Wild Wood (22 page)

The girl behind the desk stoops and hefts a thick telephone directory from under the desk. She watches as Jesse thumbs through to find
Donne
. “Hundredfield?” She taps the name. Jesse looks up, confused, and the girl nods. “Donnes. Everyone knows everyone around here.” It’s said in a rush but is an actual sentence.

“So do you ring me, or . . .?” Jesse hesitates to ask anything more.

“Yes.”

“Oh. Okay. Thanks.” Jesse nods and starts to turn away, then: “Apologies again, but I’m interested to find out about a place in Jedburgh. A house, actually, in Priorsgate. Probably quite old?”

This time the girl pulls a pad closer and writes,
Upstairs, first room on right. Architectural History, Borders Region.

“Births and deaths for the same period?”

“Try churches.” A half smile and a wheeze.

Jesse, not wanting to set off another coughing fit, says hastily, “Thanks again.” She walks away, then stops. Hurries back.

“Really, really sorry, but is there a local-history society in Newton Prior?”

Another heaving wheeze, and the librarian writes, with some effort,
Helen Brandon. At pub.

Jesse stares at the name. Has to be the same person, doesn’t it? That’s a good omen. “You’ve been very kind. Thanks.”

The girl tries to say something, can’t find the breath.

Jesse looks at her encouragingly.

Another chest-quaking effort and the words are finally expelled. “No trouble at all. Here to help.”

“Did you find what you wanted?” Leaning against a wall, Rory’s propped at the corner of the lane leading back to the square.

Deep in thought, Jesse stumbles when he speaks.

He grabs her before she falls. “Oops. Thought you might be lost.”

Lost
, that very word, strikes hard. She’d had so much faith she’d find clues at the library, a beginning, something to set her on her way. But she hasn’t. Jesse’s face crumples.

Rory’s confused. “Sorry.” He drops his hand.

If she weren’t so close to tears, Jesse’d laugh. It feels as if she’s been apologizing all morning. “No. I’m fine.”

But she’s not, and Rory’s not sure what to do. He fills the silence. “In Roman times, you could buy lions and tigers here. And bears too. Did I say that?”

Jesse shakes her head, trying not to sniff. She longs to wipe her nose, but there’s only the sleeve of her top.

“Here.” Rory pulls a little packet of tissues from a pocket. “Yes. I always come prepared.”

“Thanks.” Not much of even a mumble.

He begins again. “So, yes, the Roman garrison put on animal shows. You know, boys away from home—keep them out of trouble between shifts. That sort of thing.”

Jesse nods. She doesn’t care. But she blows her nose. Once. Again.

Rory clears his throat. “And gladiators. They had those as well.” The facts run out.

She wipes her eyes. “This is silly.”

“What is?” he asks quietly.

“The substance of my life. It makes no sense at all.” Jesse looks braver than she feels.

A flash of something crosses Rory’s face, concern, consternation,
and he goes to put an arm around her shoulder, but she says, “Don’t.” It’s hard to avoid crying again. That’s embarrassing.

To shield Jesse from strangers’ eyes, Rory steps in front of her. Once or twice he says hello to people he knows or raises a hand in greeting, but he does not abandon her. He stands quietly, waiting for the gust of emotion to ebb.

It’s an overreaction, Jesse knows it is, a letting go. She breathes deeply and
makes
herself stop crying. “The librarian said I should talk to your mum. At least I think she meant your mum. Helen Brandon.” A watery hiccup.

“Why would she say that?” Rory’s making conversation, just providing space and time for Jesse to get herself together.

“Local history. Might help tracking my parents.”

“I should have thought of that. Mum knows pretty much everyone around here.” Rory clears his throat nervously. “Lunch?”

Because she doesn’t know what else to do, Jesse lets him lead the way.

The dining room in the Hunt is crowded, the tables shoved close together to handle the rush.

Rory surveys the room. He says uneasily, “I forgot about the tourists. Summer rush.”

Swollen-eyed, Jesse’s dismayed by the sight of so many people.

From behind the bar, a voice calls out, “Who let you in?” They turn as a man flips the counter up and hurries over, one large hand outstretched.

Rory’s face clears. “Mack!” They hug with much slapping of backs and arms.

Mack has the thick shoulders and wide chest of someone who’s played rugby, plus the broken nose. But his eyes are dark brown, so dark they’re almost black, and in the flurry of greeting, Jesse registers an odd fact: Mack has a strand of white hair among the dark—a bright flash above one eye.

“Putting on a bit, I see, Dr. Brandon.” Mack throws a punch at Rory’s diaphragm and dodges a faked uppercut in return as the two laugh, great whoops that silence the room.

But Mack’s registered Jesse, and after a moment’s hesitation Rory says, “And this is Jesse Marley. She’s staying at Hundredfield with Alicia. Jesse, this is my brother, Mack.”

“Mack, Jesse; Jesse, Mack. We could sing that, if you like. I hear a Welsh male-voice choir, one hundred strong.” Mack grins, but he doesn’t make a big thing of looking at her face.

Jesse swallows. His whimsical kindness brings tears too close again. “Is Mack short for . . .?”

His face creases attractively. “Nope. That’s my name.”

“As in truck; always been built like one.” But Rory draws his brother to one side. He murmurs, “Is there any way we could eat in the private dining room? Jesse’s . . .”

Jesse hears him. “The truth is, I’ve not been well and . . .”

“Of course. No sooner said than— Rachel!” Mack weaves through the tables to a waitress. The woman turns patiently when Mack taps her on the shoulder.

“I wasn’t going to tell him.” Rory watches his brother as the woman nods.

“But I decided I would.” Jesse’s tired of feeling ashamed and overwrought; really,
really
tired of the bad psychic weather in her head.

“All settled.” Mack’s back. He guides Jesse to a door set deep in the wall. “You might have to duck.” He points above her head.

“Again.” Jesse nods.

“What?” Mack’s confused.

“Nothing.” She manages a smile. The lintel is certainly low and the thickness of the walls massive, but now she’s staring at the stone beneath her feet. It’s carved with what seems like a bundle of sticks and some letters:
SPQR
. She looks at Mack expectantly. “I’ve seen this before.”

Mack nods. “ ‘The Senate and People of Rome.’ Some say we should put it in a museum, but I think it belongs where it is.” He gestures through the open door. “Just through here.”

Jesse pauses. She’d like to kneel down and press her fingers into the carved letters. Maybe the person who carved these words, this image, two thousand years ago had the usual human problems too; does that put her own transient misery into perspective? Only maybe. She steps carefully over the carving and through into the room beyond; it’s an odd space, a truncated half circle with a series of stone seats set into bays in the wall.

Mack says, “This would have been a circular room once, with a seat for each of the monks in the niches. It’s all that remains of the priory house.”

Grapevines have been carved around the bays, and Jesse steps closer. “Maybe the monks knew the place would end up as a pub? Sorry! What I meant was . . .” She’s horrified.

Mack’s amused. “Don’t think they’d have minded so much. Christ associated with all sorts of riffraff, publicans included.”

“Now I really am embarrassed.” Jesse’s face is flaming.

Rory pulls out a chair from the table in the center of the space. “And I’m hungry.”

Mack takes the hint. “I’ll send Rachel with the menus. Enjoy your lunch.”

Rory calls out, “Where’s Mum, by the way? Jesse wants to meet her.”

“At the doctor’s. Nothing wrong. Just a checkup.” Mack closes the door with a soft click and cuts off light from the pub. Jesse sees the room is windowless, though lit with some drama by artificial candles in sconces around the walls.

A knock punctures the awkward silence as the door opens and Rachel peers in. She brings menus to the table. “Hello, Rory. Nice to see you again. Your mum’ll be happy.” Rachel’s smile brightens an otherwise unremarkable face.

“Likewise.” Rory grins easily.

The waitress gets out an order pad from a pocket. “So, chef’s specials. For starters, we have a shrimp velouté with our own smoked wild salmon, which is very popular.”

The words wash over Jesse as she tries to think. She clears her throat. “Actually, I don’t think I’m hungry.” She hands the menu back.

“Some tea, perhaps?” Rachel is unfazed.

“That would be lovely.” It’s true. Jesse’s thirsty suddenly.

“What about you, Rory?”

“Bouillabaisse sounds good.”

The door closes quietly.

Now or never.
She feels his eyes on her face. “So, Rory, what’s the truth?”

“The truth.” Rory says the word as if he’s tasting each letter. As if he does not quite like the flavor. “What do you think you know, Jesse?”

Jesse touches her skull. “Everything’s getting worse. Today, when we went to the keep”—she shakes her head—“I was frightened.”

“Can you say why?”

She swallows, presses her hands over her eyes. “Sometimes”—she shakes her head—“this is all just too much.”

He says quietly, “You said you are frightened. Is it the thought of insanity?”

The words go off like a bomb. Jesse tries to speak, and again; finally something struggles out of her mouth. “You’re the doctor.
Am
I insane?” The truculence fades to a plea.

Rory leans forward. “If it gives you comfort, I’m almost certain you’re not.”

“
Almost
certain?”

“On available evidence.”

The door cracks open as Mack backs through with a tray.

Rory attempts a smile. “Though everything’s relative.”

Mack puts the soup in front of his brother with practiced care. “And for you, Miss Jesse, the all-England restorative. Though the tea’s actually Scottish Blend.” Pot, cup, sugar, strainer, and milk are deposited on the table. “Rachel thought you might like this as well.” A plate of scones is put down, jam and cream on the side. “Just to pick at.” Mack stands back, the tray clasped to his chest like a shield. “Whose relative?”

“Not who, what.” Rory picks up the soup spoon, scoops up a prawn. “Can’t have too much saffron in a fish soup, that’s what I think.”

Jesse stares at Rory. For a few minutes the urbane mask had gone. Now it’s back.

“Do you know what he’s talking about?” Mack pulls a chair out from the table and sits.

Jesse says slowly, “I’m trying to trace my birth family. All I know is my mother’s name, my birthday, and the fact I was born in Jedburgh. I’d be further along, but I had an accident in London and Rory was my doctor. I’m here because of him.”

“Rest and rehabilitation,” Rory speaks around the soup.

Mack’s eyes are sympathetic. “That’s no good—the accident, not the doctor. Obviously.” He smiles. “Still, Jedburgh’s not so far away, and everyone knows everyone in the borders. Not such a grand thing some of the time, but useful all the same.”

Jesse’s mood lifts. She likes this big, calm man who seems so much less complicated than his brother. “The librarian told me that too. She also suggested I search church registers.”

“She was right. Try a scone.” Mack nudges the food closer. There’s a pat of pale butter and two kinds of jam, plus a dish of whipped cream.

Jesse’s stomach gurgles.

Rory deadpans, “I’d say that’s a vote in favor.”

She laughs. “Seconded.” She breaks a scone open and loads it with cream and jam.

Satisfied, Mack gets up. “I could introduce you to the rector of St. Michael’s if you like. Good value, if a bit eccentric. Call me when you’re next going to be in town. Easy to set up.”

“Would you do that?” Hope makes Jesse swallow a piece of scone too quickly. She gasps and coughs.