“I chose not to impose on Mr. and Mrs. Rockport. I was of age, and able to manage things. I did not even seek to move here. I am fond of Langdon’s End. It is my home.”
Gareth had disengaged from continued discussions with Wesley and now sidled over to sit with them. “It is a charming town, with a fine lake on its east. But if the city keeps growing, it will probably be absorbed by Birmingham.”
“I know it well. I have visited often. Some friends of mine live there. Mr. and Mrs. Siddles. Perhaps you know them,” Mr. Mansfield said.
“I have not had the pleasure,” Eva said. “And Mr. Fitzallen is new to the region.”
“No doubt you both move in different circles from the Siddles,” Mr. Mansfield said, as if he had made another error.
“I have not been moving in any circles for some time. My brother was ill for years before he passed, and his care occupied most of my time.”
Mr. Mansfield frowned sympathetically. “Consumption?”
“Pistol ball.”
“I trust the hand that held that pistol saw justice.”
“My brother refused to lay down information, to my consternation.”
“It is a tragic story,” Mr. Mansfield said. “Not only that he perished while still young, but that he left two sisters to fend for themselves, with no protection.” His gaze drifted to Rebecca. Her conversation with her poet had lagged. Mr. Mansfield excused himself and wandered in her direction.
“So what really happened to your brother?” Gareth asked.
“As I said, he never explained. Not even to me.”
“Yet you must have an idea. If my brother came home with a pistol ball inside him, I would at least learn what I could.”
“You are too inquisitive about my family’s affairs, I think.”
“Come now. I am not Mr. Mansfield, whom you want thinking well of your family. I am your friend Gareth, who has seen you half-naked. So, was it a duel, do you think?”
She really wished he would not talk about the naked part so casually, as if it were nothing to keep a secret. “I do not think it was a duel, although I allowed the doctor to believe that.”
“It would explain your brother’s refusal to speak of it. He could not make accusations without implicating himself in a crime.”
“Exactly. Only, I do not see Nigel dueling. I may do his memory a disservice, but I suspect that a night riding between taverns and getting drunk with some friends somehow took a bad turn. He was often gone from home at night in those days.”
“The Langdon’s End version of a young blood, you mean.”
“Yes. I think one of those friends lost his head over something and shot Nigel.”
“It was probably over a woman.”
She turned on him. “Not every man spends all of his time pursuing women. Not every man’s misfortune starts with one.”
“How true. I should not have jumped to that conclusion. Did he have strong political views that might lead to a deadly argument? Convictions for which he would risk his life rather than back down?”
His steady gaze said he had already guessed the answer. Nigel had no particular views that she knew about. His only goal had been to enjoy his youth while he had it. The truth was Nigel was more interested in carousing with friends than tending to the family’s already limited estate.
She had long ago stopped trying to explain away that wound. Everyone in Langdon’s End had concluded the same as she quickly enough anyway— That her brother’s refusal to speak of it only confirmed the likelihood that the story would not put him in a good light.
“Are you remaining in Birmingham much longer?” she asked, to change the subject. Thinking about Nigel did not make her happy or even nostalgic. An unforgivable bitterness colored many of the memories—expressed in his vocal hostility, born of his infirmity, and her silent resentments.
“I was going to stay another day, but have decided to return to Albany Lodge tomorrow. And you?”
She looked to where Rebecca, sitting stiffly on the edge of a settee, tolerated the conversation of Mr. Mansfield who sat on a chair in front of her. “I do not know yet. At least another day. Perhaps more.”
Wesley approached them then. Gareth’s expression welcomed their host.
