~~~~
Dickie Noring hailed him just as he was passing beneath the Gateway of St. Nicholas Church.
"Lord Gareth! Lord Gareth! 'Ave ye 'eard the news? 'Tis a terrible thing, it is — 'specially as 'e 'as family an' all!"
Gareth, suddenly alert, paused just beneath the Gateway's vaulted stone ceiling, his gaze moving from the County Hall across the street to the lad who, all out of breath, came running up before him. "What are you talking about, Dickie?"
"Nails died last night! 'E never woke up after 'e went down! Some are sayin' it was the strength of your hits that killed 'im, but the doctor thinks Nails 'it 'is 'ead when 'e fell. They're burying 'im tomorrow!"
For a moment, Gareth, blinking, could only stare at Dickie as his brain tried to absorb what he'd just been told.
"What?!"
"Aye, 'e died last night!"
Denial rose like a brick wall before him. Nails dead? 'Sdeath, he hadn't even hit him that hard!
"You all right, m'lord? Ye're looking a bit pale —"
"I am sorry, it's just that ... this comes as rather a shock." He shook his head, trying to clear it. "Dear God." He pushed his fingers against his brow and leaned back against the church's cold, unforgiving stone, his thoughts racing and a prickling sense of unease icing its way up his spine. "Do you know where Nails lived, Dickie? I — I must go and pay my respects to his widow ..."
Moments later he was standing outside a little terraced house on East St. Helen's Street, his tricorn in his hands and his face grim. He saw the neat white curtains at the windows, the black crepe that someone had already hung above the doorway. Guilt twisted his gut. Confusion filled his head. And the same thought kept going through his mind, over and over again like a litany: But I didn't hit him that hard ... I didn't hit him that hard ... I didn't hit him that hard...
What a lame excuse to offer Nails's grieving widow. He felt sick.
Taking a deep, shaky breath, he raised his hand toward the knocker. Despite the hour, he knew Nails's wife would be up; country folk rose early, and besides, he doubted anyone who had just lost a spouse would sleep much in that first night following such a loss. Still, he hesitated, wondering if he ought to just quietly turn away and leave this family to grieve. He was, after all, the last person they probably wanted to see just now.
Coward.
He tried the knocker and waited.
There was movement behind the door. He cleared his throat, wondering what to say to these people. The latch swung upward, and the door opened to reveal a gaunt woman with wet, red-rimmed eyes. A handkerchief was wadded in her hand, and two toddlers huddled against her skirts. She gasped at the sight of Gareth, her eyes filling up all over again as she shoved the handkerchief against her nose.
Gareth's heart went out to her. "I am so sorry to hear about your husband," he said quietly. He clutched his hat, feeling awkward and terrible and sick at heart. "I ... just wanted to stop and pay my respects. I shall leave you in peace."
He turned and began to walk away, but her voice stopped him.
"M'lord, please!"
He took a deep breath and turned back around, not knowing what to say, what to do.
She stood there in the doorway, looking small, lost, and forlorn. "Don't go," she whispered, her bottom lip quivering. "Oi know ye think ye killed me 'usband ... but ye di'int."
"Thank you for that reassurance, Mrs. Fleming, but I hold myself responsible for what happened. Had I been Nails's second, I would have called off the fight. As his opponent, I only did what I could ..."
"M'lord, ye don't understand. Oi've watched ev'ry foight Nails ever did." Her eyes grew desperate behind her tears. "Oi was there last noight, and Oi saw what state me 'usband was in. Ye di'int 'it 'im that 'ard. And when 'e fell, 'e landed on 'is knees — 'is 'ead never 'it the floor, no matter wot the doctor thinks."
Gareth stared at her and frowned.
"Don't ye see?" She gazed tearfully up at him, her eyes willing him to understand. "Me 'usband di'int die at yer 'and. 'E died because 'e someone gave 'im laudanum just before the foight!"