Читать книгу The Property of a Gentleman - Хелен Диксон, Хелен Диксон, Helen Dickson - Страница 8

M arcus Fitzalan’s expression was unreadable, but Eve suspected he must be feeling every bit as shocked and horrified as she was. Or was he? she asked herself. It was no secret that her father had been an ill man, whose health had deteriorated rapidly over the last few months. The doctor had given him another twelve months to live at the most, and being such close friends, was it possible that this had been contrived by Mr Fitzalan in order to get his hands on Atwood Mine? After all, there wasn’t a man or woman in the whole of Atwood or Netherley who didn’t know how much he wanted it returned once more to his family. A wave of sick disgust swept over her.

‘Did you know about this?’ she demanded, having to fight to keep her anger in check, the horror of that first dreadful shock having left her eyes. ‘Did my father discuss this with you?’

‘No, he did not,’ he said crisply, giving no indication of the initial rush of gratitude that had washed over him towards Sir John for making it possible for him to own his father’s mine once more, for sentimental reasons rather than profit—the enormous wealth he accumulated from his other mines and business ventures provided him with more than adequate profit to enable him to maintain Brooklands and live comfortably.

The condition that he marry Sir John’s daughter did not pose a problem—providing she was agreeable. He was confident that despite the hostility she so clearly felt towards him she could be persuaded, for he seemed to have a power over women that often puzzled him. They had a way of retaining him in their minds and once met he was never forgotten, but no woman had ever managed to push him over the edge and into marriage—the love of his life being his work. But with Atwood Mine being offered to him he was prepared to adhere to any conditions Sir John had made.

Eve stared at him with angry, bewildered eyes. This was too much. Her father should have called Marcus Fitzalan out and shot him over his disgraceful behaviour towards her, after he had degraded and humiliated her so shockingly. How could he have been so audacious as to arrange a marriage for her with him when he had almost ruined her? The very idea was unthinkable—impossible.

‘I cannot possibly agree to this,’ she said furiously, beginning to lose control of her precariously held temper. ‘What can my father have been thinking of to ask this of me? He should not have done it. Why did he not tell me what he intended?’

‘Perhaps he would have—but for the accident,’ said Mr Soames. ‘It was very sudden.’

‘Nevertheless it is quite preposterous. Let me make it quite plain here and now that I will never agree to conditions such as these.’

Marcus remained silent, but roused from his complacent stance by the window he moved towards the table.

‘Shouldn’t you at least consider it?’ said Mr Soames. ‘When you get over the shock and weigh up what it will mean to you both—is it really so preposterous as all that?’

‘Yes, it is—to me. It was quite outrageous of my father to expect me to marry on these terms. I have been troublesome in the past, I know, but I have done nothing to contribute to his decision to treat me so shockingly. Clearly he was sick in mind as well as body—or it was done for some malicious reason of his own. He seems to have thought of everything.’

Marcus shot her an angry look. ‘Hasn’t he just. But your father was not insane and nor was he a malicious man, Miss Somerville—and you do him a grave injustice by accusing him of such. Being a man of honour and integrity, a man who considered the well being of others before his own throughout his life, I am sure he thought this over very carefully before laying down conditions that are clearly so abhorrent to you,’ he said coolly, in defence of her father, fixing her with an icy, hard stare.

Eve’s own eyes snapped back at him, angered that he of all people should have the temerity to reproach her like a naughty child, although she did regret using the word ‘malicious’, which was spoken unintentionally and in the heat of the moment. Mr Fitzalan was right. Her father had been a caring and gentle man and as honest as the day is long, and could not be accused of being ‘malicious’, but she did not need the likes of Marcus Fitzalan to tell her so.

‘And you would know, wouldn’t you, Mr Fitzalan?’ she said heatedly, accusingly, blinded with wrath, standing up and lifting her head imperiously, meeting his gaze boldly and squaring her chin in her proud challenge to his authority.

‘From the amount of time the two of you spent together you must have got to know my father very well. Knowing what little time he had left, was it your intention to wheedle your way into his good graces in an attempt to persuade him to transfer the lease of Atwood Mine back to you? After all, everyone knows how keen you are to get your hands on it once more.’

Her accusation bit deep, causing Marcus’s own temper to rise. His lean face darkened and his metallic eyes narrowed furiously, warningly, and Eve felt the effort it was costing him to keep his rage under control.

‘I refute that. I have been accused of many things, Miss Somerville, and have been the subject of much gossip and speculation over the years, but let me make it clear that, contrary to what you might think of me, it is not in my nature to stoop so low as to acquire anything by flattery or guile. I held your father in the highest regard and knew he was a very sick man—but not how sick. We were friends, good friends, and I thought—and hoped—him fit for a good many years to come.’

His lip curled scornfully across his even white teeth as he spoke softly and with a menacing calm. ‘At any other time—and if you were a man—I would take you to task for such an insult, but this is neither the time nor the occasion for doing so.’

‘That is extremely civil of you, Mr Fitzalan. But I do not retract what I said,’ Eve retorted, trying to speak with the utmost composure while growing more and more angry by the second.

‘That is your prerogative. I understand that you have justifiable reason to be shocked by the contents of your father’s will and that you are naturally quite distraught by your tragic loss—which I shall put down to being the reason for your outburst—so I shall take no offence and will ignore the affront to my character.’

His voice sounded calm, giving everyone the impression that he was not in the least put out by her insulting remark, but Eve was not deceived for his mouth hardened and his eyes flared like molten quicksilver, daring her to say more. But she refused to cower before him. Her eyes flashed defiance and her face assumed an expression of hardened resentment.

She opened her mouth to challenge his statement but the expression in his eyes made her close it quickly. With her lips clamped together she averted her gaze, considering it prudent to let the matter rest—for now.

Everyone present had listened to the angry altercation between them in astonishment and silence, amazed that Eve could have been so outspoken and unable to think of anything that could justify such behaviour, but, like Marcus, they put it down to her being overwrought and her dispirited and anxious state of mind. Only Gerald remained watchful, a ruthless gleam lighting up his eyes.

Marcus chose to put the matter from his mind—hoping that everyone else would do the same—but it was not forgotten.

‘What happens to the bequest if we do not marry?’ he asked, prising his eyes away from Eve’s stony expression and fixing them on Mr Soames, trying hard to ignore the burning hatred in Gerald Somerville’s eyes as they bored into him. He knew how Gerald had coveted Atwood Mine and how cheated he must be feeling on discovering that the estate had been creamed of its most lucrative asset—an asset Gerald had been depending on to help clear an outstanding debt of thousands of pounds he had acquired through gambling, having borrowed the money to settle his debt from ruthless moneylenders who would stop at nothing until it was repaid with extortionate interest.

But Marcus also knew how hard Sir John had worked to achieve success where Atwood Mine was concerned, and how much he had wanted it kept out of the hands of his cousin, who would have little interest in the mine itself, only the wealth it would bring to him.

‘You get nothing,’ said Mr Soames in answer to his question.

‘Nothing!’ whispered Eve, deeply shocked, turning her attention to her father’s lawyer. ‘But what will I do? Where am I to live.’

‘Should a marriage between you and Mr Fitzalan not take place you will get your annuity, of course, and he has made provisions for you to live with your grandmother in Cumbria.’

‘And the mine?’ asked Marcus abruptly.

‘Will revert to Mr Gerald Somerville and his heirs until the lease has run out, at which time it will be up to you or your heir—should you not be alive at the time—to decide whether or not it is renewed.’

A cold and calculating gleam entered Gerald’s eyes when he realised all might not be lost after all. It would appear that all he had to do was prevent Eve from entering into a marriage with Marcus Fitzalan, and if he wasn’t mistaken that shouldn’t prove too difficult—not when he observed that every time she looked at him or spoke to him, she did so with unconcealed hostility.

‘I realise that no one can force you to marry,’ Mr Soames went on, ‘that is for you to choose—but I ask you to give very serious thought to the matter.’

Marcus nodded, his face grim. ‘You can count on it.’

Eve scowled at him. ‘The day I marry you, Mr Fitzalan, will be the day hell freezes over. We do not suit.’ She returned her attention once more to Mr Soames, ignoring Marcus’s black look. ‘Did my father give no explanation when he laid down these conditions?’

‘I’m afraid not. Whatever it was that prompted him to do it I cannot say—and indeed, we may never know. I think, perhaps, that if he had lived a little longer, he might have explained everything to you. As you know, your father and I were friends for a good many years, and I knew him well enough to know he would not have set down these conditions without good reason. Knowing his death was imminent sharpened his anxiety to procure a suitable match for you.’

‘But what if Mr Fitzalan had decided to marry someone else before my father died?’ asked Eve, wishing he had.

‘Your father knew Mr Fitzalan had no one in mind—and, considering your father had only a few months left to live—a year at the most—he thought it unlikely that Mr Fitzalan would do so before his death.’

Eve looked at Marcus Fitzalan and could see that he was contemplating what the loss of the mine would mean to him—and to her. Then she saw herself living in the harsh, craggy wilderness of Cumbria with her grandmother, where everyday life can be particularly severe and so remote she would see no one from one day’s end to the next. The thought was not pleasant.

Turning his gaze on Eve once more, Marcus’s black brows drew together in a deep frown. He seemed to sense what was going through her mind.

Feeling betrayed, abandoned and unable to think clearly because of the shock all this had been to her, Eve rose suddenly, clenching her fists in the folds of her dress to stop them from shaking.

‘Please, excuse me,’ she said, turning and crossing to the door with a quiet dignity, having no wish to stay and hear more, only a strong desire to be by herself.

Not wanting to leave the matter in suspension indefinitely—which, he suspected, was what Miss Somerville intended doing—with long strides Marcus followed her out of the room into the large dark panelled hall, closing the door behind them. Two sleek liver and white hounds lay curled up in front of a huge stone hearth where a fire burned bright in an iron grate, despite the heat of the summer’s day. They stretched languidly, each cocking an uninterested eye in the direction of the intruders before resuming their doze in a state of blissful lassitude, ignoring the disturbance.

‘Wait,’ Marcus commanded. ‘We cannot leave matters like this.’

Eve paused at the sound of his voice and turned and faced him, extremely conscious of his towering, masculine presence. The immaculate cut of his coat was without a crease, moulding his strong shoulders. As his ice blue eyes swept over her his expression was grim and Eve felt extremely uncomfortable at the way he was regarding her—no doubt assessing her suitability as a possible wife, she thought wryly.

Having recovered some of her self-possession, she threw back her shoulders and lifted her head, the action meaning to tell him she was in control of herself. He felt a stirring of admiration for the way in which she conducted herself, but looking into her lovely violet eyes he could see they were as turbulent as storm clouds and that she had withdrawn inside herself to a place where she could not be reached.

‘This has come as a shock to you, I can see,’ he said, glad to be out of earshot of the others.

‘Yes. I am both shocked and disappointed. I cannot imagine what prompted my father to do this,’ she said, trying to keep a stranglehold on her emotions, ‘unless, of course, he had a momentary lapse of his senses when he saw fit to make these conditions in his will in the first place. But the last thing I want right now, Mr Fitzalan, is a husband—and when I do I would prefer to choose my own.’

Faced with her anger, Marcus paled and his eyes glittered like steel flints as he tried, with great difficulty, to keep his own anger in check, knowing exactly why she was doing her utmost to make matters as difficult as possible between them. She was still embittered by what had happened between them three years ago—although why she should continue to be so baffled him, for she had no one to blame but herself. Was it usual that the moment her will was crossed she started the sparks flying and spitting fire?

‘And I have no more need of a wife than you a husband, Miss Somerville,’ he replied, his voice carrying anger. ‘However, if we want to hold on to the mine then we have no choice but to heed your father’s wishes and make the best of it.’

‘And how do you know that is what I want? How can you possibly know?’ she said, her voice as cold as her face, whilst inside her stomach was churning. ‘As far as I am concerned the mine is the last thing on my mind at this moment. Marriage to me is important and I am hardly likely to walk into it blindly with a man who has treated me so abominably—to put my trust and myself completely in your power for the whole of my life. Besides, it is hardly flattering to know you would only be marrying me for what I could bring, Mr Fitzalan.’

‘The same could be said of yourself, Miss Somerville,’ he replied coldly. He gave her a hard look, his mouth tightening as he stared down at her. ‘Are you always so difficult?’

‘I can be as impossible as I like when something—or someone—upsets me,’ she answered.

He arched an eyebrow. ‘Really?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then I suppose that is something I shall have to get used to if we are to make anything of your father’s will. Tell me, are you well acquainted with Gerald Somerville?’

‘No. I believe he has been in London himself and has only returned to the north this last week. We have met frequently over the years, but I cannot say that I know him at all well. My grandmother does not hold him in high regard and saw nothing of him while she was in town.’

Marcus’s lips twisted with slight scorn. ‘How could she? The kind of world your father’s cousin inhabits is a nighttime world of gambling and high living. There is no polite way to describe him. He is a slippery character and he has only one motive in life: to serve himself. He’d be considered a joke if he were not so ruthless in everything he does. He is to be found anywhere the beau monde chooses to congregate, and has an inability to resist the gambling halls and social whirl of London.’

‘That I am already aware of.’

‘His own estate is falling apart and bankruptcy is staring him in the face. He has lived in penury for most of his life and Sir John’s death has suddenly elevated him to an attainable position. I do not believe it will be too long before the estate shows signs of neglect as he uses it as a means to pay off his debts—which, I know for a fact, are astronomical.’

Wanting desperately to escape the threat she imagined this overbearing man suddenly posed to her life, Eve stepped back from him abruptly. ‘Do you think I haven’t worked that out for myself? It’s what I have always known. But it would seem you know Gerald well, Mr Fitzalan. Perhaps he frequents the same seedy establishments as yourself—is that it?’

‘I am very particular in choosing my friends, Miss Somerville,’ Marcus replied scathingly, choosing to ignore her outspoken attack on his social habits. ‘Your father’s cousin has a reputation for spending far more than his own father could support when he was alive. It is my misfortune to be a member of the same club—White’s in St James’s—and I was witness to him squandering his entire fortune at the card tables at a single sitting.’

Eve stared at him in astonishment. ‘Might I ask how much?’

‘If you are interested. It was thirty-five thousand pounds.’

She was stunned, unable to believe anybody could lose so much money, although her Aunt Shona had told her on one of her visits to London, that the rattling of a dice box or ill luck at cards, could well result in many a gentleman’s country estate being lost, and that as a result suicides were not uncommon.

‘But that is an enormous sum of money.’

‘Indeed it is. It is not something that can be dismissed with a flick of the wrist.’

‘And what did he do? Could he pay?’

Marcus smiled indulgently at her naïvety. ‘No. His estate was already mortgaged up to the hilt. Facing ruination, anyone else would have shot himself—but not Gerald Somerville. He took the only option and borrowed the money from unscrupulous moneylenders—who, on learning of your father’s death and knowing Gerald was his heir, have called in the loan…with astronomical interest. These men are ruthless and show no mercy to those who cannot pay. I have heard that they are exerting enormous pressure on him, so I don’t wonder at his anger on finding Atwood Mine is not his by right. He is in deep water. He needs it desperately to pay off his loan and get the these men off his back.’

Eve was astounded to learn all this. ‘I—I had no idea Gerald’s situation was so serious.’

‘Yes, it is. Inheriting your father’s estate will have come as a godsend to him—but your father has seen to it that he has not come into a fortune. Through his own hard work and good management the estate has never been so prosperous, and if Gerald is sensible and takes legal advice on how to settle his loan, then it will continue to be so—but if he does not mend his ways then I am afraid that in no time at all you will begin to see signs of its decline. Everything your father has worked so hard to achieve will be eradicated in one fell swoop.’

Eve winced, the very idea of her beloved home being mortgaged to pay off Gerald’s gambling debts and falling into the greedy hands of moneylenders and suchlike angering her beyond words. But there was nothing she could do.

‘Which is why your father made quite sure his financial affairs were put in order before he died.’

‘It’s a pity he did not consider putting me before his financial affairs,’ Eve remarked bitterly. ‘It seems to me that I was as much his property as Atwood Mine.’

‘But a more desirable property,’ Marcus smiled, his expression softening.

‘Am I?’ she remarked coldly. ‘I’m glad you think so, Mr Fitzalan, but that does not alter the fact that you cannot have one without the other—or, at least, you cannot have the mine without me, whereas you would not have me without the mine by choice.’

Marcus frowned with annoyance. ‘You do me an injustice, Miss Somerville. I am not nearly as mercenary as you make me out to be.’

‘And I have every reason to think you are,’ she shot back at him, referring to their encounter three years ago. ‘But what if I do not agree to marry you? And if my father thought so highly of you, why did he not leave Atwood Mine to you outright, knowing how important it is to you? It would certainly have avoided all these complications and I would not be faced with the daunting prospect of marrying a man not of my choosing—a man I have every reason in the world to despise. I could as easily have gone to Cumbria to live with my grandmother—or to London to my Aunt Shona.’

‘He knew that—just like he knew you would see the sense in what he was asking of you. I tend to share Mr Soames’s view.’

‘And that is?’

‘That, if it were not for his untimely death, he would have explained it to you himself—and to me. He probably believed you would fall prey to all manner of fortune hunters if you were left alone.’

‘What? Two thousand pounds is hardly a fortune, Mr Fitzalan.’

‘Two thousand pounds is a great deal of money to men who have nothing, Miss Somerville. Perhaps the conditions he laid down were his way of making sure you would be taken care of. Do not forget that your father desired only your peace of mind and future happiness. You must believe that.’

‘Which is why he has suggested making you my keeper, is that not so, Mr Fitzalan?’ she said scathingly. ‘However, I do not need you or anyone else to tell me what my own father desired for me,’ she said, lowering her head so he would not see the tears collecting her eyes.

‘Your husband—not your keeper,’ Marcus contradicted in a low voice.

‘Nevertheless, I confess I am bewildered by all this. It’s a riddle I cannot begin to comprehend. I always believed I knew how his mind worked—but it seems I was wrong. I would like to know why, knowing how I feel about you, he has used what can only be described as emotional blackmail to virtually force me into marriage with you. If I decide not to abide by his wishes, and I am sorely tempted not to,’ she said rebelliously, ‘then Gerald will stand to benefit enormously.’

‘That is true—and I implore you to consider his wishes seriously.’

Eve sighed deeply, so confused her head was spinning. Since her mother’s death and the onset of her father’s illness, she had stubbornly refused to consider the future and what it would mean to her when the inevitable happened, but now the future was with her and she was unprepared for the life that was being thrust at her. When she spoke a touch of anger had come to add to the bitterness of her disappointment.

‘Oh, I shall. I always knew how much my father’s work meant to him—Atwood Mine and all his other concerns—but it did not occur to me until now that he would allow his loyalty to all that, and to you, to affect his dealings with me, his daughter. Please—you must excuse me,’ she said quickly. ‘All this has come as something of a shock. I need some time to myself.’

‘Of course. I fully understand. I am leaving myself presently. I realise that you are your own mistress—but anger is a bad counsellor. Do not allow it to influence your decision, and do not foolishly refuse what is your due.’ He sighed. ‘We both have much to think about. I shall return to Burntwood Hall when you’ve had time to recover from today and we can talk seriously about what is to be done,’ he said, standing aside to let her pass.

‘Yes—thank you,’ she said stiffly. ‘Goodbye, Mr Fitzalan.’

Marcus watched her go, staring thoughtfully after her. Meeting Eve Somerville for the first time in three years had been like being a contestant in the first round of a boxing match. She was possessed of the most formidable temper he’d ever witnessed in a woman, having a tongue that could flay the meanest man, gladly stamping on his pieces of lacerated flesh before finally pulverising them into dust with the heel of her pretty foot.

He realised that the lady was a termagant, but he sensed she had a magic quality—if she chose to use it. Troubled, he turned to go back to Alex Soames, his expression tightening, his brows drawn together in an ominous black line when he continued to think of her.

He had felt a slight sense of shock the first time she had looked at him fully, when her grandmother had brought her to be introduced to him after the funeral. There was something in her eyes that set his pulse racing and he felt a great sense of excitement—as he had on that other occasion when he had had her at his mercy three years ago. She looked very young—almost a child—yet he already knew that behind the childlike exterior there was a ripe sensuality just bursting to be set free.

Instinctively, he knew that no matter how in control and confident she might conceivably be, she had that bewitching quality that could well captivate a man and enslave him for life—a burgeoning femme fatale. Yet, when he recollected how outspoken she had been at the reading of the will, of the insult she had thrown at him and how quick she was to anger, then he would make damned sure she curbed that temper of hers if she became his wife; if she did not come to heel, she would feel more than the length of his tongue.

When he entered the room once more, his eyes were cold and without expression as he took stock of Gerald Somerville and observed the unconcealed greed glittering in his eyes, knowing it would be exceedingly profitable for him if Marcus did not marry Eve. But there was something else lurking in their depths, something unpleasantly sinister and unconcealed as their eyes locked—a moment in which each of them knew they were mortal enemies.

Marcus had meant what he said when he had told Eve that Gerald Somerville was not unknown to him. He was a notorious rake about town, a man with a sordid reputation, and he was well acquainted with his depraved and corrupt ways, that differed greatly from the accepted standards of behaviour.

He remembered well the night Gerald had faced ruination, and the card game which he himself had been privy to. He’d been at White’s, seen with his own eyes the money Gerald had lost—and Gerald was aware that he knew and hated him for knowing. He recalled seeing his fellow players sitting intently round the the table watching Gerald lose, and not even wearing his loose frieze greatcoat inside out—which was often the case by those hoping to win—had brought Gerald luck.

He’d heard it rumoured the following day that in desperation Gerald had borrowed the money to pay off his debt from moneylenders—men without scruples who would resort to any foul and violent means to reclaim loans—digging himself deeper into the mire.

Gerald’s expression became set and grim, his eyes shining with a deadly glitter as his gaze became fixed, his feelings for Marcus clearly beyond words. He was filled with an impotent, cold black fury on finding himself cheated by Marcus Fitzalan out of something that he coveted.

Gerald was the kind of man Marcus despised and went out of his way to avoid. Because he knew that nothing was beneath Gerald, that he might even attempt persuading—or, even worse, compromising—Eve into marrying him in order to revert Atwood Mine to him, Marcus was even more determined to return to Burntwood Hall very soon to save Eve from herself in securing her hand in marriage.

Later, slipping out of the house unseen by the few remaining mourners who still lingered on, content to partake of the late Sir John’s liquor and to talk and rekindle old memories and dwell on times they had shared, in the falling dusk Eve took the path towards the church, glad there was no one about so that she could be alone, to pay one last visit to her parents’ grave before the day that had heralded such a change to her life ended.

She opened the gate into the churchyard, which was enclosed by a high stone wall covered by a wild tangle of weeds and ivy. A mass of ancient yew trees, black in the gathering gloom, were in stark contrast to the creamy sandstone church. All around her was silence, a sudden stillness, as drifting clouds passed over the moon just beginning to appear.

The churchyard was a sad and sorrowful place and Eve moved along the paths in sympathy to nature’s silence, the huge, cold grey gravestones covered in lichen and casting looming, grotesque shadows in the gathering gloom. Coming to a halt, she stood looking down at the mound of newly dug earth and clay strewn with flowers, noticing how they were already beginning to wilt and to lose all their frail beauty. Tomorrow they too would be dead. She felt a terrible pain wrench her heart when she contemplated the lifeless forms of her parents lying side by side beneath the soil.

Unlike their ancestors before them who had been interred inside the church, her parents had long since chosen to be buried side by side in the churchyard. Unable to contain the grief that had been accumulating in her heart since her father’s accident, tears started in her eyes and streamed down her face.

She fell to her knees and bowed her head as she finally gave way under the long strain that possessed her. All her reserve was gone and she began to cry dementedly, her body shaking with an uncontrollable reservoir of grief, bewilderment and betrayal—unable to understand why her father, who had loved her, had treated her so harshly, unaware as she wept of the tall, silent figure that stood watching her from the gate.

Having taken longer to depart from Burntwood Hall than he had intended, Marcus had come to the churchyard to pay his final respects to the man who had become more than a friend to him over the few years he had known him, a man to whom he owed so much. He paused at the gate on seeing the kneeling, sorrowing figure beside the grave, only just able to make out in the dusk the profile of Eve Somerville, her slender form racked with grief.

His heart contracted with pain and pity, for never had he seen or heard so much desolation in anyone before. He took a step, intending to go to her, but checked himself, thinking it would be best to leave her, that it would do her good to cry, for he suspected there was no one in that great house to offer her comfort. He had to fight the urge to go to her, to take her in his arms and hold her, to caress the soft cloud of hair that had tumbled loose from its pins and fell in wanton disarray about her lovely face.

Aware of his own inadequacy he cursed softly, knowing that Eve Somerville had made a deep and lasting impression on him, penetrating his tough exterior and finding a way into his heart as no other woman had done before. It took all his willpower to tear his eyes from her forlorn figure, to turn and walk away—but it was a picture he knew would never leave him.