“I was young. When they started on Da with that big whip . . .” Harry swallowed. “I darted in. It was a stupid thing to do.”

“You were trying to save your father.”

“Aye, I was. And all I got for the effort was this.” Harry held up his mutilated right hand.

“I don’t understand.”

“I tried to shield my face, and the whip caught me across this hand. See?” Harry pointed at a long scar that cut across the inside of his fingers. “The whip nearly severed them all, but the third finger was the worst. Lord Granville had one of his men cut it off. Said he was doing me a favor.”

Oh, God. George felt bile rise in her throat. She covered Harry’s right hand with her own. He turned it over so they were palm to palm. George carefully linked her fingers with his.

“Da was out of work and so badly crippled by the whipping that after a while we went into the poorhouse.” Harry looked away from her, but he still clasped his hand with hers.

“And your mother? Did she go into the poorhouse as well?” George asked in a low voice.

Harry’s hand squeezed hers almost painfully. “No. She stayed with Granville. As his whore. I heard many years later that she’d died of the plague. But I never spoke to her again after that day. The day Da and I were horsewhipped.”

She breathed deeply. “Did you love her, Harry?”

He smiled then, crookedly. “All boys love their mothers, my lady.”

George closed her eyes. What kind of woman would abandon her child to be a rich man’s mistress? So many things about Harry were explained, but the knowledge was almost too painful to bear. She laid her head down in his lap and felt him stroke her hair. It was strange. She should be comforting him after his revelations. Instead, he consoled her.

He drew a breath like a sigh. “Now you understand why I must leave.”

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Sixteen

“But why must you leave?” George asked.

She paced the small bedroom. She wanted to pound on the bed. Pound on the chest of drawers. Pound on Harry. It had been almost a fortnight since he’d first said it. A fortnight in which he’d regained his feet, his bruises had faded to the greenish-yellow color of recovery, and he hardly limped. But in that fortnight he’d remained adamant. He would leave her as soon as he was well.

Every day she came to visit him in his tiny room, and every day they had the same argument. George couldn’t stand this cramped room anymore—Lord knew what Harry thought of it—and she was about ready to scream. He was going to leave her soon, just walk out the door, and she still didn’t know why.