Part 47 (2/2)
He definitely wasn't the sort of doctor Jemima wanted him to be.
And he was as immovable as the b.l.o.o.d.y 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d. 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 d.u.c.h.ess 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, tyc.o.o.ns, 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 dropped the word ”married” into that sentence strategically.
From her brief crooked smile, she knew he was fis.h.i.+ng.
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 pa.s.sionately 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 a.s.sessing 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-p.r.o.ne DNA.”
”I knew she was from San Francisco. But Gabriel Graham was her true love,” Isabel said firmly. ”I had such a crush on him when I was younger. I was riveted by his movies. I couldn't believe anyone that charismatic had ever existed.”
Malcolm was so suddenly irrationally jealous of the long-dead, effortlessly cool Gabriel Graham that his finger jerked like a record scratch up to another part of her family tree.
”Now Genevieve Eversea, Olivia's sister, married the Duke of Falconbridge. Their direct descendants still abound in England, all of Europe, really. You may even see them in town while you're here. Unless you blink, because the future duke is usually a blur in that Maserati.”
”Do you know him well, then?”
He pressed his lips together. ”He thinks I'm a Plebian. His brothers and sister are more tolerable.”
He could imagine Jemima's reaction to being called ”tolerable.”
Isabel was studying him, a faint furrow between her brows.
It was perilously close to sunset. He should have left ten minutes ago.
A bird sang a glorious s.n.a.t.c.h of song, and Isabel tipped her head back to see if she could find the singer in the tree.
”Do you see something carved there? It looks like an 'I' and maybe an 'S.'”
The lowering sun had indeed struck new angles and illuminated hidden nooks. And there it was.
He tipped his own head back. ”I think you're right. I-S. I've never noticed it before. As though someone was trying to carve 'Isabel.'
She drew in a long, audible breath.
And exhaled a shuddery one.
And suddenly, abruptly, she slipped her iPad back into her bag and folded her hands in front of her.
”I'm sorry,” he said instantly. ”Is all this history a bit much?”
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