Katherine tried to tug me away on her own before Tom joined her. Between the two of them, they managed it. Lady Juliet approached Michael from behind, a hand on his shoulder and a whisper of his name. That was all it took for him to return to reason. He turned away from us, back toward her.
* * *
Mrs. Hudson arrivedwith blankets mere moments later, tutting at the lot of us in that motherly way of hers.
I bathed and changed and through it all, Tom’s crestfallen face was burned in my memory. Katherine too, her eyes had been wide and sorrowful and her mouth, usually full and lovely, had pulled together into a sad pinched pout. The nagging feeling that I missed something vital was poking at the back of my mind, refusing to leave me in peace.
Scrubbed raw and pink, I dressed and made my way to my study, where I was fairly certain Michael could not attempt to drown me. Tom was already there, seated on the desk, legs swinging back and forth against the floor. The position was one I recalled him adopting often as a boy. He had grown too tall for it, and his heels hit the floor on the downswing and toes on the up. He had an overfull glass of something clear and the bottle within arm’s reach. He stared at Father’s portrait on the wall, his expression one I had never seen before.
At the sound of my approach, he turned to me and raised an empty glass and patted the desk beside him with his free hand. I joined him, leaning against the desk instead of perching upon it fully.
For a long moment, he just examined Father’s portrait. The one I had spent the last weeks contemplating. It had been so long, I could not remember if the likeness was any good. That, more than anything else, saddened me.
Tom turned away, pouring a second glass and passing it over. Gin. It was an unusual choice for him; he thought it tasted of pine needles. It was never my first choice either. But, at the first bite of it in my mouth, I understood.
Father drank gin.
It tasted like he smelled: citrus, juniper, and cardamom. The burn was comforting now, with the recollection fresh.
I finished more than half my glass before Tom spoke. “I never asked. How could I never ask?”
“What do you mean?”
“I knew he drowned. I knew Michael found him. But I didn’t—not like that. Somehow, in my mind, he was just sleeping by the bank. Which I now realize may have been the most inane thought I’ve ever had.”
The request for explanation was on the tip of my tongue when his meaning took hold. The floor dropped from under me. That nagging thought. The expression on Tom’s face. The one on Katherine’s. Michael’s terror. The understanding was horrifying.
All this time, more than a decade later, some small part of me still felt the same way I had at eleven. I could have saved my father. Michael had not tried, had not cared. He was unfeeling and unconcerned in Father’s final moments. What a joke.
Having witnessed Michael’s horrified frenzy this afternoon, I knew with certainty down to my bones that he had done far more than I could have to save Father. That he had been anything but apathetic. That he was still haunted by the memories.
“Do you know, I honestly forgot he died in that lake? Some son I am,” I said. Tom glanced at me before returning to the painting.
“I don’t think just anyone in the lake would have caused that reaction, Hugh.”
There was a part of me that I was not proud of that wanted to feign ignorance at Tom’s words. “Michael and I do not have that kind of relationship, Tom.”
“You could. I think, if nothing else, today proves that.” Before I had a moment to argue, to explain that he gave us both too much credit, there was a knock. Katherine with a tea service.
She, too, had cleaned up somewhat, changed into a new gown.
Tom seemed to take her arrival as a cue to leave, grabbing a sandwich with an easy, “thank you, Kate,” as he hopped off the desk. His expression was once again smoothed into one of easy familiarity as he swept out the door. As if our conversation was of no more importance than the dinner menu.
Sometimes, I wondered if I truly knew my brother at all. His perceptive nature and the ease with which he hid his feelings were discomfiting.
Katherine set the tea service on the desk behind me, rounding it and joining me in leaning against the desk, peering up at the portrait.
“Is that him?”
“Yes.”
“Is it a fair likeness?” I should lie and say that it was. She had no way of knowing.
Instead, for reasons I could not explain, I answered truthfully, “Do you know? I cannot actually remember. I suppose it must be, for it is quite similar to the one at Grayson House.”
“I think it must be. You look like him. All three of you.”
“I am not sure that is true.”
