“I want to, John. But you have lied before, so it is difficult to believe you now, as much as I long to. Especially when you freely admit to poisoning the paper.”
He sighed deeply. “Oh well. What’s the noose to me now? I’ve lost everything. That man stole from me in life and will now steal from me by his death.”
John jerked a hand toward the pile of pages. “There’s nothing to live for anyway. I am a terrible writer. I’ve finally accepted the truth of it.”
“That is not true.”
He nodded. “It is. I read the paragraphs Oliver rewrote. Based on mine, yes, but better. He left my opening lines, then omitted the next few pages and revised the first scene. So much more vivid and compelling than my rubbish.”
“No, John. Beyond some changes, it was still your writing—writing he thought good enough to steal. Perhaps all you need is a skilled editor.”
“Ha. Even if you’re right, it’s too late.”
“But you have your early drafts. And most of Rose’s clean copy. You can prove Oliver intended to steal it. This time you have proof.”
He threw up his hands. “How do we explain how Oliver got the manuscript in the first place, not to mention how I retrieved it? If I go to Edgecombe now, with Oliver’s few pages and mine, he’ll realize I was in his room, that I took them and maybe did worse.”
“I don’t mind admitting I gave them to him. But you’re right, I don’t know how to explain the rest without implicating you.”
John shook his head. “It’s not worth the risk. He’d probably take the pages Oliver wrote and hire a hack to finish the book. Tout it as Ambrose Oliver’s last work. He’d never admit to any similarities nor publish my version.”
“He might—when you show him you have already written the rest of the novel.”
“It’s too late,” John repeated, expression desolate. “I’ve lost my right to publish this book as much as if Oliver had stolen it whole.”
“There must be something we can do. Let’s talk to Sir Frederick. If you confess and convince him of your change of heart, perhaps he will understand. Be lenient.”
“It’s not solely up to him, though. He’d feel honor-bound to report it to the coroner or take it up with the other JPs.”
He probably would, Rebecca realized. “I don’t know what to say,” she lamely replied, adding to herself,Nor what to do.
Oh, John. How could you even think of poisoningsomeone—and you a vicar’s son?She swallowed the reproof, pressed her brother’s arm, and said, “I will think of something. In the meantime, don’t lose heart, all right?”
Worried John might harm himself, she took the white arsenic from his room and carried it outside to dispose of it, pouring it over a patch of weeds.
Rebecca then donned her mantle and prepared to leave the lodge.
Rose called sternly into John’s room, “You walk your sister back now. It’s late.”
He grumbled something under his breath.
Rebecca began, “That’s all right, Rose. I—”
Then John stumbled to the door, pulling on his coat as he did so. “I’ll walk her as far as the village. She’ll be safe enough from there.”
Rose sniffed. “Very well.”
Her brother walked through the wood beside her, hands in his pockets, head down. She thought of raising the subject of the laudanum but decided he looked beaten down enough already. Besides, his problems went far beyond those bottles.
They encountered no one in the wood, but John still jumped at every scurry of nocturnal animal or call of an owl.
He walked her as far as the church, as promised.
“Thank you,” she said, pressing his arm once more. “Remember—don’t give up. While there is life, there is hope.”
“Yeah,” he murmured, though he did not sound convinced.
When he left her, Rebecca pulled the hood of her mantleover her hair, preferring not to be recognized while walking alone after dark.
