by JL Merrow
Bran clutched the back of his chair. Was that really how it’d been? He hadn’t wanted to think about it, that was true. After the humiliation of Devan Thompson’s father . . .
He’d felt he’d deserved it, Bran realised. He’d told himself Father must be right, that being gay was something shameful and could only lead to unhappiness. It had been so much easier not to fight it, not to risk any further pain. To follow the path that Father laid out for him, narrow though it was.
It hadn’t even occurred to him that Jory, so much younger, had been taking note of his behaviour. Bran stepped around the desk, towards his brother.
Jory hadn’t finished. “And then with Kirsty—insisting I marry her.”
“That was for Gawen.”
“And because you were hoping once I was tied to her I’d decide I might as well be straight after all.” Jory stood below the portrait of Edward of Woodstock, his posture just as stiff and resolute as that of the long-dead prince.
Bran shook his head. “No. It was for the family.”
“You never stopped trying to push me back towards her.”
“I may have applied some gentle pressure, but I think you’ll find I stopped all that after I found out you had a lover in Edinburgh.”
“Even then, you never made me feel it was acceptable. You certainly never invited Rafi down to stay.” Jory’s frown softened into hurt.
Oh, for God’s sake. “Because that would in no way have embarrassed your wife and child.”
“Kirsty wouldn’t have given a toss.”
Bran opened his mouth to protest that the reality of their relationship didn’t matter, that it was appearances that mattered—but the words died on his tongue, unuttered. Christ, had he really used to believe that? “No.” He cleared his throat. “You’re right.”
“And—” Jory broke off and stared, his mouth open as if Bran had just gut-punched him. “What?”
Bran took a deep breath and met his gaze from a scant few feet away. “There were . . . things you didn’t know about, and they may have affected how I behaved to you . . . I’m sorry.”
“Oh.”
Jory looked as though he wanted to ask what those things were, so Bran hastened to head him off. “I honestly had no idea you were gay. Not until you made that announcement about having a male lover and being uninterested in women. And in the circumstances, I think it’s understandable that I had some trouble believing you were sincere.”
“Oh.”
Bran held his gaze for a moment longer, and then turned away. The clock on the mantelpiece stood slightly askew, and Bran raised a hand to straighten it—but changed his mind and let it stand, crooked and proud. “I’m sure you’ll find this almost impossible to believe, but I was entirely wrapped up in my own problems at the time.”
“Oh.” Jory shook his head, as if to shake himself out of the verbal rut he’d fallen into. “I always thought—you know. That you were trying to make it clear you disapproved.”
“It was never aimed at you.” Bran’s throat was dry. Should he tell Jory the whole, shameful truth? Could he?
“You realised you liked men,” Jory said slowly. “And you weren’t comfortable with it.”
Bran nodded, relieved beyond belief to be spared a full confession. Then guilt pierced him. Didn’t he owe Jory more than this? “I . . .” Oh, Christ. “Did you ever have a hopeless crush on a straight boy, in your teens?”
Jory blinked at him. “Um, no. I mean, there were boys I liked, but . . . no, not really.”
“Good. I can’t recommend it.” There was a pause. Bran stared into the unlit fireplace and hoped he hadn’t gone as bright red as Jory had.
“Anyone I know?” Jory said at last.
Oh, bloody hell. “No, but you’ve met his son. Devan Thompson,” he added, because if he was going to rip this plaster off he might as well do a thorough job.
Bran turned back to his brother, oddly light-headed for having finally got it all out in the open.
“Oh.”
“You know, for a teacher your vocabulary is sadly lacking.” Bran gave Jory a twisted smile. Yes, he was definitely light-headed.
Jory looked as though it might be contagious. “My pupils, believe it or not, rarely manage to shock me into monosyllables. Well done on that.”
“Yes, well, I’m hoping not to make a habit of it.”
“Thank God. Um.” Jory glanced towards the window, his shoulders hunching just a little. “So what are you going to do about Sam?”
For a moment, Bran wasn’t sure. The deception still hurt—but Jory was right. He owed Sam another chance. Odd, though, how Bran had found it so much easier to be magnanimous to Euan Mayhew, who’d broken his bones, than to Sam, who’d . . .
Bran swallowed. “Do you think, if I asked Sam to come here to talk, he would?”
Jory frowned. “I think so—but wouldn’t neutral ground be better?”
“No. I think he should come here. It’s past time.”
“Father will be spinning in his grave,” Jory said drily. “His eldest son and heir, bringing a male lover into the house?”
“Father can go to hell, if he isn’t there already.” Bran knew from Jory’s shocked expression that he’d gone too far. But Jory didn’t know everything, did he? He killed our mother. Bran couldn’t bring himself to say it. The old instinct to protect his younger sibling—no matter how much Bran had resented it in the past, and probably Jory too for that matter—was too strong, and feelings were too raw right now. He took a deep breath. “Don’t you think he’s ruled our lives long enough?”
Jory nodded slowly. “You’re going to call Sam?”
Bran hesitated. “I’ll write. I don’t want there to be any possibility of misunderstanding.” He returned to his desk to scrawl a brief note, slipped it into an envelope, and stood to hand it to his brother.
“I’ll give it to him this evening. And, um, maybe put in a good word or two. I’d better be getting back now.” He made a move towards the study door, then stopped. Stepping around Bran’s desk, he enfolded him in a hug.
Bran froze, then awkwardly returned it, patting Jory’s back.
Jory stepped away again, his face pink. “I’m really glad we had this talk,” he said, and left.
Bran sank into his desk chair, absurdly overcome.
It nagged at Bran, what Jory had said about Father spinning in his grave. Already unable to settle as he waited to hear from Sam—or not—Bran couldn’t put Father out of his mind. He thought about visiting his parents’ grave, but if Father lingered anywhere in this world, surely it would be here, by the house that bore his name, not in St. Ia’s churchyard where they’d laid him to rest?
The cliffs behind the house. That was where he had to go. Bran made his way out there before he could lose his nerve, the path an odd mix of the familiar and the strange. He’d rarely come this way since Father’s suicide, and his memories of it were all from childhood—and that awful night of the storm. Against all logic, the way seemed to have lengthened, the path taking more turns from the straight line to the cliff edge.
It was a warm afternoon, but the breeze was blowing up stiffly from the sea, whisking away the scent of wildflowers to leave only the ever-present brine. Bran shivered as he reached the edge of the land, careful not to tread too near. Gulls swooped and called above the waves far below, their raucous cries muted by distance. The tide was up, and the beach at Big Guns Cove overcome by the water. “Full fathom five thy father lies” . . . No. It wasn’t any truer for Bran than it had been for Shakespeare’s prince. They’d recovered Father’s body.
“Father?” he said softly. If anyone was there to hear him, a whisper would be as good as a shout, and Bran wasn’t about to go yelling his private affairs out in public. “I don’t know if you can hear me, but . . .” He fell silent. No, he wasn’t going to start off being uncertain. Either Father would hear him, or he was beyond all that, in which case it didn’t matter anyway. “Father? I can’t be what you wanted
. I don’t want to be. I have to be my own man. You were wrong, you know. About so many things. And I was wrong to listen to you, to try to please you. People . . . shouldn’t be put into boxes. Everyone deserves respect, and the right to choose how to live their life. You . . . you should have given Mother a choice too.” Bran broke off then, his throat clogged and the wind stinging his eyes, and it was a few minutes before he could speak again. “I’m gay, and I deserve to be happy, and I’m not going to be afraid to bring my lover to my own house any longer.”
Bran turned and strode back to the house with the same sense of scoured-clean, giddy lightness he’d felt talking to Jory, although it trembled perilously close to nausea.
A much-needed cup of tea later, Bran remembered another duty and gave Constable Peters a call. “I need to talk to you about the assault.”
“Have you remembered something?”
“I have some further information.” Bran thought it best to leave it at that over the phone. “Could we meet up?”
“Tell you what—are you at home? You work from there, don’t you?”
“Yes. To both.”
“I’ll come over, then. Be there . . . ooh, about half past three?”
“That will be perfect. Just tell them at the door you’re here to see me, and they’ll direct you to my study. I’m afraid we’ll still have volunteers and, quite likely, visitors in the house until after five.”
“I’ll see you soon.”
It was nearer four o’clock when Bran heard the knock on his study door, and he half hoped it might be Sam calling instead—although he had no idea what time he might expect to see Sam, if indeed he’d come at all. Perhaps he’d be offended at having to make the running?
Bran should have suggested they meet somewhere neutral, as Jory had said. There would have been time enough for a symbolic opening-up of hearth and home later—if the first meeting went well. Too late now, though. Bran took a steadying breath and opened the door.
It was, of course, the constable. Bran was surprised to find her out of uniform, wearing a summer dress that showed off her warm brown skin and made her look younger and prettier.
“It’s actually my day off,” she said with a smile. “But I wasn’t busy, so I thought why not?”
“That’s very kind of you.” Bran gestured for her to come into the study, fighting not to let the queasy mix of relief and disappointment show in his manner. “Should I call you Ms. Peters, as this isn’t an official call?”
“Sally, please. Thanks for inviting me,” she said, glancing around at the house. “Always meant to come and take a look at this place.” She grinned suddenly. “Hope you’re not going to charge me the visitor’s fee now I’ve said that.”
“That would hardly be fair, as you’re here at my invitation. And you’d have to put up with a very inferior guide.”
“Oh? Are you telling me you don’t know your family’s history forwards, backwards and sideways? I’m sorry, sir, I believe you’re being economical with the truth.”
“Should I call my lawyer before I say another word?” Bran couldn’t help smiling. “I may know all the stories, but I’m afraid I’m not the best at telling them.”
“Don’t sell yourself short. There’s nothing like the personal connection.” She returned his smile with a warmth that lit her face.
Sam would like her, Bran thought with a pang. “I’ll get you a drink. Sherry?”
“Don’t mind if I do, seeing as I’m not on duty. Dry, if you’ve got it.”
Actually, dry was all they had. Both Bran and Bea loathed sweet drinks. Bran poured them each a glass.
“This is where you work, is it?” Sally gazed up at the portrait of the Black Prince. “The royal family were a lot better looking in those days, weren’t they? I bet his military bearing brought all the girls to the yard.”
“I’ve always thought so.” There was a pause. Bran could feel her eyes upon him, and wondered what she saw.
The truth, apparently, as her smile softened. “It’s a lot to live up to.”
Bran didn’t ask her what she meant. “Won’t you take a seat by the fireplace?” He gestured at the leather armchair, and after she’d sat down, he moved his desk chair closer to the hearth and joined her.
She sat gracefully in the old armchair, leaning back with evident pleasure, and raised her glass as if in a toast. “Oh, this is luxury. Do you light the fire in the winter?”
Bran nodded.
“You must feel like you’re in a Charles Dickens adaptation. One of the nice ones, not the ones set in debtor’s prisons or anything.”
“Believe me, for six months of the year this room is just as draughty as the Marshalsea ever was. As a listed building, we have to get approval for any modernisation to the heating system—and I wouldn’t even dare ask about fitting double glazing.”
“And you’re right on the tops, here. No shelter from the storms. Hm. I guess inheriting a pile like this has its downside.” She cocked her head. “Is that why you open the house up to visitors? Is it a requirement or something?”
“If we want to keep the estate intact, yes. It exempts us from inheritance tax. Without that break, there’d be nothing left to pass on a few generations down the line.”
“Thought it must be something like that. You’ve always struck me as a very private person.” She took a sip of sherry. “Do you ever think of handing it over to the National Trust and letting them worry about it all for you?”
“Never. There have been Roscarrocks in this house for over five hundred years.”
“And you’re hoping there will be for another five hundred, as well? Quite a lot to place on the shoulders of a young lad, that is.”
She wasn’t wrong. Bran swallowed. “I was twenty-six when my father died. Not so young.”
“Young enough. But I was talking about the next generation. Your nephew.”
Oh. Gawen. And of course she would know that he was Bran’s heir. Anyone investigating the attack would have been criminally remiss not to have considered who might benefit in the event of his death. Although as they’d just discussed, the inheritance was a two-edged sword, wasn’t it? Would Gawen thank him for it in the end? Bran couldn’t bear the thought of being remembered less than fondly by the boy.
But he should be getting down to business, not second-guessing himself over his long-held plans for the estate. “Cons—Sally. I’m sure you’re aware I invited you here for a reason. I want to speak to you about the assault case. Off the record.”
“Go on.”
Bran took a fortifying sip of sherry. “You can close the case. There’s no need for any further action.”
Her eyebrows raised sharply, then lowered. “You know who attacked you.”
Bran nodded. “I don’t wish to press charges.”
“Technically, we don’t need you to. We can prosecute for grievous bodily harm without the victim’s say-so.” She gave him a direct look. “Having that sort of power can be useful in, say, domestic assaults. Or any other situation in which the injured party might be coerced into dropping charges.”
“That isn’t the case here.”
“Have you considered that it’s not in the public interest to let a violent offender walk around unpunished?”
“I’m satisfied the matter was . . . personal. There’s no danger to anyone else.”
“What about further danger to you?”
“No. The . . . individual will be leaving Porthkennack.”
Sally pursed her lips for a moment. “I’m going to need a little more information than that, I’m afraid. You understand it’s not my decision whether to drop a case or not.”
“I do understand that.” In fact he’d considered going straight to the top and still would if necessary, but the thought of going over her head hadn’t sat well with him. “I’m sure, though, that your recommendation will be listened to. After all, you’re the officer with the most connection to the case.”
“So convince me.”
“And the theft of your wallet?”
“It’s been returned to me. Including its contents.”
“Still, it’s hardly no harm done, is it? Are you sure—” Sally broke off as the study door opened.
Bea took a step inside, then stopped short. “Bran, I— Oh. Sorry. I didn’t realise you had company.” She glanced from Sally to Bran, and raised an eyebrow.
“This is Constable Sally Peters, who—”
Bea cut him off. “I know. We’ve met. But this doesn’t look like an official call.”
Sally uncrossed her legs and stood. “Bran was kind enough to invite me up here for a drink. But I should be going now.”
“No, please stay. I was just surprised, that’s all. Bran didn’t mention you were coming.”
He hadn’t, but then again, neither had Bea mentioned she’d be home from work this early. “It wasn’t prearranged,” Bran said.
Bea cocked her head at him but didn’t comment. She turned to Sally. “You mustn’t let me disturb you.”
“Thanks, but I ought to go. One sherry on an empty tum’s my limit.”
Sally was deaf to further entreaty, and Bran saw her to the door through a hallway now blessedly empty of visitors and volunteers alike. “Can I count on your discretion?” he asked as they said their goodbyes.
She gave him a searching look, then nodded, following it with a rueful smile. “It’s not like we’d have a case without your cooperation, anyway. So yes. Subject to the higher-ups agreeing, obviously.”
“Thank you.”
Bran closed the front door behind her, and turned to see Bea gazing at him curiously. “Was I wrong?” she asked.