Page 57 of A Modest Independence

He shrugged. “Thornhill and Archer protected me. They protected Neville Cross as well, until he outgrew them both.”

“Helena says that Mr. Thornhill protects everyone in his care.”

“To the point of folly.”

“It sounds as though your friend Mr. Archer was the same.”

“He was,” Tom said. “And he wasn’t. He could be heroic when he chose. Even more heroic than Thornhill. The four of us used to climb down the cliffs at Abbot’s Holcombe. Thornhill, Archer, Cross, and me. One day, Cross slipped and fell into the sea.”

Jenny was familiar with the cliffs. They were some of the most treacherous in North Devon, only a smattering of rocky outcroppings breaking up what was otherwise a sheer, vertical drop into the sea. Mr. Cross’s fall from them as a boy had left him permanently damaged; slow of speech and prone to drifting off in his head in the midst of conversations.

“The weather was abysmal, the water churning like a maelstrom. Thornhill dove in, but he couldn’t find Cross in the water. In the end, it was Archer who saved him. To this day I still don’t know how he managed it. Raw courage and sheer strength of will, I imagine. Admirable qualities, to be sure. But there was a darkness in Archer, too. A selfishness that Thornhill never had.” Tom gave an eloquent grimace. “I don’t know how we arrived at this morbid subject.”

“We were talking about Giles. You told me I must prepare myself. But you’ve lost someone close to you just as surely as I have. I don’t see why we can’t share the burden.”

“The loss of Alex Archer is no burden to me.”

“You’re not troubled at all by the past?”

“Not any longer. Sir Oswald is dead. Cheevers is dead. The orphanage has been razed to the ground.” He gave her a long look. “It was I who bought the place. I who had it destroyed.”

“You must have hated the place.”

“Hate is a strong word. Suffice to say, I have a long memory. It’s much like your imagined debt to Lady Helena. Both a blessing and a burden. For many years I never forgave an injustice. I was somewhat ruthless when it came to balancing the scales. And as for those men behind it all…”

The fine hairs rose on the back of Jenny’s neck. There was something in Tom’s eyes. An expression she couldn’t interpret. It chilled her to the bone. “I know that Sir Oswald fell from the cliffs one night outside the Abbey. The whole of the village still talks about it. There was an inquest, wasn’t there?”

“He’d been drinking to excess. His death was ruled an accident.”

She searched his face. “Was Mr. Cheevers’s death an accident, too?”

Tom’s mouth curled into a smile. A smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Quite the reverse. Unlike Sir Oswald, Leonard Cheevers met his end very much on purpose.”

There was nothing to laugh about when it came to the memory of Leonard Cheevers. And yet, at the horrified look on Jenny’s face, Tom felt his lips twitch. Good lord, did she think he’d murdered the man? “He was hanged, Jenny. Arrested, sentenced, and hanged in the public square.”

She did a creditable job of hiding her relief. “On what charge?”

“Something to do with stolen property.”

“And for that he was executed?”

Ah. And there was the crux of it. “It was a discretionary sentence. The judge might have pardoned him if he wished, but given Cheevers’s long history of villainy…” Tom shrugged.

Her brows knit. “Did you have anything to do with it?”

“Very little. I merely submitted a few facts about Cheevers’s character to the judge before sentence was pronounced.”

Understanding dawned slowly in her eyes. “One of your very persuasive legal documents.”

Tom stared down at her. “You sound disappointed in me.”

“Not disappointed, no. Just…” She looked at him as though she were trying to solve a puzzle. “Did you feel better afterward? After he was dead?”

“I didn’t feel any worse.”

“Don’t be flippant.”

“It was a long time ago, Jenny. Over a decade.”