The Legend of Lyon Redmond

by Julie Anne Long

  But then she laughed. A fantastic, abandoned, musical sound, not a mad one.

  “I’m so sorry. You should see your expression! I meant . . .” She reached into her purse and deftly extracted an iPad, and swiped at it a few times, then turned it around and tapped. “My family tree.” She fanned the image wider with her fingers and then zoomed in on a portion of it.

  Which was when he noticed the words on the inside of her index finger. He’d seen that kind of tattoo before, usually on prisoners and gang members and idiot teenage boys, which was how he knew she’d done it to herself with needle and thread. The letters were tiny, neat, and flawlessly proportioned. It had required determination, precision, and near preternatural patience and tolerance for pain.

  It said: made you look.

  He felt an interesting, not unpleasant little prickle at the back of his neck.

  So. Isabel Redmond was a little dangerous.

  It worried him that he liked this.

  “And there are Coburns over here,” she was saying, scooting the image across the iPad with her finger. “I thought I saw a Malcolm Coburn.”

  He leaned toward it and whistled low. “Look at what you have here. That is, indeed, my branch, and there I am. We’re not really directly related, you and I, but tangentially, as you can see. I’m descended from John Fountain. If you don’t mind?” She shook her head, and he dragged his finger lightly up the screen and landed it on John Fountain, son of Elise Fountain, adopted son of Philippe Lavay. “But he was known as Jack back then. One of John Fountain’s and Ruby Alexandra’s daughters married a Fitzwilliam, whose daughter married a Coburn. Two hundred or so years ago.”

  He looked up at her again.

  “I feel I ought to warn you I’m a bit of a history geek. I know far more about Pennyroyal Green and the families here than you’d ever want to hear. And the Redmonds and Everseas are Pennyroyal Green.”

  “I actually want to hear everything. I know very little. I only have this tree, and Olivia Eversea’s diary—she began keeping it shortly after she was married—and I have this.”

  She tucked the iPad under her arm and slipped something from her pocket.

  It was a gold watch.

  He didn’t question that she would trust him, a stranger, to look at her gold watch and iPad. She didn’t seem at all naïve. Somehow he was positive she could handle herself. Possibly she knew Krav Maga or some other exotic and violent martial art.

  They looked down at Olivia in a hush.

  “She’s so pretty,” he said, finally. “You look exactly like her.”

  He froze.

  His head went up and he pressed his lips together.

  He hadn’t meant it to sound like that. He wasn’t a flirt. It always felt too much like strategy, which to him had always seemed somewhat dishonest, and who had the time? He certainly didn’t. When he wanted something from a woman he had no trouble letting it be known directly. He usually got what he wanted.

  “You haven’t any romance in you,” Jemima had once sighed, draping her long, blond hair over his sweaty chest one evening.

  Sex, love, and romance were all their own thing, and they only occasionally overlapped. He didn’t say that out loud. In part because he could imagine the rousing ensuing argument. He wasn’t even certain he knew how to explain it to her.

  Isabel Redmond, judging from that wicked light in her eyes, was enjoying his discomfiture.

  “I thought I looked like her, too,” she said matter-of-factly.

  She closed the watch gently on her Aunt Olivia’s lovely face and turned it over, tracing the initial on the back with one finger. Absently.

  A little silence fell.

  “You probably already know this,” he told her, “but it’s clear to me that ‘LAJR’ stands for Lyon Arthur James Redmond. Were you aware that he’s a legend in these parts?”

  “I did know about his initials. I haven’t heard about the legend. You’re not teasing me?”

  Yearning flashed, swift and bright and fleeting over her face.

  Intriguing. She didn’t want him to know how much it meant to her.

  “I’m not, truly,” he said gently. “Everyone in Pennyroyal Green still speak of Lyon and Olivia as if it were yesterday. But that’s how the English feel about history in general. There’s in fact an absolutely beautiful piece of music named for him called ‘The Legend of Lyon Redmond.’ A folk tune. There’s a festival in a few weeks, a group that does a brilliant version of it. Perhaps you’ll hear it during your visit.”

  Her hesitation told him that she knew he was fishing for how long she’d be staying.

  “I love live music. And I’ve let a flat for next three months. In a charming old building behind Miss Marietta Endicott’s Academy . . .” She gestured in the direction..

  So she was staying for a while. He knew a surge of intense and wholly irrational relief and triumph that she had decided to tell him.

  Speaking of staying, he’d kept very late clinic hours the evening before, and he should probably shave before he saw Jemima this evening. “It’s just that it would be so refreshing to see your chin now and again, Malcolm,” she’d said last time.

  He should leave now.

  Isabel slipped the watch back into her pocket and shifted her iPad into her hands again.

  “The flat you let is the former Seamus Duggan Memorial Home for Unwed Mothers,” he told her. “And Duggan, coincidentally, is the composer of ‘The Legend of Lyon Redmond.’ There are still Duggans in these parts, too.”

  She scrutinized him, faintly troubled, faintly hopeful, as if she were ascertaining whether he was teasing her again.

  “Truly,” he found himself saying firmly. As though it were some kind of promise.

  Her face went closed, and she rubbed at her arm abstractedly, then caught herself and gave a short laugh. “It’s just . . . I got goosebumps when you said that. It all seems rather . . .”

  “Synchronistic?”

  “I was going to say ‘right.’ Another way of saying synchronistic, I suppose.”

  Both words made him a little uneasy at the moment. Because everything from the hurtling cell phone up to this moment felt somehow right and synchronistic.

  “While you’re here, you can see where Olivia and Lyon lived when they were first married.”

  “I plan to. I plan to visit every place she mentioned. In her diary she writes about living between England and Cadiz. Their first child was born in England. They had five of them, three boys and—but maybe you know all of this?”

  “I don’t know it from Olivia’s perspective. And it’s fascinating. What do you know?”

  She glowed gorgeously, delighted to have something to share. “Well, Olivia wanted to see the world, and Lyon wanted to show it to her. They went on to Louisiana—Lyon had had a plantation there and it was really prospering—and then they moved on to New York when her brother Ian and his wife Titania settled there. That’s where they lived during the civil war. She writes about her brothers and sisters coming to visit. I saw a statue of my Great-Great-Great-Uncle Jonathan in London.” She gave a short wondering laugh.

  “Jonathan Redmond is one of my heroes. His wife was remarkable, too. They transformed the lives of poor children and helped transform manufacturing in this country. We learned about him in school.”

  “I touched him, too,” she confessed, gesturing at the tree she’d just felt. “I patted his brass thigh.”

  Malcolm had a sudden inconvenient image of her hand on his own thigh.

  Which briefly erased his ability to speak.

  “So many brave people in my family, I’ve discovered.” She said this shyly, and almost, carefully, searching his face again, perhaps worried about offending him in case his family was riddled with cowards. He found this amusing and unaccountably touching. “Olivia and Lyon were both involved in the abolitionist movement in America.”

  “They were remarkable, Olivia and Lyon Redmond. But there probably isn’t an ordinary person o
n the whole of your family tree. For instance . . .” His finger landed on Lyon’s brother, Miles Redmond. “Are you familiar with Redmond Worldwide?”

  “The GPS and travel people?”

  “The very same. They were radar and aviation pioneers, too, back in the early days of flight. Stop me if you already know all of this.”

  “I know some things, but please tell me anything you’d like.”

  “Miles Redmond—Lyon’s younger brother—was a renowned explorer and naturalist. His series on the South Seas is still read today. My own copy is nearly worn threadbare. I read the devil out of it when I was younger. Still have it.”

  “Books like that are precious,” she said firmly.

  “What kinds of books do you like to read?” he tried, casually. He suddenly very much wanted to know.

  “I’d like to read Miles Redmond’s books.”

  Indicating that she’d reveal things about herself selectively and on her own terms, thank you very much.

  A peculiar blend of amusement and irritation surged through him.

  She didn’t realize how very, very determined he could be.

  “I’m sure you can find a set in Tingle’s Bookshop,” he said smoothly. “Which is . . .” he pivoted, then pointed up the street. “. . . right over there. You won’t need GPS to find it. Miles did make it to Lacao one more time. But he remained in England when his wife Cynthia became pregnant with their first child. They had four sons, and a daughter, as you can see.” He tapped each name gently. “It seemed his destiny was to continue to help the rest of the world see the world. One of them in particular was rather notorious. . . .” he touched a name. “Augustine Redmond.”

  “A little notoriety strengthens the bloodline, from what I understand.”

  “If you’re basing strength on scoundrels, then you’ll be delighted to know your blood is strong indeed.”

  Gratifyingly, she laughed.

  “Redmond Worldwide has branched out into mountaineering equipment, travel gear—nearly everything travel related. Their headquarters are in London, but they have offices around the world.”

  “They sponsored an Everest climb a few years ago, didn’t they? And weren’t they in the America’s Cup last year?”

  Ah. So she read the newspapers, at the very least. Perhaps business journals.

  “Yes. And they’ve recently partnered with Cole-Eversea for high-performance outdoor wear. Later in life Colin Eversea, Olivia’s brother, and a Mr. Gideon Cole founded Cole-Eversea textiles after successfully breeding a sheep with the softest, most durable wool. The business has been in the family—your family—ever since. Colin Eversea and his wife Madeline had children later in life, four of them. Two boys, two girls, all rascals save one, or so I’m given to understand. One of their descendants heads the company.”

  “I found my Cole-Eversea sweater in a thrift store.” She plucked at the tissue-fine cashmere cardigan she wore open beneath her jacket. “Otherwise I never would have been able to afford it.”

  He froze.

  He’d caught a glimpse of something on her breasts when she’d plucked at her sweater.

  He jerked his head up and all but glared at her.

  “Are you . . . are you wearing a McLusky t-shirt?” He could barely get the words out.

  “I . . . ah . . . Yes.” She said this carefully. Startled.

  “The band. McLusky.” He said this abruptly.

  “Is there . . . another McLusky?”

  “I fuc . . . that is, I love McLusky.” He said this almost accusingly.

  McLusky was difficult to love, too. Noisy, obnoxious, visceral, clever, obscure. He couldn’t think of anyone who remembered them.

  Let alone a woman.

  There ensued a fraught little silence.

  She narrowed her eyes. Studying him in a way that meant: Prove it.

  “I’m fearful I’m fearful I’m fearful of flying and flying is fearful of me,” he quoted softly, like a soldier repeating a password to a sentry.

  There was a short silence.

  “Well.” She said cryptically. Imbuing that word with a dozen shades of meaning.

  He imagined describing her to his friend Geoff Hawthorne later: “She wore cashmere over McLusky.”

  An interesting moment zinged between them.

  “What do you do for a living?” she asked suddenly.

  “I’m a doctor.”

  She blinked. “Doctors, in my experience, usually lead with ‘I’m a doctor.’”

  He gave a short laugh. “I have a practice, a clinic, in the Sneath Building down the hill—you may have passed it on your way up. I’ve a partner, Finn O’Flaherty. A lot of local patients. We even do occasional house calls.”

  That was all he said. It was his turn to be circumspect.

  She just nodded, taking this in. She didn’t do what a few too many women did when they learned he was a doctor: fawn. He didn’t know why they did that. Apart from the money, doctors often made terrible partners, for so many reasons. The ghastly long and unpredictable hours, for one.

  He definitely wasn’t the sort of doctor Jemima wanted him to be.

  And he was as immovable as the bloody trees in front of him when it came to those reasons for doing what he did.

  He looked abruptly down at her iPad again. “Ah . . . now as for the notorious. . . . you’ll enjoy hearing about Ruby Alexandra, the daughter of Violet Redmond and the Earl of Ardmay. There are two famous portraits of her—or rather, one famous, one infamous—one at the Duke of Falconbridge’s residence, and the other still hangs in Alder House. You can see that one for yourself whilst you’re here. She was a spectacular beauty and scandal seemed to dog her. She married her best friend, ultimately. A boy she’d grown up with. John Fountain. My forebearer. He was adopted by Philippe Lavay, but he’d been born a bastard. Hardly a suitable match for the daughter of an earl, particularly back then. He sailed off to make his fortune. He did, and then some. You’ll find quite a few buildings named for him around England. I understand it was quite the Wuthering Heights story of their day, with a much better ending.”

  “Every good story should have a little drama.”

  Hmmm. He wasn’t certain he agreed. He also wasn’t certain drama was something anyone could avoid. Destiny was like a tiger trap. Sometimes you just fell into the pit.

  “Speaking of the Duke of Falconbridge. . . .” She dropped her finger on Alexander Moncrieffe, bound to Genevieve Eversea. “What do you know about him?”

  He knew that the current duke’s granddaughter was expecting him for dinner, and would be disappointed he hadn’t shaved.

  But he didn’t say it aloud. The omission felt like a lie. He didn’t like himself for it, and he didn’t understand it. There would be time to mull that later.

  “Well, you are indeed indirectly related to the current duke. Let’s see . . . Ah, Lord Anthony Argosy married the Duke and Duchess of Falconbridge’s middle daughter, Grace. Nearly twenty years apart in age when that happened—his first marriage was not a success—and her parents weren’t thrilled about this match. But the union proved spectacularly happy, and quite bountiful, as you can see.”

  He pointed to the abundance of girls and boys fanning out from Argosy’s and Grace’s little branch of the tree tree.

  “Oh, good,” she murmured. “It’s always a relief when people go on to be happy.”

  Some peculiar emotion—it felt like anger—sizzled faintly on the periphery of his awareness. Who made you unhappy, Miss Redmond? He wanted to know. He suddenly wanted vengeance for her.

  “I could close my eyes and drop a finger nearly anywhere here on this tree and we’d have a fascinating story. Explorers, actors, politicians, tycoons, soldiers, surgeons, rock stars, body guards . . . were you aware that Colin Eversea’s oldest son founded a private investigation firm? It’s huge now. Trains and employs bodyguards and the like . . . so if you’re ever a visiting dignitary, or married to one, you can call upon them.”

  He’d dr
opped the word “married” into that sentence strategically.

  From her brief crooked smile, she knew he was fishing.

  And she didn’t volunteer any information.

  Fair enough.

  “And here’s an interesting Eversea . . . see, Clive Dunkirk? Drummer in the 70’s band Heliotrope?”

  “I bought all of Heliotrope’s records at a thrift store one day,” she said idly.

  She looked up sharply when she noticed he’d fallen abruptly silent.

  “You love Heliotrope, too, don’t you?” she asked. Sounding almost resigned.

  “I’m a fan,” he said, noncommittally.

  He passionately loved Heliotrope. Thunderous, complex, frightening, epic. And loud. Everything he’d been inside when he was younger, and he supposed, in some form or another, still was.

  She hiked her eyebrows as if she knew the truth.

  “You love visceral music,” he hazarded a moment later. As if diagnosing her.

  “I love visceral everything,” she said instantly.

  This sounded like a challenge.

  Perhaps even an invitation.

  Their eyes locked for an assessing moment, and then he dropped his again, uncertain, in truth, what to do about that.

  He wasn’t often nonplussed.

  “Ah . . . and here’s an infamous Eversea. Evangeline Moon.”

  “Evangeline Moon was an Eversea? The actress from the 30s?”

  He was very much enjoying watching her face light up when he told her things. Malcolm dragged his finger up along the family tree and stopped it at Adam Sylvaine, then skated it down as he spoke. “She was born Eve Anna Talbot. Eve became a family name, beginning with Evie Duggan, who was married to Pennyroyal Green’s vicar, Adam Sylvaine. The current vicar is a Sylvaine, by the way. But Adam was a contemporary of your Aunt Olivia, her cousin. Anyway, Reverend Sylvaine and Evie Duggan had four children. Long before that there was a rumor Evie Duggan killed her first husband, who was an earl. Which was likely nonsense. A few hundred years later, Evangeline Moon was born in poverty in San Francisco. She inherited both Evie Duggan’s looks and the scandal-prone DNA.”