Matthew nodded. “Very well.” He knew she was right, but it didn’t make him feel any better. “You should have seen him when I confronted him tonight—so proud of his handiwork”—he clenched his jaw—“and Danforth, preening at his side.”
“We must go to the authorities.”
“The authorities?” Matthew scoffed. “There will be a formal investigation, Patience, but I have no proof against him. Even if Fitz Roy, Farnsby, and I were to testify to Benchley’s words and demeanor tonight—to his implied responsibility—he would simply deny it.”
“It must be done anyway, Matthew. The people of Gwenellyn deserve justice. You deserve justice.”
“Oh,
I’ll
have justice.” Where the
fuck
was Mickey?
Patience pulled back. “What do you mean? Why do you say it like that?”
Matthew looked at her. “I mean just what I said, Patience.” He turned and walked to his desk.
“You’re too close to this, Matthew. There is a reason justice is blind,” she said, following him.
“Really?” He braced his fists on his desk. “What
is
the reason—because I don’t really believe its impartiality? That’s superb in theory, but patently impossible in reality. Do you know what I think the reason is, Patience? I think justice is blind so that she needn’t see how
massively
ineffectual she is.”
“Oh, and you can do better? I don’t believe that, Matthew. I said it in the gallery and I’ll say it again:
revenge is never free
. There is always a cost, Matthew—
always
. And you will never know what it is, until it’s too late.”
“And I said to you in the gallery that I’m not Saint Matthew.”
A tense silence fell between them and then, as if on cue, a knock sounded at the door.
Matthew kneed closed one of the drawers of his desk. “Don’t worry, Patience. Unlike Benchley, I have a care for human life.” He moved to the door. “My ‘justice’ is trivial compared to his crimes.”
“Revenge is never trivial.”
Damn it!
Grabbing the doorknob, Matthew jerked it open and found Mickey Wilkes.
Now this is timing!
“Tell me you have the proof.”
Mickey pulled a thick stack of letters from his coat pocket and handed them over.
Matthew stood back for Mickey to enter while he stared down at them.
The boy sauntered in. “Wha’s e’eryone doin’ awake, Mr. ’Awkmore? Thought fer sure the ’ole ’ouse ’old would be sleepin’.” He immediately drew up straighter when he saw Patience. “Good ev’nin’, Miss Dare!” Mickey’s eyes moved over her avidly. “Ya look like a princess.” He bent a little at the waist. “I feels like I should bow down t’ ya.”
Patience gave him a small, strained smile. “Thank you, Mr. Wilkes. But I am the same plain miss as always.”
Matthew let the door swing closed and walked back to his desk. “The house is awake, Mr. Wilkes, because there’s been an explosion at the Gwenellyn Mine. We are all in despair over it, and”—he glanced at Patience—“things have come out.”
“Oh.” Mickey nodded. “Were anyone hurt?”
“Yes.” Matthew’s chest constricted every time he had to say it. “A boy has died and six more are missing.”
Mickey paled. “Oh.” He frowned. “This were Benchley’s work?”
“Yes.” Matthew looked at Patience.
She looked at the letters. “What have you there?”
Matthew ran his thumb over the faded red ribbon that bound the letters. “The proof that Rosalind Benchley is a bastard.”
Patience gasped.
Mickey shook his head. “It isn’t Rosalind.”
Matthew’s shoulders tensed. “It isn’t Ros—? Who the hell is it, then?”
Mickey looked at him and there was anger in his eyes. “It be Benchley his self.”
Red spots flashed before Matthew’s eyes. “What!”
“Yeah. E’rything Biddlewick said ’ad t’ do wit’ Benchley, no his daugh’er. I knew somethin’ were off soon as I saw MacQuarrie, fer ’ees an ole bloke. Then af’er I go’ to know ’im a lit’le an’ go’ ’im to talkin’, ’ee tol’ me all ’bout ’ow ’ee ’ad a son. Said the son were an important man, only the man what raised ’im ’ated ’‘im fer no’ bein’ ’is own.”
A muscle pulled painfully in Matthew’s neck. “Well this explains much,” he growled.
“Yeah.” Mickey nodded. “MacQuarrie tol’ me ’ow it broke ’is ’eart that ’is son were bru’ilized fer bein’ what ’ee were. But ’ee didn’t think there were nothin’ ’ee could do ’bout it.”
Matthew looked at Patience. He was shaking with fury and it calmed him a little to look at her.
“Because his father knew and punished him, Benchley couldn’t believe that your father could know and
not
punish you, let alone keep it a secret from you,” she offered.
“It doesn’t matter,” Matthew said tightly. “Soon everyone will know what a hypocrite he is.”
Patience frowned. “What are you planning to do?”
Matthew faced her. “I’m going to publish these letters. I’m going to destroy Archibald Benchley before he can completely destroy me.”
“So you’re going to do to him what was done to you?” Patience shook her head. “You can’t do that, Matthew.”
He felt as if his blood were becoming liquid fury. “I beg your pardon?”
“I said, you can’t do that.”
Matthew looked at Mickey. “Out.”
With his head lowered, the boy left, slump-shouldered, and pulled the door closed behind him.
Matthew turned back to Patience. “And why is it that I can’t do that?”
“Because it would be dishonorable, Matthew. You had Mickey steal those letters. They don’t even belong to you. And, tell me, what will become of Rosalind once you expose her father?”
“What do I care for Rosalind? What do
you
care for Rosalind? Earlier this evening, she was spewing venom all over you. Now you want to save her from scandal?”
“I want to save
you
from scandal—from dishonor.”
“Dishonor?” His laugh was a harsh bark that hurt his throat. “Benchley is the dishonorable one! He is the one who spread lies about me. He is the one who tried to bankrupt my company and then steal it from me.” He pounded his fist on the desk. “He is the one who blew up the mine and brought death! And you speak to
me
of dishonor? You are misguided, Patience!”
She lifted her chin. “No, I’m not. And I’m not comparing you to Benchley. His actions have been more than dishonorable, they’ve been criminal. But that is all the more reason to seek justice through the law.”
“All right.” Matthew tossed the letters on his desk. “Tell me what you would have me do then, Patience. What’s your plan?”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “I don’t pretend to have all the answers, Matthew. But it is when wrongdoing seems most justified that we must most resist it.” Stepping closer to him, she clasped his hands. “I know nothing in this seems easy, Matthew, or certain. But, together, we can find the answers. I have faith in righteousness.”
“That’s your plan? Have faith in righteousness?” Matthew shook his head. “Here’s what I’m going to do, Patience. I’m going to expose Benchley for being a hypocritical bastard. Once I do that, the tide of public opinion will turn in our favor. And once the tide turns, the other mine owners will return to doing business with me. GWR will be saved and, slowly but surely, it will return to its former stature.”
Patience folded her arms back over her chest. “And what about Gwenellyn? How does it fit into your plan?”
Matthew’s chest tightened again. “It doesn’t. I can’t save Gwenellyn. If the report is even only half accurate, I can’t save it. I have to focus on GWR now. That’s our only hope for financial and social survival.”
Patience looked at him like he’d lost his mind. “How can you abandon them? Without the mine, there is no village. What are they to do?”
“They will have to seek employment elsewhere.”
“I can’t believe you’re not going to help them.
Fuck!
“
I
can’t believe you don’t understand the situation. I have almost nothing left, Patience! Shall I spend my last pound note on Gwenellyn? What for?” Flipping open his ledger, he spun it around for her to see. “What I have isn’t enough to make a difference. And we need that money to live. Everything costs, Patience—this house, those jewels you love so much. Let’s face it, I can hardly imagine you keeping house in one of the shacks at Gwenellyn.”
Patience raised her eyes to him and they were full of anger and hurt. She pointed to the ledger. “What’s this?”
Matthew looked and his gut turned as he stared at the entry for Cavalli. He was silent for a moment. Then, “Patience, I—”
“I do believe that date was the night of the musicale,” she interrupted. Her eyes were furious and shiny. “Why were you sending Cavalli five hundred pounds on the night of the musicale?”
I was afraid
. “I didn’t want you to go.”
“That was
my
decision, Matthew! You had no business usurping my will! God, I see where your money goes.” Reaching behind her neck, she unclasped her necklace and then removed her earrings. She slammed them on top of the ledger, then pulled out her combs. She looked at them longingly for a moment before laying them with the other pieces. “I loved these jewels ‘so much’ because you gave them to me. I would have worn glass beads with equal pride. And as for this house”—she looked around the room—“I don’t even like it. I never have.” Her eyes swam with tears. “And I don’t see why it’s called Angel’s Manor, because there are
no
angels here.”
“Patience . . .”
Turning on her heel, she strode toward the door.
“Patience!”
She reached for the doorknob and opened it.
“Patience, stay!” Matthew roared.
She froze then slowly turned.
She looked at him across the space that divided them, and raised her chin high. Her cheeks were wet and he’d never seen her look so cold and yet defiant. “No, Matthew,” she said, “I cannot oblige you at this time.”
Matthew’s breath left him with a groan.
She turned and left.
Shaking uncontrollably, he picked up the small oil lamp from his desk and heaved it into the fire. It crashed then exploded against the back in a burst of flame . . .
Leaving him standing in a dark world, lit only by fire.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
PLUTO WITHOUT PERSEPHONE
My beloved is gone . . .
SONG OF SOLOMON 5:6
Matthew stared at the seven mounds of earth as he listened to Father Dafydd speak the words of the twenty-third Psalm. The day was cold and the air was filled with the breath of the town, as every resident of Gwenellyn had come to the old graveyard in order to honor the fallen boys.
Father Dafydd’s rich baritone was reassuring, and Matthew was grateful he’d been willing to come to do the burial services, for his presence seemed to be a great comfort to the people of Gwenellyn.
Patience had been right about him. He would have been perfect for these strong, stalwart people.
So, too, would she have been. Why hadn’t she returned to him?
When would she return to him? Matthew stared out his office window. Mark joined him. “I told you not to hurt my wife, Matt. Passion is upset and worried—about both of you.” He grasped Matthew’s shoulder. “And so am I. Whatever happened between you and Patience, put it aside, make amends, do whatever you must, but don’t let her go.”
Do whatever he must?
What was that? He didn’t even know.
He’d been sure she would return to him—once she thought about it, once she considered all the ramifications. Besides, no one could give her what he gave her.
He sighed as he watched the tennis ball pass between Farnsby and Ashers’ rackets. Mark, Fitz Roy, and Rivers all looked as bored as he felt. Even Farnsby and Asher were not their usual jovial selves.
Really, it was too cold to play tennis.
Winter was falling.
Matthew let his hand fall over the scroll of his Montagnana. Closing his eyes, he called up the memory of Patience playing as she leaned against him. His heart skittered crazily for a moment, then settled.
Sitting, he drew his instrument between his legs. He caressed it as he’d taught her to do. Then he played the Sarabande—slowly.
When he finished, his eyes were stinging. He looked around the empty room and then gazed down at his cello. He put his arms around her.
If all of Angel’s Manor were ablaze, it was only her he would save. She and the silky black stocking Patience had left in his room on the happiest day of their lives.
“You look unhappy, Mr. Wilkes.” Matthew sat beside the boy on the bench situated right in the middle of the center courtyard of Angel’s Manor. The house surrounded them.
Mickey looked at him. “I jus’ keep thinkin’ that if I’d go’ ’ere faster wit’ the let’ers, that you could ’ave done somethin’. Ya know, ’fore the ’xplotion.” His eyes filled with tears. “Is jus’ that I cain’t read—so I ’ad to take the let’ers to a friend o’ mine. Ya know, cuz wha’ if there weren’t nothin’ in ’em.” He dropped his head in his hands. “I’s so stupid!”
“No. No, you’re not.” Matthew’s chest felt tight. He knew what Mickey was feeling. “Don’t do this to yourself. The explosion was
not
your fault. And you can’t know what might have happened if anything had gone differently.”
He pictured Patience’s earnest face then looked at Mickey. “We can only deal with what is, Mr. Wilkes, not what might have been.”
Mickey nodded.
Matthew patted his shoulder. “Those words might not help right now, but they will.”
He stood up and looked around the massive walls of Angel’s Manor—all facing inward and with their plate glass windows reflecting off one another. How confining they were.
Was this really who he was? A man with such a huge part of himself always facing inward, yet not really seeing?