a quality of cheerfulness. “Has your business been attended to?”
A smile curved at the remembrance of Mr. Swinton’s frightened dash from the tavern. “Yes, I daresay it is.”
Silence.
Then, “Only one letter?”
“Pardon?”
“You sent only one letter?”
“I had but two people to write, and since they both reside in the same dwelling and will no doubt read aloud, one letter was sufficient.”
“Two people,” he said. “Mother and father?”
“Mother and sister.”
“I see.”
Silence again, in which a deep sigh escaped her. With a sudden jerk of her head and a clasping of her hands, she said, “My lord?”
“Yes?”
“I do not take pleasure humbling myself, but as I mentioned before, I am more than familiar with apologies.” Rosiness settled over her cheeks. “And I fear, most ashamedly, that I owe you one.”
Amusement attempted to produce a grin, but he did not wish to offend when her words were given in such earnest. “I shall be more prone to accept your apology after I am made aware of your wrongs against me.”
“I should think you would already know.”
“There are so many”—the grin finally unearthed—”that I cannot guess which one you wish to make amends for.”
To this, she only sighed again and crossed her arms. “Why did you not tell me where you had placed the Arnold family?”
“I do not recall your asking.”
“Would you have left me in error indefinitely? I had a most ill opinion of you.” She held out her hand. “And pray, do not say it again.”
“Say what?”
“How apathetic you are to the estimation of others. We have been over that quite enough.”
He shook his head, half startled, half intrigued by her wit and effrontery. The rest of the ride was taken in silence, but it was silence of ease and pleasure. He did not even mind when her sleeve once brushed his, or when the smell of her hair wafted his way—all things he would have detested before.
Why should she be any different from the others?