Somehow, the pains of what had happened to her were less sharp tonight.
Like the Meg of then and the Tom of then were different people.
Flipping up his coat collar, he roamed back to the streets and lingered for a while before the blacksmith shop. He didn’t go in. Meade wouldn’t know what to say, even if he did.
I need help.
Fog formed like storm clouds, haloing street lamps, weaving in and out of his legs as he cut toward the wharves.
Heaven knew, of all places, he shouldn’t come here.
Ripping off his shoes, he splashed his way to the little fishing boat. Black water rocked the vessel. Moonlight rippled on the waves in ethereal light as he dragged both hands down his face.
I dinnae know what to do.
Mr. Willmott had positioned his back toward Tom as if unable to look him in the face. He’d bothered the tassel on his curtain with quivering fingers.“I knew it was wrong. At first she was nothing to me.”His shoulders wilted.“And then she was everything.”
“You wrote the letters,”Tom had accused.
“If Elisabeth received letters, they were not from me.”Was the man truly so clueless?“For which I am grateful now, lest another sin be added to my charge.”
“What?”
“If you spoke with anyone at all, McGwen, you would know why she’s dead.”His words had caught.“She killed herself … because of me.”
Tom had stood for longer than he should have. He thought of everything from slamming the blackguard into the study wall, choking the truth out of him, and dragging him to the constable without his wig or his dignity.
In the end, he left the study without imparting a word to anyone.
His throat was closed.
His mind wrecked.
God.
The word clung to his consciousness as he wiped more tears on the wool of his coat sleeve. The heaviness smothered him. Not just from tonight—the terror of not knowing who to believe, the devastation of still grappling with darkness.
But the heaviness of seven years ago.
Caleb.
Papa.
God, I dinnae think I can do this.Rage seethed through him and he pummeled the air with his fist.I cannae help Meg. I cannae stop the letters.His weakness slipped out in a sob. More shame.I cannae pray.
He missed that.
He missed God.
“Take a look at this.” The rawboned boy stabbed his antler-handled knife into an orange. The fruit bowl tipped over. Apples, pears, and grapes scattered across the drawing room tea table, then kerthumped to the rug one at a time. “Reckon this is how the other side lives, eh wot?”
“W–w–we was told not to touch nothing, Orkey.” The other man cast a wary glance to the door. “Don’t go m–messing everything up.”
“I’m not messin’ nothing.” The boy ripped into the orange, tearing through the peeling with stained, chipped teeth. Juice trickled down his chin. “You locked up the servants?”
“Door to the servant entry be locked. Tuckwell’s guarding it.”
“All of them up there?”
