“When did you meet George?” she asked.
Charlie gazed out the window as if recalling a memory. Bridget noticed that his body stiffened. “I’m sorry if this is too difficult for you,” she said. “We don’t have to continue this conversation.”
He seemed to slump and turned to look at her. “We only met about six months ago,” Charlie said, “through some friends. We were all aspiring poets and such. At first, I wasn’t sure about George. He was different. Posh. But he claimed to be an orphan. He didn’t like to talk about his past. It seemed to make him cross.”
“Six months ago? I thought you’d been friends for years.”
“We bonded over our mutual love for poetry. George was…well, it felt like we’d known him all our lives even if we hadn’t.”
“Yes, he did have that effect on people.” Bridget felt a tinge of sadness. “What about you and Rupert? Where are you from?”
Charlie gave her a faint smile. “Dorset. Our father was a groundskeeper for a wealthy gentleman, Mr. Wareham. He was part of the landed gentry. He had no children of his own, so we had accessto a great deal of books from the family’s library. He even paid for us to have a private tutor. I daresay, we had as good an education as George. We were lucky in that respect.”
“And is your father still in Dorset?”
Charlie shook his head. “No, he passed away last year, right after Mr. Wareham died. Wareham’s estate went to his next of kin. But the kind old gentleman left Rupert and me a little money. We took it and traveled up north to York. That was our first stop before Westmorland.”
“York? And that’s where you met George?”
“Yes. He was heading to Westmorland too. He had one of Wordsworth’s guidebooks, just like us. So we came together.”
Bridget frowned. “I don’t remember George saying he was from York.”
“He wasn’t. I believe he was from Harrogate—or at least, he went to school there.”
“Harrogate,” Bridget said with a sinking feeling in her stomach. Did George and Mr. Collins have a history together? Or was it simply a coincidence that they both had been at schools in Harrogate?
Chapter Thirteen
Collins entered TheBlack Horse, looking every bit a gentleman and very little like a butcher. He wore a pair of beige trousers with a white shirt and cravat, a navy-blue waistcoat and matching tailcoat. He removed his top hat when he greeted Nate and sat beside him.
“I took the liberty of ordering you an ale,” Nate said.
Collins glanced down at the glass of ale and thanked Nate before taking a thirsty sip.
“Long day?” Nate asked.
“Butchering is hard work,” Collins said. “It requires a lot of physical strength. And a strong stomach as well.”
“More difficult than teaching, I imagine.” Nate picked up his ale and eyed Collins as he sipped it.
Collins kept a straight face, revealing nothing.
“I just returned from a trip to Harrogate,” Nate said casually.
Collins’s cheeks paled. He picked up his ale, took another sip, and said, “What is it you wanted to see me about, Mr. Squires?”
“About a school called St. Joseph’s, where you were once a teacher.”
“So you’ve been investigating me, have you?” He lowered his mug. “On what grounds, may I ask?”
“Because you and Mrs. Groby have a history together—alonghistory.”
Collins shifted in his seat. “You have no proof of that.”
“The young woman involved in the scandal that got you dismissed from your position at St. Joseph’s was Mrs. Groby, wasn’t it?” Nate saw Collins’s jaw tighten, and he knew he’d stumbled upon the truth. “You met her in town where her father would come to sell his meat and buy cattle on market days, and the two of you fell in love. But her father disapproved of you. Although I can’t think why. You are a gentleman and well-educated. Why would a butcher not think you good enough for his daughter?”
Collins made a face and when he answered, his voice was bitter. “For those exact reasons, you stated. I was educated, and he was not. He didn’t want anyone better than himself for his daughter. He treated her like she was one of his cows. I wanted to take her away from all that.”
