Page 56 of A Convenient Fiction

Alex released him, stepping back as George fell to the floor, coughing. Rage surged through his veins, raw and primitive. He could have easily torn George apart. Part of him still wanted to. And for what? For merely mentioning Laura’s name?

What in blazes was wrong with him?

He didn’t lose control. Not ever. And certainly not over a woman.

“I’m not going to kill you,” he said. “And I’m not going to permit you to kill yourself.”

George’s face crumpled. He put his head in his hands and began to cry.

Alex had met drunkards before. The kind of men who couldn’t go a day without a bottle of whiskey or gin. He hadn’t thought George was as far gone as that. In France, George had often been foxed, but he’d loved gambling as much as drinking. As for the opium he’d begun taking…

Oblivion or excitement, wasn’t that what he’d said?

As if he was trying to blot out reality. To erase all traces of natural thought or emotion.

Laura had accused Alex of doing the same. Of suppressing his feelings. Of never risking anything for fear of being hurt.

But he wasn’t the same as George, surely.

“It was a mistake to allow you to drink, even in small amounts. From now on, you’ll take no wine with dinner. No spirits of any kind.”

George looked up at him bleakly. “You’re a monster.”

“Rather the opposite,” Alex said. “This is me at my least monstrous. This is me trying to save your life.”

Two hours later, when the vicar finally returned from visiting sick parishioners in the village, George was in bed asleep.

“Something’s happened, hasn’t it?” The vicar asked. “I can sense when the household’s been in an uproar, even if my servants don’t see fit to inform me of it. The expression on Mrs. Griffiths’s face… It can only be because of George.” He looked at Alex with weary eyes. “Will you join me in the parlor?”

Alex sat down with him in the same chairs they’d occupied the night of Alex’s arrival in Lower Hawley. Beeswax candles were lit on the mantel, casting the room in flickering shadows.

“Is it drink?” the vicar enquired. “Or something stronger this time?”

“Three bottles of sherry,” Alex said. “And a dose of laudanum.”

The vicar glanced to his drinks table, where the decanter that usually held his sherry now stood empty. “Is this how he comports himself when he’s away from home? Or is it worse?”

Alex didn’t answer.

“Worse, then.” The vicar sighed. “I’ve suspected for some time, but I did pray that my suspicions were unfounded. People are capable of change, Mr. Archer, with the Lord’s help.”

“I doubt that God has much to do with George’s proclivities.”

“How wrong you are, sir. God has everything to do with it. From the day George reached his majority, he’s been determined to throw all of the Lord’s teachings back in my face. It’s my fault. I’ve been a poor messenger. Too strict and unforgiving. A failure as both a vicar and a father.”

Alex didn’t know quite what to say. “I believe all children rebel against their parents at some time or another,” he managed at last. “Young men, especially.”

“Do they? I suppose I must take comfort from the fact.” The vicar removed his spectacles to massage the bridge of his nose. “Did you rebel against your godfather when you were a young man?”

Alex hesitated. He wasn’t deeply religious. Nevertheless, he couldn’t bring himself to lie outright to a man of God. He’d already lied so much, merely by omission. “My godfather and I have a unique relationship. More akin to business acquaintances than father and son.”

“Unlike George and I. I’ve been every inch the father to him. Too much so, he’d say. Always meddling in his affairs.” The vicar settled his spectacles back on his face. “You’ll watch over him, won’t you? He’s destructive, my boy. Bound to hurt himself, or some other person. I feel responsible—”

“I’m keeping a close eye on George, sir. You need have no concerns on that score.”

“I’m obliged to you, Mr. Archer. Don’t think I don’t realize the sacrifice you make. It’s a thankless task, looking after my son. One that will require you to postpone your pleasure on occasion. With George in his present condition…he won’t be in any fit state to accompany you to the seaside, I fear.”

The hell he wouldn’t.