Page 72 of A Winter By the Sea
He grimaced. “The truth is, none of us have lived up to Father’s expectations. All of us have disappointed him in one way or another. Arthur was his favorite, until he was injured.”
“Your father is disappointed in him because of that? When it was not his fault? Surely he does not blame Arthur!”
“No.” A muscle in his jaw pulsed. “He blames me.”
Emily gaped. “Oh no. What happened?”
“The three of us went hunting in the wood behind our house. Edward said we had Father’s permission, but he lied.”
Another grimace. “I honestly don’t know how it happened. I took a few shots at birds high in the treetops, but that was all. Then suddenly, Arthur was on the ground and there was blood everywhere. It was the worst moment of my life. How I thanked God when the surgeon announced he would survive, even though Father’s military aspirations for him would not. Of course Father was furious and took Edward to task for it.”
James Thomson shook his head. “But nothing is ever Edward’s fault. He has always blamed others for his sins. Sent down from Oxford? That was a schoolfellow’s fault. Overspending? Dishonest tradesmen taking advantage. And when this happened, he insisted I was to blame. Said it must havebeen me as I was the least experienced with a gun and had been shooting wild. I tried to protest, but Father did not believe me.”
Realization trickled over her. “Is that why you came to that boy’s defense when he shot the Woolbrook window?”
“It certainly brought all the memories rushing back. But I believed the lad—and you and Georgiana—when you said it was an accident, that no harm had been intended, and thank God, no harm had been done.”
Emily’s heart squeezed. She longed to take Mr. Thomson’s hand in hers, but she resisted.
“How old were you when that happened?”
“Fifteen. After that, Father washed his hands of me.”
“I am sorry, James.” Emily realized she had called him by his Christian name. He shot her a curious look, clearly noticing as well. But she did not mention it and neither did he.
When they sat down to dinner that evening, Mr. During was absent. Sarah wondered if he might be standing guard in his room again.
She asked conversationally, “Does anyone know where Mr. During is?”
The others shook their heads.
Mr. Gwilt spoke up as he laid a platter of poached cod on the table.
“Off to the Old Ship Inn, I’d wager, I would. Asked me where a man might have a pint and meet the locals.”
“Really? How unexpected. Thank you, Mr. Gwilt.” Sarah had not thought Selwyn During a tippler, nor sociable, nor interested in local customs or people. She had clearly been wrong.
Mr. Bernardi viewed the plain pale fish with keen disappointment. He looked up and said, “That’s odd. He always refuses when I ask him to go out for a pint. Says he must save every farthing for his family.”
“Seems he made an exception,” Mr. Thomson said equitably.
They began to eat.
A few bites later, Sarah heard the front door open. Soon, Selwyn During entered the dining room, unwinding his long, crudely knitted muffler as he came.
“A thousand apologies for my tardiness,” he said. He brought with him the smells of ale, pipe smoke, and fried fish, but his eyes were clear. He sat down with the squeal and thump of chair legs, still wearing his coat.
Bernardi asked, “Did you actually go to a public house alone when you always refuse to go with me?”
During’s eyes widened. “How did you know?”
He glanced warily at Mr. Gwilt, but Bernardi answered, “It’s obvious from the smell on your clothes.”
Selwyn lifted a sleeve and took an experimental sniff. “Oh dear. I shall have to remedy that posthaste. And I only had the one. To be friendly. You know I am very careful with my limited funds.”
“If you say so.”
“I do. You know I don’t drink as a rule.” He rose with another squeal of wood. “I came straight in because I was late, but I shall take my things up to my room.”
