pic-nics. Nasty woman. Cat hates her—won't share the shrimps." Rob looked up, laughter twitching at his lips. "He's got a point, there. Any person disliked by cats is instantly suspect." He looked back down at the book. "Fine one to talk about names, too! Although Silas is certainly better than—" He bit off a word. "Er...Phineas, I suppose."
"You almost said your name, didn't you?" Dean leaned forward. "Come on, Bertie, spill. It can't be worse than my family's unfortunate nomenclature."
"How you got away so easily with 'Dean' amazes me."
Not a topic Dean wished to pursue. "What have I missed? Gilbert, Colbert, Lambert. Uh...Hubert."
"No to all four." Rob returned to the Quarterly. "Crops off to a good start. Sorry to hear about Parm. Fox got after the chickens again, might need a dog after all. Your Uncle Silas isn't what I'd call overly sentimental, is he?"
"None of them is. He's better than most of our family: at least he has Holly. Loners, the lot of us, who far prefer to keep in touch through that," Dean gestured at the Quarterly, "than get together in person. My father used to dump me from time to time on Silas when he went to buy music scores in Paris, but apart from that I mostly know my uncles only through their words."
"Hmm. One might imagine their wives would encourage them to be more social."
"Only two of them stirred themselves to marry, my father and Albertus. And for what it's worth, both wives left them." Dean flushed to realize what he'd just revealed.
Family secrets, indeed. He hurried on, hoping Rob wouldn't linger on the information.
"Aunt Emmeline managed six children while she was still with Uncle Albertus, including four boys, so should anything happen to me, my cousins have the title secure."
"I was so worried," Rob said dryly. "Not much more from Uncle Silas, unless you're interested in Holly's recipe for potted shrimps. Next is..." He turned the page.
"Ah, Albertus himself, with several pages of his offspring's news. The doings of your cousins should take us comfortably to luncheon. Will we make Bishops Norton?"
Dean peeked out the window shade, considered the position of the sun. "Yes, we'll dine there, and later perhaps stop to rest the horses in Gloucester. But if we do—I'm sorry, we absolutely cannot make time for the Cathedral."
Some time later, Dean lay on his back on the tower roof of Gloucester Cathedral, eyes closed, enervated by the comfortable weight of the late afternoon sun.
Intellectually, he knew that he had an important mission to accomplish, and that he had damned well best get back to it. But an August day like this one wasn't designed for hurry, and if he couldn't be on the bank of Little Stream at Carwick with a fishing pole in his hand, then drowsing two hundred-odd feet above Gloucester was a damned fine second. The sun was probably burning him pink, and sowing a whole new crop of freckles, but just now it was hard to care.
A finger poked him in the ribs. "A mere two hundred and sixty-nine steps," Rob said, "and you're tired?"
Dean opened one eye and glowered at his companion, who was lounging propped on one elbow next to him. "That curate—the young one who let us up here—he was flirting with you."
Rob smiled up at the cloudless sky. "Yes, he was."
"But he's a priest!"
"Church of England, not Catholic."
"That's supposed to make a difference?"
"Mmm," Rob said. They're not sworn to eternal celibacy."
"They're allowed to marry," Dean corrected. "But I'm sure they aren't supposed to have relations outside of marriage."
"For that matter, no one is. You're not a virgin yourself."
Dean stretched and resettled himself on his back. "Ah, but I'm Presbyterian. Since I'm not one of the Elect, I'm damned no matter what I do."
"Good," Rob said. "Get creative." He reached and re-tucked Dean's shirt, which had pulled free right above the hip, fingers lingering just a second too long.
Dean, skin tingling from the contact, reminded himself sternly that he had
"You almost said your name, didn't you?" Dean leaned forward. "Come on, Bertie, spill. It can't be worse than my family's unfortunate nomenclature."
"How you got away so easily with 'Dean' amazes me."
Not a topic Dean wished to pursue. "What have I missed? Gilbert, Colbert, Lambert. Uh...Hubert."
"No to all four." Rob returned to the Quarterly. "Crops off to a good start. Sorry to hear about Parm. Fox got after the chickens again, might need a dog after all. Your Uncle Silas isn't what I'd call overly sentimental, is he?"
"None of them is. He's better than most of our family: at least he has Holly. Loners, the lot of us, who far prefer to keep in touch through that," Dean gestured at the Quarterly, "than get together in person. My father used to dump me from time to time on Silas when he went to buy music scores in Paris, but apart from that I mostly know my uncles only through their words."
"Hmm. One might imagine their wives would encourage them to be more social."
"Only two of them stirred themselves to marry, my father and Albertus. And for what it's worth, both wives left them." Dean flushed to realize what he'd just revealed.
Family secrets, indeed. He hurried on, hoping Rob wouldn't linger on the information.
"Aunt Emmeline managed six children while she was still with Uncle Albertus, including four boys, so should anything happen to me, my cousins have the title secure."
"I was so worried," Rob said dryly. "Not much more from Uncle Silas, unless you're interested in Holly's recipe for potted shrimps. Next is..." He turned the page.
"Ah, Albertus himself, with several pages of his offspring's news. The doings of your cousins should take us comfortably to luncheon. Will we make Bishops Norton?"
Dean peeked out the window shade, considered the position of the sun. "Yes, we'll dine there, and later perhaps stop to rest the horses in Gloucester. But if we do—I'm sorry, we absolutely cannot make time for the Cathedral."
Some time later, Dean lay on his back on the tower roof of Gloucester Cathedral, eyes closed, enervated by the comfortable weight of the late afternoon sun.
Intellectually, he knew that he had an important mission to accomplish, and that he had damned well best get back to it. But an August day like this one wasn't designed for hurry, and if he couldn't be on the bank of Little Stream at Carwick with a fishing pole in his hand, then drowsing two hundred-odd feet above Gloucester was a damned fine second. The sun was probably burning him pink, and sowing a whole new crop of freckles, but just now it was hard to care.
A finger poked him in the ribs. "A mere two hundred and sixty-nine steps," Rob said, "and you're tired?"
Dean opened one eye and glowered at his companion, who was lounging propped on one elbow next to him. "That curate—the young one who let us up here—he was flirting with you."
Rob smiled up at the cloudless sky. "Yes, he was."
"But he's a priest!"
"Church of England, not Catholic."
"That's supposed to make a difference?"
"Mmm," Rob said. They're not sworn to eternal celibacy."
"They're allowed to marry," Dean corrected. "But I'm sure they aren't supposed to have relations outside of marriage."
"For that matter, no one is. You're not a virgin yourself."
Dean stretched and resettled himself on his back. "Ah, but I'm Presbyterian. Since I'm not one of the Elect, I'm damned no matter what I do."
"Good," Rob said. "Get creative." He reached and re-tucked Dean's shirt, which had pulled free right above the hip, fingers lingering just a second too long.
Dean, skin tingling from the contact, reminded himself sternly that he had
Similar Books
