The Turner Series

by Courtney Milan

  A longer pause. Turner flipped another page, and Richard tapped his foot impatiently.

  “No,” Turner finally said, without looking up. “I can’t stop you from pretending that we are still on friendly terms. But I have no desire to participate in your delusion.”

  Richard clenched his hand into a fist at his side. “If I had known you were going to be a jackass about it, I would have played cricket.”

  Turner finally reached for a blue ribbon and set it between the leaves of the book, precisely marking his place. Then he raised his head. “You’re twice delusional, then. Being a petulant jackass is your particular prerogative, not mine.”

  When Turner regarded him with those steady, unblinking blue eyes, it made him feel odd. Hot and cold all at the same time. It always made him think that Turner was silently appraising him. In recent weeks, he’d been made all too aware of the ways in which his friend—his former friend—found him wanting. That feeling of inadequacy wasn’t helped by the fact that Turner used words like delusional and prerogative, when all Richard could think of was jackass.

  “You hit me,” he said. “Jackass.”

  “You deserved to be hit.”

  “I was doing my duty. I had to, after—”

  “You tried to get my brother thrown out of school. Not just sent down for the term; publicly expelled. Did you think I wouldn’t care?”

  Richard banged his fist against the table, hard enough that that the shock traveled through his arm. But his words were quiet. “I’m supposed to be your brother, damn you.”

  Their eyes met, finally. He’d not meant to say that. It sounded too angry, too furious. Too hurt.

  But then he was hurt. They had the same tutor. Richard had taken Turner under his wing when the fellow first arrived, and…they were friends. Best friends. Turner knew things that Richard had never told anyone else. Richard had thought the bonds that held them together were thicker even than blood. Apparently he’d been the only one participating in that delusion, too.

  “That’s laughable.” Turner drummed his fingers against the tabletop. “If you had really been my brother, you wouldn’t have told the entire third form that I escaped into Home Park to have a cry about my sister.”

  “Well, you hit me. And it’s true.”

  Turner let out a little breath. “Yes,” he finally said, his eyes getting harder. “It is true. Congratulations. You’re not a liar. Just a petty little snitch.”

  “But it is true. I should think that you would believe the truth was a defense against…against….”

  Turner shook his head. They had been born on precisely the same day; Richard should not have felt so young next to the other boy. But there was something about the look in his eyes that made Turner seem almost ageless. At times like this, Richard was reminded that his friend’s Christian name was Smite. It fit him.

  “You can’t really believe that,” Turner said quietly. “What would happen if I spoke the truth about you?”

  It took one moment to contemplate the possibility. Another for a flutter of fear to pulse through him.

  “Hadn’t considered that, had you?” Turner leaned back, stretching his arms in front of him. “You humiliated me, and never asked yourself how I might retaliate?”

  “Shut up.” Richard looked around the private library. He thought they were alone, but what if someone lurked amongst the shelves? “Shut up. Don’t speak of it.”

  “Shall we start with the obvious? I could get you thrown out of Eton—both you and your beast of a younger brother. There would be some delicious symmetry there. And your father couldn’t save you, because that’s precisely the problem, isn’t it?”

  “Shut up. Shut up.”

  “You can’t unsay it just because you wished you’d kept your mouth shut. I know the truth about you: you’re a bastard. If I spoke, you wouldn’t inherit a dukedom. You wouldn’t inherit anything. And you have to be legitimate to attend Eton, so…” Turner shrugged.

  “Shut up!” He slammed his fist against the other boy’s shoulder, but Turner didn’t even seem to feel the blow.

  Turner looked down, where Richard’s fingers still rested on the lapels of his jacket. “Maybe you’d prefer I divulged your other secret, then.” He lifted his hand and casually brushed Richard’s hand away.

  Richard let his hand fall. There were worse secrets than the one his father, the Duke of Parford, had divulged last summer. He’d said that Richard was old enough now that, as the heir, he ought to know. But he was not tell anyone—not his brother, not his sister, and especially not his mother. His marriage was invalid. Richard was a bastard, not truly the heir.

  So long as nobody ever found out, it wouldn’t matter.

  Richard should have been angry with his father. He should have been furious with fate. He should have been afraid for his future.

  But what he’d thought instead was: Oh. That explains why I came out so wrong, then.

  It was the truth of that other secret that hung between the two boys now.

  “You wouldn’t,” he said. “Would you? Tell that?”

  “You don’t think it a fitting punishment? One betrayal deserves another, after all. Eye for an eye. Truth for a truth.”

  Richard reached out a hand beseechingly. “Please. They'll hang me.”

  Turner didn't even flinch. “Yes,” he said softly, “they would.” He looked up, as if calculating the depth of Richard’s sins. Finally, his gaze returned to his friend. “Very well, then. I’ll keep my mouth shut.” One corner of his mouth curled. “Happy birthday. Now get out.”

  He could breathe again. Relief flooded him. But as he turned away, something occurred to him.

  “Wait. What about tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “If you’re keeping silent because today is our birthday, then what about tomorrow?”

  He’d thought Turner cold before. But now the other boy drew himself up as if his spine were made of ice. “So that’s how it is. Every day, you’ll remember that I hold your secrets while you spilled mine. With every passing year, you’ll wait for the axe to fall. Every time I open my mouth to speak, you’ll anticipate your betrayal. Won’t you?”

  His throat felt thick.

  “I know you.” Turner said. “You could torture yourself for years wondering when I will break your confidences. When you will lose everything.”

  “Turner. Please.”

  “I couldn’t have crafted a more fitting punishment if I’d tried. Congratulations, Winnie.”

  “I can’t believe you’re doing this to me.”

  Turner sat down and smoothed out the pages before him. “I wonder why that is.”

  “You ass,” he said. “If you think I’ll take this lying down, you’re wrong. I’ll discredit you before you even start. Nobody will ever believe you. Ever. Not about any of it.”

  Turner removed the blue ribbon he’d used to mark his page and started reading again. “Once you figure out what I intend, come let me know. Until then, I’m busy.”

  Out of the Frying Pan

  Out of the Frying Pan occurs shortly before the events in Unraveled.

  Parford Manor, Somerset. Late September, 1843.

  RICHARD DALRYMPLE WAS DETERMINED to be civil.

  He didn’t think he could ever shake the bone-deep envy that he felt, coming up the drive to his former family home. This place was imprinted on his memory: He’d played at soldiering with the stable-boy in that copse of trees. He’d caught his first fish on the far bank of that river, fallen off a horse for the first time there, and used that fence rail to get back on. The deeply familiar smell of autumn crept to him. A thread of rubbish fire on the wind mixed with earth and damp. Nowhere else in the world smelled like Parford Manor in autumn.

  No matter how Richard prepared himself, no matter how often he told himself that he didn’t want it anymore, the nostalgia took him every time.

  This could have been mine. But no. That was the illusion his childhood had foisted on
him.

  The carriage came to a halt. He inhaled, fixing in his mind who he was, how he was going to behave. This was family he was visiting. It was precisely as if he were a second son visiting his elder brother. No need to feel jealousy. Nothing had been lost; it had simply never been his in the first place.

  The door swung open, and Richard stepped out onto the drive. Gravel crunched under his feet. He fixed a smile on his face, and did his best to make it genuine. And then he looked up, looked up the wide staircase leading to the formal entrance. His sister stood on the wide stone steps, holding a bundle in her arms.

  And in that instant, he stopped having to try. He smiled—really smiled—and found that he couldn’t stop. He strode forward and clasped his sister in a one-armed hug.

  “Margaret. It’s good to see you well.”

  She couldn’t hug him in return, her arms being full, but she inclined her head against his neck. “Richard. I’m so glad you’ve arrived.”

  He stepped back and looked at her. It had been weeks since her confinement. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected; delivery always sounded like a horrific ordeal, one that necessitated months of lying about, unmoving, and then hours of screaming. Honestly, he couldn’t see why anyone would chance such a thing.

  But his sister didn’t seem any worse for what she’d gone through.

  He glanced down at the bundle in her arms and prepared himself to say something vaguely, politely complimentary.

  Margaret’s baby was awake. The child’s eyebrows were furrowed in an expression of infant concern, and she looked at Richard as if she were uncertain of him. She frowned at him, waving a fat arm about.

  “You know,” Richard said, “I have never been a lover of babies. Awkward, tiny, helpless, screaming things.” He reached out to brush the tiny fuzz on her head, but stopped, unsure if he should even touch her. “And they’re all so red and ugly, but you have to pretend to admire them.”

  His sister narrowed her eyes at him. “Richard, this is my daughter you are talking about.”

  “Yes, that’s precisely the thing.” He couldn’t look away. “Are you sure she’s a regular baby? Because she’s adorable.”

  “You’re pretending.” But his sister smiled anyway.

  Richard shook his head. “Would I lie to my own goddaughter?” He leaned in. “Hello, Anna.”

  Baby Anna’s eyes widened. They were dark brown and solemn. She peered up at him as if she were trying to make out who he was. Richard could feel something expand in his chest.

  “Christ,” he said. “She has Mother’s eyes.”

  “Don’t blaspheme around the baby,” Margaret said calmly. “And yes. I know. They’re your eyes, too.”

  Curious, seeing his own eyes looking up at him. He wasn’t used to seeing them so unshadowed, so innocent.

  Richard swallowed past the lump in his throat. “Her fingers are tiny.”

  A snort came from behind Margaret. “Everyone always says that. They’re perfectly proportioned for her size. Imagine what she would look like with your hands.”

  Richard looked up at these words. His brother-in-law—his successor—the man who’d taken all this from him was standing at the door, perfectly at ease. It had taken years for Richard to set aside his hatred.

  But now, it hit him—envy and sorrow and release all at once.

  This was as close as he would ever come to having his own child: watching Margaret and Ash’s child grow from a distance, having her named his goddaughter. He felt an uncomfortable pain in his chest, as if his ribs had become too small. He wished that he had the daring to lean in, to see if she would wrap those tiny fingers around his outstretched hand.

  “Congratulations, Ash.” The words had no rancor. “She’s…” He groped for a word. Befuddling. Odd. Lovely. Awe-inspiring. Terrifying. “Amazing,” he finally settled on.

  “I know.” Ash smiled as if he’d heard Richard’s entire litany. “She really is. Come in. Everyone’s already here.”

  He’d been doing his damnedest not to think of it, but at those words, cold washed through him. “Everyone?”

  “Everyone. The last guest aside from you arrived not fifteen minutes before.”

  Richard’s smile had become a fraud again. “How lovely,” he heard himself say. His words sounded harsh and tinny.

  He’d forgiven Ash, but there was one person who he couldn’t—he wouldn’t—pardon. Ash had benefited from unfortunate circumstances. But those circumstances had a cause, and even after all this time, Richard couldn’t forget who had betrayed him.

  “Is…” It had been so long since he’d referred to him by his Christian name. “Is Smite here?”

  Margaret paused, her dark eyes searching him. “Of course,” she finally said. She didn’t ask if that would pose a problem, but he could feel the question lingering on the air. She exchanged a look with her husband.

  In the years since his sister had married his worst enemy’s brother, Richard had done his best to practice polite avoidance. But then, there were times—such as when a child was being christened—when it was impossible.

  It was impossible, Richard reminded himself, because they could neither of them stay away. This wasn’t about their mutual antagonism. It was about little Anna.

  “Don’t worry about me,” Richard said quietly. “I can be civil.”

  CIVIL MEANT THAT RICHARD EXCHANGED the barest of nods with Mr. Smite Turner. Civil meant that he refused to give in to his usual internal diatribe, suppressing it in favor of talking with everyone else in the room.

  He’d made his peace with Mark Turner years before, and they spoke idly about indifferent mutual acquaintances. They’d been a few years apart in school, but knew many of the same people. Margaret’s husband was always welcoming. He never gloated, never once rubbed Richard’s nose in the fact that he’d quietly set up an account in trust for him, one that saw to all his needs. Ash always made Richard feel at home, which was quite an accomplishment, given that he was doing so in a house that should have belonged to Richard. And Margaret’s closest friends were here—Lord and Lady Carlton, their Forsyth cousins.

  Easy enough to stay civil, when Smite Turner stayed on the opposite side of the room. When they went for Anna’s christening, Richard pointedly chose a separate carriage. And when he entered the church, he found Smite had already sat himself at the far end of the bunch.

  He could almost hear him sneering. You’ll torture yourself for years, wondering when I will break your confidences. I couldn’t have crafted a more fitting punishment. Congratulations, Winnie.

  God, Richard hated him. He hated him almost as much as he hated the fact that destiny had thrown them together like this, unable to avoid each other entirely, forced into each other’s proximity month after month, simply because Richard’s sister had fallen in love with the worst man possible.

  He hated him, but Richard could hold his tongue.

  He was even beginning to think they’d pass the day without incident at all.

  After the service, they trooped back. Most of the guests departed—they’d make the London train, after all, if they left now—and the family stayed for a light repast. A scant few chairs separated Richard and Smite, but it was enough—enough that Richard could in all politeness address himself to Mark’s wife and his own sister.

  After the final course had been laid, Smite—who was seated at the far end of the table from Richard—stood.

  “Thank you very much for your hospitality,” he said to Ash, smooth as always, “but I really must be going.”

  There was a moment of frozen silence. At the head of the table, Ash stood and crossed over to his brother. “Really?” He spoke in a low voice, but Richard—who was trying very hard to appear as if he wasn’t paying the conversation any mind—could still make it out. “Come now, Smite. Surely you could stay for a little longer. We’re all here.” Ash pointedly didn’t look at Richard. “You, me, Mark, Jessica… And it’s miles back to Bristol. Just one evening, Smite. It woul
d mean so much to me.”

  Across the table, Mark Turner looked down and shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He looked on the verge of speaking, but didn’t say a word.

  Smite didn’t blink. He looked away from Ash. He reached out, as if to touch his brother’s shoulder, and then curled his hand into a fist and pulled it away. “I wish I could, Ash. But I must take my leave.”

  “It’ll be dark by the time you’re home,” Ash protested. “And…”

  “And that means I mustn’t delay any longer,” Smite finished smoothly.

  “Is there something I can do?” Ash asked.

  “Nothing,” Smite said simply. “It’s nothing you can fix, Ash.”

  And that was when Richard realized what was happening. He’d heard those protests before. God, he’d once used to make Smite’s excuses, back in that unimaginable time when they’d been friends.

  “Good God, Turner,” he blurted out from across the room. “Don’t tell me you’re still having nightmares.”

  At his seat, Mark winced. Ash blinked in confusion. All conversation ceased, spoons halting midair.

  Smite turned to Richard. For the first time all day, his gaze landed on him, his eyes cold and unmoving.

  “Ah,” he said.

  It was the first syllable that Smite had spoken to Richard since that long-ago birthday. More than a decade of silence, and that one syllable froze him to the core, made Richard feel that he was in the wrong. That he’d stepped wrong.

  Richard swallowed.

  But Ash stood frozen in place. “Nightmares?”

  “Good for you, Winnie,” Smite finally said, his voice low and cutting. “Still telling everyone else’s secrets. Well. I suppose everyone has to have some kind of talent.”

  “What the devil?” Ash looked between them.

  “Don’t blaspheme around the baby,” Margaret snapped.

  Mark made a motion. “Sit down, everyone. Sit down.”

  “No.” Ash took a step toward his brother. “What in God’s name does that mean?”

  Smite hadn’t taken his eyes off of Richard. “It means that Dalrymple can’t keep his mouth shut.”