by C F Dunn
“Hello, Ellie. I’m much better, thanks.”
“I came by to see if I could do anything for you.”
Looking at her properly for the first time, I saw she had the same fine bone structure as her brother and uncle, and a quiet beauty, but her manner seemed uncompromising – almost hard – a coolness I found disconcerting. Very focused and direct, she lacked her uncle’s bedside manner, which – given what he had been doing a minute before – was probably just as well. With Matthew’s kiss still very much in the forefront of my mind, my body buzzed with the memory and I wondered if it showed.
“That’s very kind… I don’t think so, but thank you for asking.”
“Matthew, are you coming back home any time soon? Grandad wanted to know.”
It was a perfectly innocent question but one with layers of connotation attached to it, if not a smidgen of resentment.
“No, not yet.” He held her gaze steadily and she looked away, but she flashed a look in my direction instead. I felt as if she dissected me in a few seconds flat, but I couldn’t read what conclusions she might have come to.
“Grandad said he’ll be calling you at some time,” she said, making for the door. “Oh, and Harry asked if there’s anything he can do.”
“Tell him, ‘No thanks, not at the moment.’”
She bid us goodbye perfectly politely, but as the door closed behind her, I felt as if a whirlwind had passed through, leaving a trail of unvoiced thoughts and suggestions behind in its wake. By the reflective look that passed across Matthew’s face in the seconds after she departed, he thought so too.
He sat on the edge of the day-bed, his back against my hip, and I curled around him as much as I could. The aching set up again in earnest and I couldn’t find a position where some part of me didn’t hurt. The ache began to throb, swiftly replaced by a relentless stabbing. He placed a hand against my cheek, his thumb stroking gently upwards in soothing movements along my jaw.
“Time for some pain relief, I think,” he said softly.
“How can you tell?”
He smiled, a tiny crease between his eyes as if he thought the answer obvious.
“It’s my job to know.”
He went over to where a bottle of fresh mineral water stood unopened, and poured me a glass. His answer was all very well, but I hadn’t told him, and I had been careful not to let the discomfort show. It was yet another aspect of him that almost – but didn’t quite – add up. He came back with the glass in one hand and a foil packet in the other.
I eyed it. “You’ll make an addict out of me.”
“I wouldn’t let that happen. Your pain’s at a level where these should be able to deal with it now, even if it doesn’t feel like it at the moment. They’re pretty powerful, but they’ll make you feel drowsy.”
He eased me up so I rested against him, neither of us minding the proximity.
“Tell me, are all your family like you?” I asked, suppressing a yawn.
“In what way – like?”
“Different.”
“I’ve no idea – I’ve never kissed them like I have you.”
“Matthew! You never give me a straight answer.”
“Don’t I? Here, take these, they’ll take a few minutes to work.”
But I wasn’t ready to relinquish control of my thought processes just yet; but nor was I prepared to ask him all the questions I harboured in case he gave me answers I didn’t want to hear.
“Don’t your family need you, Matthew? You haven’t been home for days… no!” A sudden thought struck me, and worry instantly outlined his face.
“What’s the matter?”
“My grandmother!”
He frowned, not understanding, and I remembered that I hadn’t told him about her since I left him in the cloister to take the telephone call from my father.
“My grandmother had a stroke a few weeks back; I need to phone my parents to see how she is.”
“You won’t need to,” he said quietly.
I went cold. “Why? What’s happened?”
“Nothing of which I’m aware, but you’ll be able to ask your parents yourself soon enough.”
“They’re coming here?”
He nodded.
“How… I mean – who told them? Did you?” I looked accusingly at him.
“No, the Dean did; they are your next of kin.”
“Oh no!” I groaned. “They’ll think I’m worse than I am and they’ll fuss. It’s the last thing they need at the moment with Nanna so ill.”
“Emma, they’re your parents – of course they had to know.”
He adopted his reasonable voice, which irritated because he was right and I knew it, but more than that, it reminded me of how close to death I had come. I huffed in annoyance and my side protested, a hot knife carving through my ribs like butter. Matthew offered me the capsules, and this time I accepted them.
“When will they get here?” I asked, as he placed the glass on the floor next to him before straightening to glance at his watch, calculating.
“Tomorrow – noon-ish. It’s the first flight they can catch.”
“But how’ll they get here and where will they stay? They’ll worry themselves sick over this.”
“And you won’t?” he chided me. “Stop fretting, it’s taken care of.” And he planted a tender kiss on my forehead, making my tummy squirm pleasantly. He stroked my cheek and I began to relax with the gentle rhythm as the medication started to take effect; I’d been holding myself tight against the pain without realizing it.
“And what do I tell them about us?” I said shyly, thinking that it was the first time either of us had used the term.
Us.
It sounded so together. You and me. Me and you. Us. I allowed a trickle of happiness to filter through, a feeling so alien, so remote that I had to stop and identify the sensation before I accepted it for what it was.
“What do you want to tell them?”
He drew his finger down the length of my nose, and traced my lips, distracting me.
How could I tell them, if it was still all so new to me?
“I’m not sure if I want them to know just yet; it’ll be another thing for them to come to terms with. They’re not very… adaptable.” I shivered briefly.
“Are you cold?”
A little, but I shook for another reason. I didn’t look forward to facing my parents – especially my father – at the best of times and now, even less. But Matthew didn’t need to know that just yet, so I just said, “A bit.”
“Your parents will think I’m not doing a very good job of looking after you.”
He tucked the blanket around my shoulders, letting his hand rest by my neck. I ignored the bruising on my throat and turned my face to kiss his hand, feeling his skin beneath my lips – neither warm nor cold – igniting a thousand questions in my mind. His mouth curled gently into a smile that touched his eyes as he caressed my cheek with a finger, and all questions evaporated.
“I don’t know where else I could get this level of attention,” I said as I fought to keep my eyes open. His smile widened, and he bent down so close that his breath tickled my ear and I giggled sleepily.
“I doubt that what I can offer would be covered by medical insurance,” he murmured in reply.
Chapter 18
Complications
LIGHT HAD FADED FROM THE WINDOW and a rising wind tested its strength against the frame. A stray leaf occasionally ghosted across the glass.
I slept a long, dreamless sleep without pain or fear to compromise its quality. I drifted into wakefulness, listening to the sounds around me before opening my eyes. No clock was visible from where I lay, and time had passed without reckoning; only the empty space inside me told me I had missed a meal.
I didn’t object to being fed this time, allowing myself to enjoy the closeness between us.
“I’ve been thinking…”
“That sounds ominous,” he interjected with a grimace.
> I pulled a face at him. “Let me finish. Perhaps it would be better – more diplomatic – if I go back to my apartment before my parents arrive; it might raise fewer eyebrows.” And questions.
He considered my proposal for a second. “It’s a good idea, but only on one condition…”
“What’s that?”
“That you let me stay with you – purely to keep an eye on you, of course – nothing untoward, purely professional.” I must have looked disappointed because he added, “Well, fairly professional.”
The proposal required little thought. “It’s a deal,” I said, before he changed his mind. He cleared the empty tray onto the table; I hadn’t eaten so much for a long time and I had forgotten the comfort of a full stomach. He returned to sit by me, pushing an irritating piece of hair behind my ear, and I watched him as every small expression on his face mirrored his current mood. He seemed happy at the moment, the deep sadness that once shadowed him now so well veiled it might never have been there at all. I wondered how long it would be before I saw it again, and then deleted the notion before it took hold and darkened my mood.
“Tell me about your family,” he said, breaking through my gloomy thoughts.
“On one condition…” I demanded in return. He continued to stroke loose strands back from my face. “As you wish,” he said, more guarded now.
“That you tell me about yours.”
His hand hesitated, before smoothing my hair once more.
“All right, but you first.”
A log spat in the grate. “My family isn’t very interesting – what do you want to know?”
“Well, let’s see, do you have any brothers or sisters, for a start?”
“I have a sister – Beth; she’s older than me and she wasn’t at home much when I was young.”
“So, were you lonely as a child?”
“Sometimes, but my mother and I were close, so it didn’t matter as much as it might have done. And anyway, I’ve always been good at keeping myself occupied; I was never bored – I had too many interests.”
My ribs had a dig at me and I moved my hips gingerly to ease them.
“Are you OK?” He shifted away a little to give me more room to move.
“Yes, thanks, just getting comfortable. Anyway, my father was in the Army and away a lot, so it was just the two of us for most of the time. I think she found it more difficult than I did in some respects; she didn’t have anything to distract her.” I mused briefly. “Except tennis.”
“But you did have something to absorb you?”
“Yes, I had history.”
Matthew’s eyes creased with amusement. “You know that’s quite a curious thing to say, don’t you?”
“I never claimed to be normal,” I told him soberly.
He laughed. “Quite. Anyway, go on. Why did you become interested in history in the first place, you strange creature?”
“Well, when I was very little, my mother’s parents came to live with us. We have quite a large, old house and I think it helped my mother having them there. Anyway, my grandfather was older than my Nanna and they needed the company as well, so it worked out all round.” I paused. “Is this the sort of thing you wanted to know? It’s not exactly scintillating stuff.”
Firelight danced through his hair as he leaned forward and kissed the tip of my nose.
“I want to know every detail.”
I let my sprites settle again before continuing.
“Grandpa and I were always very close. He was a historian as well – from Cambridge – and I caught it from him.”
“Caught what?”
“The history bug – it’s very contagious, you know.”
“Obviously,” he smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling, making my heart skip.
“The town where I grew up is full of history – as is our house. People often say they can feel its history in its walls – or it might be the damp.”
“You surprise me,” he said dryly. I nudged his back with my knee, but regretted it instantly, his back iron hard; he didn’t strike me as the sort of person to work out in a gym. I would have a bruise on my kneecap by this time tomorrow. With a slightly apologetic air but no explanation, Matthew began to rub my knee through the blankets for me, since I couldn’t.
“Go on – so you were brought up on a diet of old buildings, history and the elderly – all very compatible. What else?”
“Grandpa used to take me all around Stamford…”
He stopped massaging my knee suddenly; I saw a flash of recognition in his face, instantly concealed.
“Stamford – is that where you come from?”
“Yes, in Lincolnshire – why, do you know it?”
“I’ve heard of it; go on, you were saying about your grandfather.”
He started to rub my knee again, but abstractly this time, his mind elsewhere.
“When I was very little, he taught me about my family – taking me to visit each of the houses they lived in over the centuries – some in the town and others in the country – if they hadn’t been demolished or redeveloped into a housing estate. Our families have been in the same area for, oh… hundreds of years, you see; we go back generations. We’re related to most of the families in the area; if we were cats they wouldn’t allow so much inbreeding. Anyway, when I was older – about nine or ten – he smuggled me into lectures at Cambridge. I sat in on tutorials, met many academics, read what his students were reading, until it all seemed second nature. He taught me about local history and all the families with whom we were associated, then wider historical issues affecting the region, then nationally and so on… Matthew?”
Wherever his mind had wandered, it wasn’t with me in this room. I kept quiet, waiting for him to come back to me. He registered my silence after a moment, his eyes refocusing.
“I’m sorry, I was miles away.”
“That’s OK; it isn’t that interesting anyway.”
“Oh, but it is – very – don’t stop.”
I couldn’t believe it held that much interest for him, but he concentrated on my face again, so I continued.
“Well there’s not much more to it, really. Grandpa died when I was in my teens and I wanted to become a historian like him; I never wanted to do anything else.”
“And your grandmother – his wife – is she the one who’s had a stroke?”
“Yes – Nanna,” I couldn’t help the note of wretchedness that crept into my voice.
His face softened. “She’s your last link to your grandfather, isn’t she? In a direct sense, that is.”
I looked away so that he wouldn’t see how close he came to the truth.
“Yes, I suppose so. They were always around when I was growing up; I always knew I could rely on them, more so than my… well, they were just there.” I faltered, my voice becoming thin, not knowing how to explain the tensions of my childhood. A gust of wind made the window flex and I glanced at it automatically. When I looked back, Matthew hadn’t taken his eyes off my face, as if he waited for some great revelation, except I had nothing spectacular to reveal.
“My grandfather led me here – figuratively speaking, of course. It was his research into a document that hooked me in the first place, and he told me that the original is here, so of course…”
“You had to come and find it,” he finished for me.
“Yes, and the odd thing is, when we met, Matthew, I knew I’d heard the name Lynes before, I just couldn’t place it.” I expected him to prompt me, but instead he withdrew his hand and let it rest on the back of the day-bed, so I went on.
“The Lynes were a family local to our region – my family knew them a long time ago. I had forgotten, but then I remembered Grandpa telling me once. Strange how that happens, isn’t it?”
He became very still. “Coincidences happen all the time and it’s a common enough name; no doubt there are Lyneses all over the world.” Something bothered him – his tone had become dismissive and he wouldn’t meet my eyes. I pr
essed ahead, instinctively knowing I followed a vein of truth, but not sure where it led.
“Yes, it is relatively common – but not very – and I don’t believe in coincidence.” I watched him carefully, but he was guarded now and he drew a cloak over his face, putting him beyond my reach. “Anyway, I can’t recall exactly what he said, but what reminded me is your colouring – or your hair colour, to be precise – it is very distinctive. It’s also regional, and it’s exactly the same colour as Grandpa’s.”
His back stiffened. “So I look like your grandfather?” Perhaps I should have taken note of the edge to his voice, but in true historian mode, I sensed more to his background than he admitted and, like a ferret after a rabbit in a burrow, I wouldn’t give up.
“No, facially you don’t, only your hair – the colour of ripe corn, Nanna would say – blond, but with pinkish-copper in it. It’s thought to be from the Iceni tribe. It runs in my family as well – the pinky-coppery bit, I mean.”
He ran his eyes over my hair. “So what’s your theory? You do have a theory about me, don’t you?”
He sounded level and calm – almost too calm – as if he needed to maintain control. Now definitely on the defensive, a part of me screamed Stop! before I pushed too far, though what I might find if I did, I couldn’t guess.
“Theory? I don’t have one. It’s just the coincidence of your name and your colouring, that’s all.”
From his expression, he patently didn’t believe me, his calm almost icy.
“But you don’t believe in coincidence, Emma, you said as much.”
A trickle of apprehension ran through me again.
“What does it matter what I think, Matthew?”
“It doesn’t.”
He rose abruptly and went over to the fire, stabbing at it with a piece of kindling until the embers erupted in an agony of sparks. I said nothing as I watched his shoulders flex and spring with each attack. Finally, he flung the piece of wood onto the flames and came back to sit at the end of the day-bed, his striking face smooth again. His eyes searched mine, small flecks of fire reflected in them.
“Do I worry you sometimes?”
“Sometimes.”
