His expression softened instantly. “I’m sorry.”
I’m not. The thought came unbidden, and though there was a moment’s instinctive guilt that followed, Evie pushed it aside. She wasn’t particularly sorry her father was dead; she was only sorry he hadn’t been the sort of man she could grieve over. If that made her a terrible person, so be it.
She shrugged by way of answering McAlistair and poured a dollop of cream into her tea. “It was a long time ago.”
And not nearly long enough, came the next unwelcome thought. Better he’d driven himself off the road years earlier.
“Do you miss him?”
“Not for a second.” The spoon she’d been using to carefully stir her tea fell to the table with a clatter. “I don’t know why I said that. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Did you mean it?”
“I…” Her eyes fell on her cup. “I’m not even thirsty.”
He nudged her plate with a finger. “Eat.”
Hunger had disappeared as well. But the urge to talk, to tell the part of the story she’d kept from everyone save Lady Thurston, was overwhelming. She swallowed hard and bunched her hands in her lap. “He insisted on driving. He made such a fuss in the drive and likely embarrassed my mother. I remember he was fond of that—shaming her in front of others. One of the ways he kept her cowed.” She frowned at the scarred table. “One of many. I shouldn’t have said I didn’t miss him.” She swallowed hard. “But I meant it.”
“Why should you miss him?” McAlistair asked. “Or lie and say you have?”
“He was my father.”
“He was an ass.” With that matter-of-fact pronouncement, McAlistair picked up his knife and fork and resumed eating.
“He—” She blinked, and then, to her astonishment, felt the corners of her mouth twitch with humor. “Yes, he was. That’s exactly what he was. Nothing more than a habitually drunk ass.”
He cut off a piece of lamb. “An inebriated ass.”
Her smile bloomed. It felt wonderful to make light of it, of him—as if she were stealing away his significance. She couldn’t imagine a worse fate for a bully. “An inebriated ass,” she repeated as if testing the words. “Rather catchy, that. Pity we can’t rework his grave marker.”
“Who’s to stop you?”
She laughed now, and reached for her fork. Hunger had returned. “I imagine my mother might. She visits his grave nearly every day, or so I’ve been told.”
There was a pause before McAlistair asked, “How is it you were injured and she was not?”
“Luck, mostly, or lack of it. I was on the side closest to the tree.”
He reached across the table and gently traced a thumb along her scar. “This?”
A shiver ran over her skin. She wanted to tilt her cheek into the palm of his warm hand. And she wanted to pull away and hide her face. “I…I’m not certain. It happened so fast. A sharp bit of splintered wood, I imagine, or a piece of metal from somewhere.”
He drew his hand back. “And your leg?”
She resisted the urge to touch where the warmth of his fingers still lingered. “My memory is fuzzy…I was trapped under part of the wreckage. It was already broken then, but not so badly, or quite so much, I think…There was a fire from the lanterns, and they had to pull me out without freeing it first. It made it worse.”
He nodded in understanding, and to her relief, chose to steer the conversation to happier topics. They spent an hour or more discussing, among other things, the Rockefortes’ son, Whit and Mirabelle’s marriage, Kate’s talent for all things musical. Once or twice, Evie made an attempt to inquire into McAlistair’s past, but he either deftly avoided the question, gave one-word answers, or shrugged and changed the subject. Evie decided it was too lovely an interlude to push the matter and risk an argument. She simply enjoyed the relaxed—if slightly one-sided—conversation. She enjoyed the hearty meal as well, eating until she found she couldn’t take another bite.
“Oh, goodness,” she groaned, and pushed back a little from the table. “I can’t recall ever ingesting quite so much in one sitting.”
“Wasn’t one sitting,” McAlistair reminded her as he finished off the last of his own meal. “You had some in the tub.”
“So much in so short a time, then,” she said and then watched, a little stunned, as he began to stack the dishes neatly on the tray. The man certainly was tidy. She rose to help him. It wasn’t until they’d finished and he reached for his overcoat that she grew confused.
“What are you doing?” she inquired.
“The tray needs to be returned.”
“Of course it does.” She gestured to the far wall. “There’s a bell pull right there.”
He shook his head and lifted the tray. “Faster this way.”
“And doesn’t require I hide behind the screen again,” she guessed.
He nodded and headed for the door.
“But why your coat? Isn’t the kitchen in the main building?”
“Probably.”