Chapter Sixteen

She’d drawn one of the purple crocuses. They sprang up thickly in the forest at this time of year, and Alex remembered making clumsy sketches himself. His own attempts had been terrible, of course – he was never much of an artist – but Abigail’s sketch was something else.

In just a few lines, she’d captured the softness of the petals, the graceful curve of the stem, contrasting with the abrupt straightness of the thick grass beside it. The sketch was in black and white, naturally, but he could imagine the delicate purple colour inching along the flower itself.

“You have a talent,” he remarked.

She shrugged, flushing. “I can’t do watercolours very well, and Mama said that only watercolours are worth displaying. We had a tutor, but it was extra to tutor both of us, so we could only afford to have him teach my sister.”

As soon as she’d finished, she flushed and looked away, as if she wished she hadn’t said it.

“That’s unfortunate,” Alexander responded.

He knew, of course, that he should take his leave right away, since Abigail wasn’t chaperoned, and they were alone in the woods, for heaven’s sake.

He didn’t leave. He found himself lingering, searching for something to say.

In the end, she spoke first.

“Was this your swing? When you were a child, I mean?”

Alexander swallowed, nodding. “I always wanted a swing. Kat and me kept trying to make ourselves one, but we were too small, and the things kept collapsing.” He bit back a smile. “I remember once, Kat was the first one to sit on a swing we’d made ourselves, and the branch came tumbling down on her head. I suppose she could have been hurt, but at the time, we just thought it was hilarious.”

“And how did this one happen?”

He drew in a breath. “I begged my father to build us a swing. I thought that if I just asked him often enough, and behaved as well as I could, he’d listen.”

A look of trepidation eased over Abigail’s face. She gently closed her book, setting it aside.

“And… and what happened?”

Alexander shrugged. “At last, he agreed. I was thrilled. I remember that my two older brothers were wary, but Kat and I thought they were just sour. Father got a good, smooth plank of wood, big enough for two, and a few lengths of rope. He put up the swing with his own hands, and when it was done, he made all of us come out and watch. Mother too.”

He breathed deeply, steeling himself. “I was thrilled. It was the happiest day of my life. Father stood me in front of everybody and said that even though he’d said no to a swing, I had kept asking and asking, and now here was a swing, and wasn’t I persistent? He told me to hop on and try it out. I did. It was perfect. I went higher and higher, laughing and kicking up my legs…” he swallowed hard. “And then, quite out of the blue, my father took out a very sharp hunting knife and cut through one of the ropes. Snick . I’ll never forget the sound it made. Or the feeling of euphoria turning to terror as I started to fall.”

Abigail’s face was white and set. Her fingers curled around the rope of the swing, knuckles standing out.

“Did you hurt yourself?” she asked, voice quiet.

He nodded. “Nothing broken, but I badly sprained one wrist. I cut myself in half a dozen places. I have some scars left, and I remember that there seemed to be a tremendous amount of blood. I lay there for a moment, and then started wailing. You know, the way children do when they’re hurt. I remember that nobody came to help me, and at the time it hurt so much, but now I know why they held back. It would have been worse for me, otherwise. Father yanked me to my feet, slapped me across the face, and told me to stop crying. ‘When I say no, I mean it,’ he said. ‘Never ask twice for anything again.’ Then he walked off, leaving us all there to pick up the pieces.”

There was a brief silence.

“What a monster,” Abigail breathed, voice shaking. “I know he was your father, but…”

“We hated him,” Alexander murmured. “All of us. It taught me a valuable lesson, though.”

“Don’t ask twice for something?”

He gave a lopsided grin. “No, don’t ask at all. Better to ask for forgiveness than to ask for permission, after all.”

She gave a small smile back. “What about this swing, then?”

“Ah, that’s the good part of the story. A day or two later, Henry and William told me to come out to the woods. They took me here, to this clearing – Father never ventured into the woodlands – and here it was. The swing my brothers and Kat had built for me. Kat was sitting on it when I first came here, grinning like mad.” He allowed himself a small smile. “This was our secret place, for years and years. It’s peaceful. I’m glad you found it, truly.”

He glanced down at Abigail, trying to gauge whether he’d gone too far. Perhaps she didn’t want to hear about his suffering. People generally didn’t.

“You had the last laugh, though,” she said at last. “You’re here, and so is your swing, and he’s gone.”

Alexander managed a weak smile.

“Yes. I suppose so.”

Their eyes met and held. He felt the familiar warmth prickling over his skin, and Abigail did not look away. He opened his mouth to speak – heaven only knew what he was going to say – but was interrupted by the sound of distant footsteps.

Abigail flinched, eyes widening, and she clutched her book to her chest.

“We can’t be here together,” she hissed, glancing up at him.

“I’ll go,” Alexander said at once. “You stay here until the coast is clear.”

Without waiting for a response, he hurried out of the clearing.

William was outside, striding purposefully along the tree line.

He looked angry. But then, he generally did.

“There you are!” William hissed, hurrying towards him. “Your cursed friend is making a show of himself again. Thankfully, most of the guests are out in the strawberry fields. Get him under control now , before they come home!”

Alexander swallowed hard, a sensation of dread trickling through him.

“What… what is he doing?”

“Oh, just come and see. Quickly!”

***

Alexander and William stood side by side, hands on hips, staring down at the crumpled heap that was Lord Hamish Grey.

“I am sorry, Will,” Alexander muttered. “I… I didn’t know he’d be like this.”

According to the footman, Hamish had gone racing through the halls, singing at the top of his voice, and stopped to vomit inside a very expensive vase. The footmen had attempted to stop him, and he had shoved one of them over, and then run into the library, proceeding to pull a small pile of books off the shelves, and then vomited repeatedly over them .

Also on the rug, which was very expensive and likely would not be saved.

Alexander had guilty memories of himself staring down at the fine rug in his mother’s morning room, wondering if he would vomit on it.

Now, Hamish was lying on the floor, face down. It looked as though he’d tried to get to the couch but hadn’t quite made it.

“Can the books be saved?” Alexander whispered.

“No,” William replied, voice clipped.

“Oh.”

“Do something about him, won’t you? I’ve summoned a few trustworthy footmen.”

Alexander swallowed hard, nodding. “I… I’ll have him stay in his room for the rest of tonight and have him conveyed home in the morning.”

“I think that’s for the best, don’t you?”

Not waiting for a reply, William turned on his heel and strode away, leaving Alexander to manage his drunken friend alone.

He moved over to Hamish’s side, propping him up into a sitting position.

“I was looking for a book of poetry, I think,” Hamish mumbled, only half conscious. “For your Miss Atwater. For you to give to her, that is.”

Alexander’s chest tightened. “You’re ill, Hamish. You’ve drunk too much.”

Hamish groaned, passing a hand over his face. “Don’t I always.”

“Here, let’s get you up onto the sofa.”

“No, no, better not. It’s a lovely velvet affair, I’d only ruin it. I ruin everything, you know.”

He bit his lip. “You know that’s not true, Hamish.”

Hamish opened bleary eyes, smiling weakly. “I think you know that it is. Just give a moment to sit quietly.”

He leaned back, resting his head against the seat of the sofa, and Alexander crouched down in front of him.

For a moment, they sat there in silence.

“You’ve never been as bad as me, have you?” Hamish remarked at last. “I’ve been a rake since I was seventeen or eighteen, and drinking too much long before that. You only started on this business when your father died.”

The lump returned to Alexander’s throat. He swallowed hard a couple of times, trying to force it down, but it wouldn’t go.

“What does that have to do with anything, Hamish? You’re ill.”

“Yes, I am ill. More ill than I might have thought. Do you know, I kept telling myself that it didn’t matter how much wine and whiskey I drank, because I could stop drinking it whenever I chose, I just didn’t want to. Seems ridiculous, but I truly did believe that I was controlling it, not that it was controlling me.”

“Hamish…”

“No, no, I see the look on people’s faces. It’s like reading something in one of those Radcliffe novels, when the hero or heroine sees something terrible happening, but they haven’t strength to stop it, so they just have to watch. I disgust people, Alexander. I disgust myself.”

Alexander gripped Hamish’s shoulders firmly. “You’re my friend. You don’t disgust me. You never will. I won’t lie, I wish you’d behaved a little better over the past few days. You embarrassed me a little, but I also embarrassed myself a fair bit, too.”

“Your brother looks at me like he wants to kill me,” Hamish remarked, trying for a wobbly smile.

Alexander winced. “Yes, but he looks at me like that, too. Sometimes I think it’s just the way William looks at everyone, frankly.”

“I… I think I might have let your secret slip to someone, too. I was drunk, and I was talking to myself, and I think… I think someone was nearby.”

Yes, you fool. Graham Donovan.

But what good would come from telling him that? Hamish was looking up at Alexander with wide, pleading eyes, guilt written clearly on his face.

On impulse, Alexander settled down next to his friend, shoulder to shoulder.

“You have to go home tomorrow, Hamish. William insisted. Neither of us have behaved well, but he can’t exactly send me away. I’m going to arrange it all. And when all this is over, you and I will try and mend our rakish ways, eh?”

Hamish gave that small smile again. “Me because I don’t want to end up like my father, and you to impress your Miss Atwater?”

“You really need to stop talking about Miss Atwater like that. I’ve been warned off her.”

“ What ?”

“Don’t ask,” Alexander muttered, waving a hand. “But the point is, we’re friends. Playing the rake, drinking, and enjoying a hand of cards isn’t a crime, as far as I know, but perhaps as we get older, a little more moderation is the key?”

“Neither of us are good at moderation.”

Perhaps, Alexander thought, with a sudden spurt of fear, but if we don’t control our habits, they’ll control us. Vomiting on the library floor will be the least of our worries.

I don’t want to die a drunkard.

There were soft footsteps, and the footmen appeared, faces smooth and impassive.

“Take him to his room, please,” Alexander instructed. “He’ll have his meals there, if he’s hungry. He’s leaving in the morning, first thing.”

The footmen nodded obediently.

“How about a nip of whiskey for the road?” Hamish asked hopefully. Alexander sighed.

“No. And you’ve got a long way to go, my friend.”

He stood where he was, watching the two footmen gently walk Hamish away down the hallway. When they were gone, Alexander was left alone with his buzzing thoughts.

And the pile of books and vomit, too. He glanced at the mess and wrinkled his nose.

Better clean that up before Mother sees it.