And then the first man laughed and told me what I needed was a real man. And then he . . . And the other one would not stop him. He just laughed. He was married. I mean the one who . . . He would not have been able to marry me.”
“His name?” Gabriel asked softly. But of course he knew.
His cousin Philip had been a man of loose morals and a frequent drunk all the time Gabriel had known him. It was said—and Gabriel believed it—that no female servant or farm girl was safe from him when he was in his cups.
Manley had been just such another. He was all of five years older than Philip, but they were friends and he had come to Brierley frequently and stayed, often for weeks at a time.
By the time Gabriel went to America, both men were married, with children, but those facts had not changed them. Manley’s child had been left at home whenever he brought his wife to Brierley, and the two wives had been left at the house to amuse each other while the men drank in the village and went shooting out of season and ogled the local young women, married and single, and generally made nuisances of themselves. Lords of the manor. Entitled to whatever or whoever took their fancy.
Gabriel had always heartily disliked both of them, a sentiment they had made no bones about returning. They had always derived great pleasure from blaming him for some of the idiotic things they had done—grown men acting like bully boys. And his uncle, stern and autocratic, but as thick as a brick, Gabriel had often thought, had been unable or unwilling to see his son and his cousin’s boy for what they were. He had been ready enough to take their word and punish Gabriel.
“His name, Penny?”
Ginsberg looked as though he were about to explode, but he held his peace and stayed where he was, staring at the floor.
Penelope drew a deep, ragged breath. “Mr. Manley Rochford,” she said.
Ginsberg’s head snapped back as though he had been punched hard on the chin. His eyes were fast closed, his face chalk white. “He came to Orson’s funeral,” he murmured.
“You have told no one this until now, Penny?” Gabriel asked.
“Yes,” she said. “I told Mr. Clark—my husband—before I married him.”
“But he did not deem it necessary to have Manley Rochford taken into custody and charged with ravishment and probably murder too?” he asked.
She frowned. “But you killed Orson,” she said. “It was you he went to confront.”
“He did not find me,” he told her. “I was with Mary Beck. She had been brought a fawn with a broken leg, and I was helping her set and bind it. When I finally arrived home, I was confronted with three things. You were with child. Orson was dead, shot in the back. And I was guilty on both counts. You had admitted the first, and Philip and Manley had witnessed the second from a distance. They had been too far away, of course, to prevent the shooting. My uncle, his house threatened with terrible scandal, advised me to run while I could. And I fled before I could give myself time to think. It was not the wisest thing to do, of course, but I was nineteen. And there were people to swear that I was guilty of each charge—you on the one hand, Manley and Philip, my own cousins, on the other.”
Ginsberg had groped his way to a chair and sat down heavily upon it.
“I am so sorry, Gabriel,” Penelope said. “So very sorry. But they saw you kill Orson.”
“Two men,” Gabriel said. “One of whom had raped you, the other of whom was present when it happened but did nothing to stop it. Yet you took their word for what happened to your brother—and my friend? You have believed ever since that I shot him in the back?”
“You ran away,” she said. “What was I supposed to think? I have always believed it must have been an accident, that you did not mean to kill him. But . . . you ran away.”
“I am going home to Brierley,” he told her. “Not immediately, but soon. I may need you to tell this story to other people, Penny. At the very least I may need to tell other people that they can confirm the truth of my story by speaking with you.”