“Family,” Mr. Blythe said firmly. “I thought it was important that my son grow up around family.”
“That is a fine reason,” her father praised. “I am familiar with most of the families in this parish. Perhaps I know of your family.”
Mr. Blythe’s eyes grew pained. “I am afraid it is my wife’s family that lives here, but we are estranged. I find that it is rather difficult to talk about, and I do not wish to bother you with my troubles.”
Her father bobbed his head. “I understand.”
Mr. Blythe leaned forward in his seat, his expression sincere. “From what I have gathered, I must offer my condolences on the loss of your brother, my lord.”
“Thank you,” her father said, his voice hitchingslightly with emotion. “It has been a rather difficult time for my family.”
“I can only imagine,” Mr. Blythe remarked. “I, too, am familiar with the loss of family members. It is not for the faint of heart.”
Her father grew silent, the weight of shared grief hanging in the air. “No, it is not.”
Mr. Blythe clasped his hands together, as if to shift the mood. “But, enough of that. I would like to know more about the village. Do the rats truly outnumber the occupants at the coaching inn?”
Her father laughed. “I’m afraid so.”
“That is terrible news, considering I have eaten a meal or two there since I arrived in the village,” Mr. Blythe said with a grimace on his face.
“Well, if you are able, avoid the coaching inn at all costs,” her father suggested.
Mattie reached for her glass, content to listen to the lively exchange between her father and Mr. Blythe. Being the daughter of a vicar, she was quite used to having unexpected guests join them for supper on any given day. However, she suspected that would change once they moved to Darlington Abbey.
Chapter Eight
Winston leaned back in his chair, his feet propped up on his desk, an opened bottle of whiskey cradled in his hand. He was waiting for the dinner bell to ring, signaling everyone to gather on the main level. Until then, he was just going to wallow in his past.
A soft knock interrupted his thoughts.
“Enter,” he commanded.
The door creaked open, and Melody entered the room. Her eyes dropped to the bottle in his hand, her disapproval evident. “Dare I ask what you are doing?”
Winston straightened in his chair, placing the bottle on the desk. “I am reflecting on a past case.”
“And you need a bottle of whiskey to do so?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
He sighed. “What is it that you want, Melody?”
She crossed the room and sat on the edge of his bed, pushing aside his discarded jacket. “I thought we could talk.”
Winston looked heavenward. “About what?” he asked dryly.
Melody’s eyes softened with concern. “Why are you so terribly unhappy?”
“Why would you think I am unhappy?”
A small, knowing smile played on Melody’s lips. “I watch and listen far more than people realize,” she replied. “And I have noticed that you are not the same brother that left for London many years ago to become a barrister.”
Turning to face her, Winston met her gaze. “That is because I am not.” There. Perhaps if he just told her the truth she would leave him be.
But Melody was not deterred. She tilted her head slightly. “Are you unhappy being a barrister?”
“No.”
“But you are unhappy?” she pressed.
