The Winter Companion (Parish Orphans of Devon #4) - Mimi Matthews Page 0,83
explaining. I confess I’m that put out by it.”
“As am I, sir. But here we are.”
“Quite.” He lay down his spoon. “The truth is, I don’t know the whole of the story myself. Simon has been extraordinarily tight-lipped about the business. And none of us were there that night. So we only have his word on the matter. And that of a half dozen or so witnesses who appeared on the scene in the aftermath. You see…your brother was involved in a brawl.”
Her teacup froze halfway to her mouth. A brawl? Simon? It was impossible. She slowly lowered her cup. “I don’t believe it.”
“It’s the truth, ma’am. It happened a month ago, at the railway station. That is to say, it began at the railway station and then made its way into the street. The altercation was, er, rather violent.”
She stared at Mr. Trent, at a complete loss for words. Her brother didn’t have a violent bone in his body. He was a scholar. A lover of books, and nature. He was no brawler.
“It was late in the evening,” Mr. Trent went on. “Which was a blessing. Fewer witnesses, you know. But the authorities were on the scene in a trice. And it looked to them as though Simon was the aggressor.”
“He can’t have been.”
“Oh, but he was. He admitted to it.” Mr. Trent helped himself to a slice of buttered bread. “As much as I can understand it, he saw this fellow at the station, and the two of them exchanged harsh words. They’d both been drinking, and”—he shrugged—“one thing led to another.”
“Are you claiming that my brother is some variety of violent drunkard?”
Mr. Trent gave her a bemused look. “A drunkard? Lord no. Simon can hold his ale better than any of us.”
“Then why—”
“It wasn’t the drink that caused the dustup. It was whatever the blackguard said to him.”
“My brother wouldn’t just go about assaulting strangers willy-nilly, sir. It doesn’t matter what they said to him. He has more countenance than that, and a great deal more self-control. Whatever he’s being accused of—”
“But this fellow wasn’t a stranger, Miss Hartwright. Simon knew him. Or used to know him. He was Simon’s old tutor from Hertfordshire. A gentleman by the name of Bryce-Chetwynde. Perhaps you remember him?”
The remaining blood drained from Clara’s face. If not for the strength of her corset holding her upright in her chair, she might have crumpled straight to the tavern floor.
Andrew Bryce-Chetwynde.
It was a name she hadn’t heard spoken in four long years. One she’d hoped never to hear again.
She pressed a hand to her midriff, willing herself to breathe. “Yes,” she said at last in a voice quite unlike her own. “I remember him.”
North Devon, England
December 1860
Neville ran a brush and currycomb over Adventurer’s dappled neck and shoulder, loosening the hair from his thick winter coat. Rain pattered gently on the roof of the stables. The storm had passed sooner than expected, leaving the cliff road swimming in rainwater and knee-deep in mud—but passable. Only that morning, Danvers had pronounced it so.
And now, Neville could leave.
The possibility of it had been preying on his mind since the day Clara departed for Cambridge.
It was a ridiculous idea.
What need had Clara of him? She was intelligent and competent. Capable of taking care of herself. Who was he to interfere? Not her brother or any other sort of relation. He was only her friend.
Only. As if it were nothing very important.
“Friendship is a precious thing,” she’d said.
Infinitely precious. He hadn’t realized quite how much her friendship had meant until she’d gone.
“The turning isn’t as swampy as I feared.” Justin’s deep voice sounded from the entrance to the stables. He entered with Danvers at his side. The two of them had been out inspecting the road. “You don’t think the wheels will get stuck?”
“I reckon we could add more crushed stone,” Danvers said. “It would bind it up nice.”