by JL Merrow
Best make more of an effort. Particularly as he wasn’t on steady ground here—yeah, he’d worked there, but it’d been a brief internship, not a permanent job. “That’s right. So I know what curating an exhibition involves.”
“You’ve done it before, then? A major exhibition like this?” Bran leaned forward, his eyes brighter.
“Not exactly, but don’t forget, I’m simply carrying on with work that’s already begun. It’s not like I’m designing the whole thing from scratch. Dr. Banerjee’s laid some sturdy foundations for me to build on.” Sam hesitated, then plunged on. “I really appreciate the chance to work on this exhibition. The Hundred Years War was my specialism at PhD level, so this is pretty much my dream job.”
It probably sounded like he was brown-nosing, but sod it, it was all true, so why not say it?
And Bran was definitely looking happier. “What sparked your interest?”
Safer ground, thank God. “I think it was the whole idea of parts of France belonging to England. These days, a lot of us like to think of Britain as an island apart from Europe, and forget that that wasn’t always the case. Considering how much more hazardous the crossing was in those days, there was an awful lot of popping back and forth across the channel in medieval times. And with all the intermarriages between the noble families, the distinctions really were blurred. Especially since Norman French was the language of the king and his court up to the end of the fourteenth century. And the Hundred Years War was what changed all that. What gave us, in effect, an English national identity.” Sam realised he’d let himself get carried away, but hey, the bloke had asked.
Bran nodded, so at least they agreed on some things. “And your views on the Black Prince himself?”
Sam wasn’t much into sci-fi, but a mate had once made him sit through as many episodes of Lost in Space as they could fit into one beer-soaked weekend, which was probably why he had Danger, Will Robinson blaring through his brain right now. “Well, there’s no question he was a brilliant military campaigner from an early age.”
“Some might call his treatment of the French brutal.” Bran said it so mildly it had to be a front.
And yeah, okay, the klaxons were going off and the red lights were flashing, but Sam couldn’t let this one go. “Some? Mate, he burned their towns and villages to the ground. Got the job done, yeah, but a hell of a lot of peasants starved to death on his account.”
“What would you have had him do? Leave provisions for his opponent’s army? This was war.” Bran’s expression hardened, and Sam got a weird flash of him in a different sort of armour, leading his troops into battle and giving no quarter.
“I’m just saying, you can’t forget the human cost.” Sam folded his arms. Historical debate? He could do this all day.
“And I suppose you’ll want to focus on that to the detriment of all else? Are these the changes you’ve been making?” Bran’s sharp features were stonier than the castle walls and a lot less likely to crumble.
“Now you’re putting words in my mouth. I just want to present a balanced picture, that’s all. Bring in more of the female viewpoint—”
“That was already represented. Are you accusing me of misogyny?”
“What? Of course not. I’m not accusing you of anything.” For a start, Sam couldn’t afford to get sued for slander. “Just, it was a bit . . . token, that’s all.”
“Token?” Bran drew in a breath, and Sam braced himself.
“Mr. Roscarrock?” It was Roarke, the site foreman. “Sorry to interrupt, but there’s something I need to go over with you, and it can’t wait.”
Couldn’t it? Sam didn’t fool himself this meant Roarke’s loyalty was to him, rather than Bran. Most likely the bloke just liked to keep the peace in his workplace. “I’ll, uh, leave you to it,” he said. “I’ll be in my office if you need me for anything more.”
Bran nodded to him. “This isn’t over.”
No, that wasn’t ominous at all.
Sam spent the rest of the day mustering a coherent defence of his position, only to feel keenly disappointed when Bran didn’t show for the fight. Maybe he was trying to lull Sam into a false sense of security. Or busy finding a replacement curator. Bloody hell, why couldn’t the man just get on with it? Even if Sam got fired, at least a decent shouting match would clear the tension yoking his shoulders and giving him a headache.
Then again, Sam’s CV wasn’t looking too hot already. If he got sacked from this job in his first week, he might as well give up on being employed at above minimum wage ever again. Maybe a delay was all to the good—it’d give Bran a chance to cool down. Realise today’s public distrusted anything other than a balanced picture.
Yeah, right.
Mal was in on his own when Sam got back to the house. He was playing with his rats, which Sam had been making an effort to get used to. And mostly failing.
“All right, mate?” Mal called out from his seat on the floor, where he was being crawled all over by at least two well-fed rodents Sam would not have liked to meet in a dark alley. “What’s a rat’s favourite game?”
“You tell me.”
“Hide and squeak!” Mal cackled.
“Yeah, good luck with that career writing cracker jokes.” Sam turned towards the kitchen.
“Hold on, I’ve got another. What do you call a bloke with a rat on his head?”
Sam gave him a blank stare, tried not to cringe on seeing that yes, Mal did have a rat on his head now, and waited.
Mal grinned. “Someone who’s really hoping the housetraining took. Wanna hold one? This is Neville, he’s really friendly.” He held up the black-and-white rat that’d been nibbling at the hem of his T-shirt. To Sam’s eyes, it looked identical to Myrtle, but presumably Mal had some way of telling them apart.
“Thanks, but I’ll pass. Cup of tea?”
“Cheers, mate.”
“Anything for Neville?”
“Nah, he’s trying to cut down the caffeine. But you could grab him a strawberry out of the fridge. And one for Pansy.”
When Sam found himself carefully comparing the strawberries in the punnet to make sure he selected two of equal size and ripeness so neither rat would feel hard done by, he knew he’d lost it.
Carrying the mugs in one hand and the strawberries in the other, he made his way back to the living room.
“Ah, cheers, mate.” Mal took the berries, and Sam put his tea down on the floor near him. “You’re the best.”
“No problem. How’s it going at the museum?”
“Not bad. Think we’re all ready for half-term next week—got some living crafts people in to do demos and let the kids have a go at stuff. We’ve even got some ship’s biscuits baked up for them to try, but they wouldn’t let me add any weevils to the mix. It’s health and safety gone mad, I tell you.” Noses twitched at the strawberries, and Pansy ran down Mal’s arm to get her treat. Neville already had his.
Okay, they were kind of cute holding the berries in their little pink hands and nibbling. “Shame. It’s just not going to be an authentic experience.”
“That’s what I said! And they keep insisting no one gets a tot of rum without two kinds of ID and a note from their mum. Where would we have been, I ask you, if all them cabin boys and powder monkeys back in the day hadn’t got their tots of rum? They’d have mutinied straight off. I would’ve.” Mal’s eyes were wide and earnest.
Sam had to laugh. “S’pose the live floggings are out too, are they?”
“Well, if you’re volunteering to be the whipping boy, I might be able to swing it last minute.”
“Cheers, but I wouldn’t want to get you in trouble.” They grinned at each other.
Jory was a lucky bastard. And Sam seriously needed to find himself a bloke. He missed this—being with someone he could have a laugh with at the end of the day. Okay, him and Mal were doing that right now, but it wasn’t the same. Mal was Jory’s.
Sam could hardly remember the last time he’d had someone who
was all his. He’d thought Doug had been his, or at any rate had been going to be his—but he’d been wrong. So badly wrong. He shivered.
“Someone walk over your grave?” Mal frowned. “Huh, weird idea that, innit? Think you still get that feeling if you’re gonna be cremated?”
Sam shrugged. “You’re asking the wrong bloke. I come from a long line of Goan Catholics. My mum’s pretty open-minded about most things, but she’s a hard-line traditionalist on funeral rites. If I got cremated instead of buried, she’d kill me. Hey, I wanted to ask you something . . .” Sam hesitated, not sure how to put it. “Did they ask you to take over the exhibition?”
Mal stared. “Do what now?”
“Uh, well, you work at a museum. And Bran knows you, obviously, so I thought maybe—”
“Mate, seriously. Bran ask me to look after his pet project? Not if I was the last person on earth. Bury me under the foundations as a sacrifice to the gods—yeah, I could see him doing that.”
Okay, that sounded a little extreme. “What’s he got against you?”
“What hasn’t he?” Mal ran a hand through his hair—not, so far as Sam could tell, dislodging any evidence that Pansy had disgraced herself, thank God—then gave a sheepish grin. “Nah, that ain’t fair. I mean, it don’t all come from his side. I’m mad at him cos he was a git to my mate Dev, and he hates me cos I was the reason Jory finally got a divorce from Kirsty. Like he thought they were actually going to get back together, and by ‘back together’ I mean actually together for the first time. See, Bran, he’s got, like, these Bran-colour specs on, you know?”
Sam couldn’t help laughing. “‘Bran-colour’? What’s that? Sort of dark brown?” Like his eyes, and his hair.
“Probably, but that ain’t what I meant. If you wear rose-colour specs, you see everything all happy-smiley, right? Bran-colour specs make that git see things the way he thinks they are. Or how he thinks they ought to be, whatever.”
“Yeah, I can buy that. So, uh, it’s not cos you’re a bloke?”
“Could be a bit of that and all. Who knows?” Mal stretched expansively and grinned again. “Who cares?”
“Us poor sods who have to work for him?”
“Rather you than me, mate. Right, Jory’s round at Kirsty’s for his dinner, so it’s you and me cooking tonight. And to be honest, mate? I can’t be arsed. So, chippy?”
Sam nodded. Yeah, cheap as chips would do him for tonight.
Bran spent the next few days marshalling his forces, metaphorically speaking. Thank God he’d taken a couple of days to rest after first encountering Ferreira. He felt . . . not well, precisely, but better. His head was clearer, and the horrid feeling of being overwhelmed by everything had dissipated. The Black Prince exhibition was going to need his close attention while under Ferreira’s oversight. The man was both passionate in his opinions and articulate in his arguments—a significantly greater challenge than Dr. Banerjee had been. And Bran was not one to back down from a challenge.
He could, he supposed, simply fire the man, and after their first meeting he’d had every mind to. Quieter reflection had convinced him this would be a mistake, however. Finding a replacement would be difficult at this stage. Jory would be unlikely to offer any assistance, for one thing. For another, it would sour the tentative reconciliation which had begun between Bran and Jory over the last year, which shouldn’t have been a serious deterrent—after all, this was a business decision—but undeniably was. In any case, it would be more satisfying to persuade Sam to Bran’s point of view. He was an intelligent man who knew his subject well—victory over him would be a worthy conquest indeed.
Accordingly, Bran dedicated himself to freeing up his workload. Eileen McGregor, who’d caught his attention when he’d had dealings with her property management company in the past, proved amenable to taking on a number of his interests—in particular, the Constantine Bay property, which had been causing him far more trouble than it was worth. He was able to pass fully half of his unanswered emails over to her, making the remainder far more manageable.
A welcome side effect was that it would prevent any awkward meetings with Craig in a business context. Yes, he should have taken this step long ago. Furthermore, the timing was excellent—this was half-term week, and Bran would have more leisure to spend with Gawen.
On Sunday, he and Bea had Sunday lunch at the golf club. “You’ve seemed more cheerful, the last couple of days,” Bea said coolly as they ate. “Have the police tracked down that missing equipment for the cannery contractor?”
“Not that I’ve heard.” Bran frowned. “I shan’t be employing that firm again. I’ll have to let Eileen know about their lack of adequate security too.”
Bea took a sip of water. As usual, she didn’t seem particularly interested in her food. Bran considered telling her she had no need to watch her weight, then decided against it. If he called attention to her lack of appetite, she might stop eating altogether. “I wouldn’t interfere too much if I were you. What’s the point of employing her and then micromanaging anyway?”
Bran gave her a sharp look. “You’re not annoyed that I’ve handed over management of some of our properties to her, are you?”
“Of course not.” She neatly filleted her fish, but didn’t take a bite. “You’ve always worked too hard.”
“One could say the same about you.” Her whole life appeared to revolve around her career as a financial advisor.
“I enjoy what I do.” Bea said it quickly—too quickly?
“I should hope so, as you chose it.” Bran meant that sincerely. She’d excelled at school, even more than he had. She could have done anything she wanted to.
“Do you resent me for that? When Father never gave you a choice?”
Why did she sound so defensive? “Of course I don’t resent you. Don’t be absurd. You’ve every right to choose your own path, and I’m quite happy with my life.”
“Oh? Then I’m glad.” Bea took a minuscule bite of fish.
Was he happy with his life? Bran had never really questioned it before—but it was undeniable how much lighter he felt having farmed out half his workload. And it was true that the life had chosen him, and not the other way around. He’d never chafed at the yoke, though. He’d seen it as a duty, perhaps—but not an unwelcome one. It was an honour, to look after the family’s interests so they could be passed on to the next generation with pride.
To Gawen. Although . . . perhaps expecting him to manage the family’s interests personally was blinkered thinking? Bran frowned at his excellent roast lamb. He should have a talk with the boy. Possibly with Kirsty as well, although she could be surprisingly resistant to the idea of planning for the future.
Well. Perhaps it wasn’t all that surprising. She’d always had something of a que sera, sera approach to life.
Bea laid her knife and fork neatly together, and Bran turned his attention back to his food, finishing it a little more quickly than he might have liked.
The waitress—clearly new here—approached the table and gave Bea’s still-laden plate a concerned frown. “Was everything all right?”
“Perfectly, thank you. You can take it away now. And I’ll have a black coffee.” Bea took out her phone.
“The lamb was superb, thank you,” Bran said to reassure the girl, and ordered dessert.
They spoke of impersonal things while they waited, which was something of a relief. Bea had a disconcerting way of making him think.
She proved it once again not long after their order had arrived. “Have you heard from the police about your attack?” Bea asked, her bone china coffee cup seeming larger and rougher in her delicate hands.
“No.” Bran’s Eton Mess no longer tasted quite so sweet. “I suppose I should get in touch with Constable Peters.” He’d meant to do that earlier, it was true, but other considerations had taken precedence.
“You don’t sound very keen. I’d have thought you’d be determined to make whoever attacked you pay.”
&nbs
p; He had been, hadn’t he? But then he’d got ill, and since then, he’d had Ferreira to contend with. That was a fight he could relish. Dealing with someone who used physical violence as an argument was an entirely different matter. Bran wished, for one shameful moment, that he could simply forget about the attack. Pretend it hadn’t happened. But that would be the act of a coward, wouldn’t it? Besides, his ribs were unlikely to let him forget so soon.
“I’ll speak to her,” Bea said.
Bran flushed. “No, that won’t be necessary. I’ll do it.”
“Someone needs to make sure nothing is let slide.”
“I said I’ll do it.” Bran couldn’t keep the irritation out of his tone.
Bea’s face hardened. “Fine, then. But I thought you wanted to cut down on stress.”
Bran had the uncharitable thought that maybe he should stop lunching with his sister, in that case. He didn’t voice it.
Craig called again that evening. He’d left several messages over the course of the last few days. Bran had been too busy to call him back, and doubted it would be advisable in any case. It would only encourage him.
Now that Bran wasn’t dealing personally with the Constantine Bay property dispute, there was really no reason for them to see each other anymore.
Monday morning, Bran was up early and in Ferreira’s office before the man himself turned up for the day. He tried not to look too pleased at Ferreira’s obvious discomfort on finding him there, sitting at the desk and flicking through files.
“Uh, would you like a coffee?” Ferreira offered. He was casually dressed again, in a long-sleeved T-shirt with the sleeves pushed up over his strong brown forearms.
“I’ve already had one, thank you. But do go ahead, if you want to get yourself a cup.”
Ferreira sidled off, an uneasy look on his face.
Bran smiled to himself. People were often so much easier to deal with if you caught them before they’d had their morning fix of caffeine.
When Ferreira returned, after a longer-than-expected gap, he was carrying a heavy wooden chair, hefting the weight with one hand as though it were made of matchsticks. By the look of it, it’d come from the public rooms of the castle, and one of the volunteers was going to be cursing him later when they had nowhere to sit for hours on end. Sam—rather pointedly—pulled the chair up to the other side of the desk.