A Bird Without Wings

by Roberta Pearce

  Much to her disappointment, there were no Birds, which meant that, once back in Toronto, she’d have to broach the subject of the thirteenth Bird with Lucius. The twelfth had been found in a guestroom at Lucius’ house.

  Over the most delicious cup of tea and most delicate, buttery shortbreads she had ever tasted (she forced herself to try one to be polite, and then promptly had three more), she asked about the Hoods’ connexion to the Ransomes, and received quite a litany of the Hood family history. Mr. Hood’s great-great-grandfather was Martin the Gardener; Wilhelmina, his great-great-grandaunt. And about the young men in the house in 1901:

  “Now, George was my great-grandfather, Martin’s boy. Peter . . . Peter,” he mused. “I think he was Martin’s also, but maybe . . . maybe he was Wilhelmina’s boy. There was a story that she had had a child out of wedlock, but the stories were it was a girl. But Peter . . . I believe he went to Australia. Or was it South Africa? Something about diamonds or opals.”

  “South Africa . . . Was he in the Boer War, perhaps?”

  “No, I don’t believe so. There was a Hood in that war. Another of Martin’s boys. William. Killed in action, I believe.”

  “William! Yes. There is a William. Do you mind?” she asked, indicating her laptop.

  “Please.”

  So she opened the census records for the Chelsea home, and showed Mr. Hood (“Harry, Harry!” he insisted) his ancestors’ enumeration.

  “There’s William,” she murmured, pointing to the 1891. “And is this Martin’s wife? Hannah?”

  “Isn’t that something! Yes. That was her name. Sometimes called Anna. Anna . . . oh, I don’t remember her original name now. Isn’t that something. My great-great-grandparents.”

  “Would you like a copy of this, Mr.—? Harry,” she quickly corrected with a smile.

  The man was deeply touched. “That would be brilliant!”

  There was no Wi-Fi connexion, so she noted Harry’s email address and promised to send him all documents she had pertaining to his family once she was back online, and he promised to email her back anything he and his wife could collect together to help her flesh out the story.

  But she was very excited by what she had gleaned. The story of William Hood in the Boer War, and of the mysterious, possibly illegitimate Peter going off to foreign lands to earn his fortune—these items could be the entire basis of the legend of the HRF. They were exactly the sort of tales that would get cannibalised, distorted, and corrupted. Learning the Ransome history had proven just how much stories got warped and confused with time—and she already had documented evidence to prove wild inaccuracies in some of the stories with which the Ransomes had regaled her. The HRF could come down to something as simple as Carlyle telling a young Piers a bedtime story of the adventurous Hood boys, and Piers had taken them as stories of his own family.

  Children had a tendency to believe bedtime stories.

  Shaking off the baggage that went with that thought, she focused on the Hoods and how finding out about William and Peter would provide a good backstory for the nonexistence of the HRF.

  After tea and a long talk, with directions to a cafe with available Wi-Fi, she parted from Harry with thanks, and made her way through the gorgeous neighbourhood. Lucius’ flat was beautiful, but it was a shame he didn’t live in the familial townhouse. He would love the craftsmanship of it, the rich woodwork and intricate detailing. She could imagine him in that house.

  Settling at the cafe with a cup of tea (the British really did make better tea, she decided) and the spire of St. Luke’s in her line of sight, she worked on creating a rather thin family tree for the Hoods, going so far as to search for documentation at Ancestry—all in that voiced effort to have answers at the ready. Naturally, she got very involved in it all, finding Martin and Wilhelmina’s parents. And Martin’s marriage to Hannah Pratt, 1873! Oh, Harry would love to have that.

  For the Ransome family history, there were birth and marriage certificates still needed for authentication; having only the information gleaned from indexes and censuses, she had delayed ordering actual documents, hoping to find Carlyle and order everything all at once. But crumbs led to finds; the more precise her information, the more likely she’d be able to trace him. Additionally, as the Ransomes were all very jazzed about the Venable branch (apparently a very important family, as if they needed the cachet of better roots), she was constructing the Venable tree as a bonus to soothe them when the HRF was debunked.

  Though census records from before Neville and Elizabeth’s marriage had provided their parents’ names (William and Anne Ransome; Walter and Mary Venable), the marriage certificate would be added proof of their fathers’ names and their birth certificates should provide mothers’ maiden names.

  Plus, there was all the misinformation the family had that needed debunking; certificates would help with some: Neville had been born in Hampshire, not Sussex; and Linchgate Hall had belonged to the Venables originally.

  Referring to her list of the attendant records in the indices, she placed the order for the births (Neville Ransome, September quarter, 1837, Winchester; Elizabeth Venable, March quarter, 1839, Midhurst) and the marriage (June quarter, 1862, Midhurst). Midhurst was a few miles from the village of Rothergate.

  You should go there.

  Lucius would never agree to go. She’d have to go alone.

  Poised to checkout from ordering the certificates so she could investigate train schedules to Sussex, an errant thought passed through her head, causing an argument with her inner voice.

  What about that Hood certificate for Harry?

  Lucius wouldn’t approve the expense.

  Yes, he would. All to kill the HRF forever. He’d do anything to accomplish that.

  You’re making excuses to order that certificate for Harry because he was so nice!

  Okay, partly. But this might all prove valuable in the long run. Having the Hood information would prove out the thoroughness of her research. And hadn’t she already decided that if William and Peter were to be used as the source of the HRF legend, she had to research them, too?

  So . . . scandal first. Who’s your daddy, Pete?

  Smiling to herself, she searched for his birth record (Peter N. Hood, June quarter, 1882, Chelsea), William’s (William D. Hood, April quarter, 1874, Chelsea), and that of Martin and Hannah’s marriage, adding them to the order on her credit card.

  What about George Hood? Harry’s great-grandfather?

  This is getting out of hand!

  But she managed to find George’s birth record in 1881, and added it to the order, obliquely noting that the ages of the Hood boys on the census were not correct; but her genealogical friends had told her not to trust the frequently inaccurate information of census records—especially when it came to a person’s age. Those being enumerated sometimes lied about their age (one of her helpers described how an ancestor of his shaved at least two years from her birth date every census); sometimes people didn’t know the exact year they were born; the household member being asked the questions might guess at another occupant’s age; and the listed age was as of the date the census was taken, so a birthday even just a week later would not be factored in.

  The mouse pointer hovered over the option to receive electronic copies . . . That cost more, and even though tempted by earlier delivery of the information, her essential frugality wouldn’t permit it—especially as the bank was being broken with the Hoods.

  Besides, if you rush this research too much, your affair will end sooner, too!

  Shut. Up.

  Mentally crossing her fingers that Lucius wouldn’t be annoyed, she finalised the purchase.

  As if he knew her guilt, he phoned her just then.

  “Drinking tea in a cafe in Chelsea,” she replied to his demand to know her whereabouts.

  “How was the house?”

  “Lovely. And the neighbourhood is amazing.”

  “Are you mad at me for something?” He sounded quite unconcerned
by the possibility.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I was feeling scolded.”

  “Oh. Well . . .” She cleared her throat. “I don’t understand why you don’t live in the house.”

  “I prefer my flat. It’s closer to the office. Can you find your way to Westminster Bridge?”

  “Of course. There’s apparently some big clock tower there?”

  “Very funny. Okay, on the opposite side of the bridge from Big Ben is the Embankment. Walk along—maybe a hundred yards—until you come to a place where there are benches. Near a memorial of some kind, and right across the river from the London Eye. I’ll meet you there.”

  “When?”

  “Now, silly. Grab a cab.”

  The Tube was faster, she decided, though she didn’t say that. “See you in a bit.”

  ***

  Her fingertips ran over the bronze relief profile of a WWII airman.

  “Callie.”

  “Hi,” she murmured.

  “Hey,” Lucius demanded. “Remember me?”

  She glanced round at him then, and it took a moment for the haziness of cloudy concentration to clear, dissolving into a radiant smile that made his senses leap.

  “I remember you,” she intoned so sexily it hitched his breath. “I got distracted.”

  “So I saw, since you came out of the Tube.” He cocked an eyebrow at her. “Doubling back to look at Boadicea, stare at Big Ben for five minutes, and then here,” he waved his hand at the Battle of Britain memorial, “for the longest time.”

  “Sorry.”

  Grasping her hand, he tugged her close for a kiss, liking her immediate and honest response, and it took real effort to end it before it got the better of him. “I’m glad you’re enjoying London.”

  “It’s fantastic.”

  “Let’s walk. You’ll love the Embankment.” They started out. “Tell me what you learned.”

  The little chatterbox regaled him with new information (he rolled his eyes at the whole Peter Hood, Adventurer and His Brother William, Soldier theory, but clearly this girl understood the Ransomes perfectly), given in the usual complicated-yet-orderly fashion (interspersed with side adventures, such as climbing on the lion at Cleopatra’s Needle and a long sidebar story of watching Waterloo Bridge at, of course, Waterloo Bridge). Knowing she was leading up to something, he asked, as they reached King George V Arch:

  “So now what?”

  “I want to go down to West Sussex. To see Linchgate Hall.”

  He pulled her hand away from her mouth. “All right. I’m tied up here for the next couple of days, but we’ll head down later in the week. Or for the weekend.”

  She stopped walking abruptly, and he swung back to find her eyes wide with surprise.

  “Really? You want to go?”

  “We’re in this together, aren’t we? Besides, you might get into trouble on your own.”

  A more accurate truth would be that he would miss her.

  The smile she offered was his favourite sort; pure sweetness. “I was so sure you’d be mad.”

  “Man, my temper’s not that rocky, is it?”

  “Well . . . taking advantage of your good mood, I might as well tell you now that I ordered a whack of expensive and probably unnecessary documents today.”

  “You spend whatever you want on this project. I trust you. You hungry?” When she nodded emphatically, he asked: “How do you feel about traditional pub fare? Fish and chips and beer?” He was sure she’d object; didn’t sound like her kind of food at all.

  But she just smiled that big ol’ happy smile and said, “Sounds amazing.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Rothergate Inn was a seventeenth-century coach house on the edge of the village square, and Lucius smothered a grin at Callie’s oohs and ahhs of the village generally and the inn’s facade specifically. Leaving her to soak up the ambiance of the square—or whatever the purpose of her gawking—he checked them into their room, the reservation having been made by his assistant at LCR. Leaving the luggage at the front desk, he stepped outside again.

  Next to the car, Callie’s posture and expression told him that she was already far away, working on some problem or theory. Never had he been so challenged—she set off all of his sparks: mental, physical, emotional. It made him slightly uneasy, this attachment to her, and he had been trying hard to play it cool today . . . but damn it, maybe he should just enjoy it while it lasted. Everything faded with time, and eventually he’d get control over it without expending this sort of effort.

  ***

  A hip propped against the fender, she absorbed with pleasure the beauty of the tiny village, the lush greenery of the Downs, and the aural soothing of the wind. Consulting her notes, she looked where Linchgate Hall should be . . . there, nestled in the curve of a distant rise, she could make out the peaks of the grand house, matching the silhouette alluded to in the ravens’ painting, the stark line of exposed chalk in the shallow hill below. The escarpment wasn’t nearly so imposing as depicted in the painting, but ominous clouds piled high over the house, lending it that same moody Gothic vibe Pike had attributed to it.

  Perhaps she could take a stroll up there now. It was a given that Lucius wouldn’t come with her.

  The last days in London had been a whirlwind of entertainment for her benefit as he ensured that she saw the city he loved . . . and of course, she loved it, too. While attentiveness and kindness might be mistaken for emotional commitment by some, she was not fooled; this relationship would never be permanent. And underscoring that was his mood today, slightly cooled as he emotionally backed off. She welcomed it even as it stung, for it helped her keep her emotional distance, too. Even if she wanted love—which she did not, no way, uh uh—it would be utter disaster to imagine that Lucius Ransome would go slumming for a lifetime with a trailer-trash Dahl. He was too good for the likes of her. She was no one, and never would be.

  Good thing she wasn’t deluding herself. Delusions were impractical, and she did not do impractical. Uh uh. No way.

  The breeze shifted slightly, and she caught his scent, her loins tightening in response. “I’m going to take a walk,” she said evenly, without looking around at him.

  “Here’s your key.” He pressed an old-fashioned clunky brass fob into her hand. “Don’t lose it.”

  She weighed it in her hand, biting her lip with amusement. “It would take some losing,” she smiled at him and saw a glimpse of some errant emotion flick though his eyes. “What?”

  His shrug was casually dismissive. “Nothing. Lots on my mind. Work.”

  She pocketed the key. “I’ll be back in a while.”

  “Don’t be long. It’s going to rain.” He kissed her in that erotically gentle way she loved.

  “Uh uh. I mean, uh huh,” she corrected idly and, adjusting the strap of her satchel, set off.

  ***

  The rain slashed down, sluicing over the windowpanes, the wind giving the occasional screech of torment as it played in the eaves.

  Lucius paced. Hours she had been gone. So caught up in emails and reports, he had only noticed exactly how long it had been when gnawing hunger—and the incessant sound of the wind and rain—finally corroded his concentration about an hour ago. The hunger had instantly disappeared into the queasiness of worry.

  Why the hell hadn’t he gone with her? Work was hardly as important as . . . what?

  Her safety.

  Yes, yes. That. His brain tried to grasp and dodge something else at the same time.

  Hell. Should he drive to Linchgate Hall? Search the roads for her? The only thing that made him hesitate (for he was not known for hesitating when a thing needed doing) was that knowing her, she had found some walking path through a pasture and was oohing and ahhing over an ancient stile or some pile of stones; calculating the slope of a hill. Regardless, regular roads were not the place to find someone as easily diverted as Callie Dahl.

  Screw it! He reached for his coat—just as a key soun
ded in the door.

  Tossing the coat aside, he seethed as it swung open to reveal Callie, soaked through, on the sill.

  “Hi,” she greeted, grinning with sheer happiness, and closed the door. Rainwater dripped in a puddle around her. “It’s raining.”

  A shiver sent gooseflesh over his skin; his brain stalled as it latched firmly onto the thing eluding it.

  “Where have you been?” he demanded.

  And suddenly, in that moment, he wasn’t asking about the anxious, crazed-with-worry pacing. He wasn’t even asking her. It was a demand of God, of the cosmos, of anyone and anything who could answer that question. In that moment, he was back in the den at his parents’ watching her playing with Riley, overwhelmed with the sensation that this woman had been denied him, hidden from him, and how could she be, when she meant everything to him?

  Everything.

  She was stripping off her wet jacket, kicking off her shoes. “I’ve had the most amazing time. I was wandering around the churchyard—a tiny decayed cemetery next to the Venable family chapel. It was spooky and awesome, with a tatty lychgate, lichen eating through everything . . .”

  She went on in animated monologue, her wet face shining with excitement. Lucius slumped down on the window seat, for his knees couldn’t hold him.

  The emptiness that had been there for so long was gone, and he hadn’t noticed until just now. It had gradually been filled in over the last weeks . . . by her. Switching back and forth between the path that led to his freedom and path that held the responsibility to his family, he had tripped over her on the median . . . and she had changed everything for him.

  Everything.

  He couldn’t imagine his world without her.

  He loved her. Loved her with a raging, aching need.

  He stared into the embers of the dying fire.

  “. . . and guess who he was? Lord Crawford! Or Sir Crawford. Something. A cousin of yours. Third, I guess. No, fourth. And a removed? Anyway, he invited me to Linchgate Hall. Gave me a brief tour, and afterward we had tea. Tea!” She laughed, crazily happy. “Like you read about in Blyton novels, with lightly boiled eggs and soldiered toast, and blackcurrant preserves and Devon cream on scones. He talked a little about the falling out between Carlyle and Lily though he doesn’t know the why of it, and the two families lost contact after Carlyle went to Canada. He’s invited us back tomorrow. May we go? I mean, I have to go. But will you come with me and meet him?”