This was the first time Georgina had been alone with him.
Mr. Lutwidge occupied the chair nearest the window, a book in his hands, though he had not turned a page in over an hour. His eyes avoided her. Indeed, he had taken such strains these past days to remain far away from Georgina that she imagined he would dismiss himself now and flee the room.
But he remained in his chair. Quiet.
“I did not tell her.”
He glanced up, startled. “Pardon, Miss Whitmore?”
“I did not tell Mamma.” Georgina plunged the needle harder. “About the graveyard.”
“Forgive my witlessness. By the significance of such a statement, I imagine I should know what you are speaking of. Unfortunately, I do not.”
“I did not expect you would own to it.”
“Own to what?”
“Whatever you did to Papa.” A hook of pain raked down her throat. She threw down the needlework, faced him on the edge of her seat. “I want to know the truth. I want to know why you invaded this town house and why you left those dreadful flowers and what you were doing at my father’s grave—”
“Miss Whitmore, you are excited.”
“Your letter gave me the false assurance you would confess. You married my mother instead.”
“Your mother has nothing to do with this.” He snapped the book shut. Blue veins bulged his neck. “And confession, if that is what you expect of me, has many different forms.”
“You killed Papa.”
His face turned to ash.
“You killed him. I know you did.”
The book thudded to the floor. Not because he had slung it in anger, but because he seemingly lost power of his fingers, his body, his face. Shadows loomed across his expression as he stood. “They were her favorite.”
“What—”
“The yellow flowers. Back in the spring. Another lifetime ago.” He smiled, but his eyes wept. “Do not drag me back into the grave, child. I have only just come back to life again…for the first time in three years.”
He had too many memories in here.
Simon sat in Father’s chair behind the large desk, the brass candlestick quivering orange light into the room. He tossed the last well-kept ledger to the floor.
Father had been meticulous. Every detail of his books—and his life—had been precise and rational. He did nothing on whim. Everything by strategy.
“Son, we must have a talk.”Simon shook his head to dispel the sleepiness and reminiscences from his brain.
But they came anyway, as he slumped deeper into the chair. His younger self, standing before this very desk with paint stains on his trousers. Already he had braced himself for another lecture. At fourteen, he’d had enough to write ten volumes of books.
But Father had not launched into another sermon of instructions. Instead, he had motioned Simon around the desk, until his son stood facing him.
“You realize I do not approve of this squander of time you choose to indulge in. These paints, they are”—he had brushed at the dry stains on Simon’s clothes—“well, they are unavailing to say the least.”
Simon had wiggled, ready to depart, but Father had grasped his shoulders.
“Regardless, I want you to know something. I am severe on you, yes. As I am your brother.”
“Yes, sir.”
“But if my expectations of you are excessive, it is only because so is my love.”
