Page 83 of The Winter Companion

“Only that my mother believes Simon is in danger of being rusticated.” Her words were met with silence. “Is it true?”

“I believe we’ve managed to prevent that, at least. I’ve convinced him to offer a written apology, both to the school and to the gentleman involved. All that remains is to speak with the local authorities.”

Clara’s breath stopped in her chest. “The authorities?”

“A mere formality. That, and twenty guineas in compensation. But we’ve taken up a collection, and—” He broke off with a look of concern. “I beg your pardon, ma’am. Are you quite all right?”

Twenty guineas?

She paled at the very thought of it. Families had been brought to ruin by less.

“Compensation for what?” she asked.

“Lord knows. It’s a figure the fellow’s solicitor has come up with. But there’s nothing to worry about. We’ve taken up a collection, and—”

“A solicitor is involved?” If a twenty-guinea debt didn’t ruin them, a lengthy lawsuit certainly would. Either way, things were far worse than Clara had imagined. “Do you know, Mr. Trent, I believe I shall have that cup of tea, after all.”

Mr. Trent immediately waved a hand to one of the tavern maids and ordered a pot of tea, along with a plate of bread and butter. It was brought almost at once.

Clara poured for both of them, rather amazed at the steadiness of her hands. “You had best start at the beginning.”

Mr. Trent stirred sugar into his cup with an agitated clink of his teaspoon. “You’ll forgive me, Miss Hartwright. I never thought I’d be the one doing the explaining. I confess I’m that put out by it.”

“As am I, sir. But here we are.”

“Quite.” He lay down his spoon. “The truth is, I don’t know the whole of the story myself. Simon has been extraordinarily tight-lipped about the business. And none of us were there that night. So we only have his word on the matter. And that of a half dozen or so witnesses who appeared on the scene in the aftermath. You see…your brother was involved in a brawl.”

Her teacup froze halfway to her mouth. A brawl? Simon? It was impossible. She slowly lowered her cup. “I don’t believe it.”

“It’s the truth, ma’am. It happened a month ago, at the railway station. That is to say, it began at the railway station and then made its way into the street. The altercation was, er, rather violent.”

She stared at Mr. Trent, at a complete loss for words. Her brother didn’t have a violent bone in his body. He was a scholar. A lover of books, and nature. He was no brawler.

“It was late in the evening,” Mr. Trent went on. “Which was a blessing. Fewer witnesses, you know. But the authorities were on the scene in a trice. And it looked to them as though Simon was the aggressor.”

“He can’t have been.”

“Oh, but he was. He admitted to it.” Mr. Trent helped himself to a slice of buttered bread. “As much as I can understand it, he saw this fellow at the station, and the two of them exchanged harsh words. They’d both been drinking, and”—he shrugged—“one thing led to another.”

“Are you claiming that my brother is some variety of violent drunkard?”

Mr. Trent gave her a bemused look. “A drunkard? Lord no. Simon can hold his ale better than any of us.”

“Then why—”

“It wasn’t the drink that caused the dustup. It was whatever the blackguard said to him.”

“My brother wouldn’t just go about assaulting strangers willy-nilly, sir. It doesn’t matter what they said to him. He has more countenance than that, and a great deal more self-control. Whatever he’s being accused of—”

“But this fellow wasn’t a stranger, Miss Hartwright. Simon knew him. Or used to know him. He was Simon’s old tutor from Hertfordshire. A gentleman by the name of Bryce-Chetwynde. Perhaps you remember him?”

The remaining blood drained from Clara’s face. If not for the strength of her corset holding her upright in her chair, she might have crumpled straight to the tavern floor.

Andrew Bryce-Chetwynde.

It was a name she hadn’t heard spoken in four long years. One she’d hoped never to hear again.

She pressed a hand to her midriff, willing herself to breathe. “Yes,” she said at last in a voice quite unlike her own. “I remember him.”