Her gaze flew to his, and a smile tucked into her cheeks.
“I’m glad.” She hesitated. “I know it’s not my place, and you don’t have to answer if you don’t wish to but?—”
“You want to know what caused the injury.”
Outside of his family, no one had directly asked him the question—out of politeness or fear, he didn’t know. Even Constance hadn’t inquired, likely because she didn’t want to be privy to grisly details. Her preference had always been to sweep unpleasant things under the carpet, and truth be told, he’d thought he wanted that. He’d liked that she never pushed him, that they never fought, that she would abandon him to his moods, returning only when he’d battened down the hatches on his emotions.
I shall return when you are ready to be a gentleman again,she would say in cultured tones.
He'd never blamed her. Who wanted to be around some snarly beast of a fellow who wasn’t good for anything? Who would understand what it was that he’d lost? Who wanted to sit with him when he was swamped with self-pity, rage, and anguish?
His family was the exception. Theywoulddo all those things, but he couldn’t unburden himself without causing them pain. His animosity toward Owen threatened to destroy everything the Harringtons held dear.Ad Finem Fidelisfelt like a curse. How could he be loyal to a brother who’d ruined his life? Yet how could he make his family members choose between him and Owen, who’d suffered his own unspeakable tragedy?
Ethan couldn’t do either of those things. Instead, he withdrew.
“Forgive me.” Jane’s tremulous voice brought him back. “I shouldn’t have asked.”
“It’s all right.” He forged on before he could regret it. “I injured my hand during an altercation with my brother.”
“With the earl?” she asked, wide-eyed.
“No. My younger brother, Owen. He…he’s troubled.”
“How so?”
Jane’s matter-of-fact tone, combined with her relaxing massage, permitted him to continue.
“Owen was part of the 44th Regiment, which served under the command of Major-General Elphinstone in Kabul.”
Seeing the horror in Jane’s eyes, he didn’t say more. He didn’t need to. Everyone knew about the retreat from Kabul, one of the worst military defeats in British history. Of the 16,000 British and Indian soldiers and camp followers who’d tried to make the disastrous journey from Kabul to a British garrison in Jalalabad, only a handful had survived; the rest had been killed or taken hostage by local Afghan tribes. Ethan recalled his desperate fear for his younger brother and his grief when Owen had gone missing and was presumed dead. Then his indescribable relief and joy when Owen was later discovered alive and brought home.
“Your poor brother,” Jane said softly. “I cannot imagine what he must have endured.”
Shame constricted Ethan’s chest because she was right. Intellectually, he knew that Owen could not be held responsible for his actions after everything he’d suffered. Yet there was also no denying the damage Owen left in his wake.
“Since his return, Owen hasn’t been himself,” he said starkly. “He drinks too much. Gets into fights and other bad situations. Then he disappears, causing the entire family panic.”
“Was it during one of the fights that he injured your hand?” she asked keenly.
He concentrated on the kneading motions of her hands. The way she was locating the knots and loosening them. Words rose inside him, emerging in a rush.
“Since Owen’s return, Papa, James, and I have had to take turns bailing him out of trouble. That night, I was the one who found Owen at a gaming hell. He’d lost a fortune already and was sinking into debt with moneylenders. I forced him to come home with me. He was drunk—drunker than I’d ever seen him—and belligerent too.”
Remembering Owen’s red, militant face caused acid to churn in Ethan’s gut. The scene was like a nightmare he used to have. One in which he was performing before an adoring crowd. He was on stage, and he played each note with crisp precision. Yet as the crescendo built, his fingers gained their own momentum. They began striking the wrong keys, moving at an uneven tempo…and he lost control. The audience began to boo and hiss, but he couldn’t stop himself—couldn’t stop the approaching disaster of the coda.
“I tried to reason with Owen,” he said tightly. “Tried to calm him down. But when he insisted on leaving, I physically restrained him.He just needs to sleep it off, I thought to myself. I wrestled him away from the door, and he suddenly pulled out a pistol.”
Jane gasped. “He…he shot you?”
“I don’t know that he meant to.”
That was the truth, which didn’t torment him any less than if Owen had intended to shoot him. Maybe it tormented him more. If Owen had done it on purpose, then Ethan would have been utterly justified in his rage. Instead, he found himself in limbo: he had to come to terms with the fact that his brother had taken everything away from him…by accident.
“Owen was drunk and shaking like a leaf.” His jaw clenched, and he had to force the words out. “Even when sober, he’s not always in his right mind. He startles easily, seeing danger where there is none. Most likely, he pulled the trigger by accident.”
“But he shot you. In your hand. And you are a pianist.”
The tears that welled in her eyes brought heat to his own. Ashamed, he blinked away the moisture and drew a calming breath.
