“As I was saying, I’m most sorry about the fracas.” She brushed a loose lock of chestnut hair out of her face. “Mr. Wheeler got a bit carried away with promises of work and didnae think at all about the need tae organize it. There’s a lull at the moment in the farms round about, so every able-bodied man came up the glen this morning thinking tae earn a few shillings for assisting us with castle repairs.”
“Can you not just . . . organize them?” He waved a hand as he poured two fingers of whisky into a tumbler.
“It’s not quite so simple, I’m afraid.”
“And why is that?” Fox knocked back the alcohol, savoring the smoky liquid as it burned down his throat and soothed the jittery tension in his chest.
Leah watched him swallow. “Well, Wee Tam Farquar and George Jamieson both arrived at the same time. Everyone in Angus knows those two cannae abide each another and one should never be allowed within a half-mile of the other. They’ve been arguing for a full hour now, but I may have it settled.”
A loud roar of shouting out the window disabused this notion.
Leah winced again.
“I also likely should have warned ye that the situation with Laverloch will likely get worse afore it gets better,” she continued.
“How so?”
“Just . . .” She waved a hand. “. . . there is much tae sort and most of it will involve noise and time. ’Tis the way of such things.”
It was on the tip of his tongue to ask how he could help. Were he the Fox of years past—when his body was still whole, his outlook still cheery—he would have already jumped in to assist her. But even now, surely there was some way he could ease her burdens.
“Please settle yourself into your library here,” she said, effectively stemming his offer of help before he could offer it. “I’ll send William up with some breakfast in a moment to help soak up—” Her eyes darted to the whisky. “—the contents of your stomach.”
Fox nearly flinched, her words as much a condemnation as a reassurance.
He stared at the library door long after it snicked shut behind her.
Four hours laterand Fox found himself at wit’s end.
Leah had sent up breakfast. It had been delicious and had, indeed, helped settle his stomach and offset the whisky. His headache had moved from a knifing throb to a dull ache.
But it had done nothing to smooth the frayed edges of his nerves.
His wife’s parting words had exposed a corner of his conscience that hadn’t seen daylight in quite some time.
The end result?
Shame.
He was ashamed. Embarrassed that his new wife, clever woman that she was, had already perceived the bald truth:
Fox and alcohol had a troubled relationship.
Until his marriage, the quantities of alcohol he consumed had felt vaguely amorphous. Like drifting in a boat along a foggy sea, shapes indistinct and blurry. And as nothing appeared to immediately threaten his ship, Fox had deemed the waters safe enough.
But Leah’s perceptive gaze was akin to a lighthouse shining a garish light into his life. One that cut through the mist and sharply illuminated the monsters coiled to devour him.
Or . . . something similar.
He was perhaps feeling a bit melodramatic.
Regardless, he vowed not to drink any further until it was late enough in the day to be deemed socially acceptable.
To that end, he sat with the letter from his solicitor before him, attempting to finally organize his thoughts and make progress in replying. The list of documents and testimony required to prepare for the case before the Court of Arches was extensive.
But preparing the case meant thinking upon Dennis and that always brought with it a mountain of pain. Dennis, who had saved his life on three separate occasions. Dennis, who had been his closest and longest friend.
The loss of his friendship had been like a cannon broadside—reducing every aspect of Fox’s life to smithereens. Even nearly five years on, Fox wanted to smash things when he brooded over it too long.
