I BLOW OFF THE REST OF MY CLASSES FOR THE AFTERNOON TO HOP on the back of Nate’s motorcycle. After only a few miles, the lash of colder air across my face reaches bone, and I cling to Nate for warmth and hug the body of the bike with my legs. It’s all I can do to stop from shivering. At a stop sign, he notices my nearly frozen fingers and tucks my hands into the front pockets of his leather jacket.
“Better?” he says roughly.
“Much.” My voice sounds odd to my ears. Somehow simultaneously too high and too throaty.
The more time I spend with him on this bike, the more I believe I’m starting to understand him. The freedom and impermanence of his nature, exposed to and at eye level with his surroundings. It takes a particular kind of person to own a bike. It’s the difference between seeing a city from a tour bus and actually plunging yourself in its streets.
I get the sense that Nate’s the type of guy who immerses himself in everything. He needs to feel the texture between his fingers, searching for that authentic something that makes the experience worth having, not content with the behind-the-glass view. It’s in his aura, and I think it’s that restless quality that I instinctively gravitate toward.
Streets narrow through thickening trees as we approach the Tulley estate. Only about a mile down a winding road, past the iron gates, a small historic cemetery comes into view. There, an old stone church with its pocked exterior dripped in black from centuries of rain stands guard over the dead. Beside it is the modest brick museum with a painted wooden sign.
Nate pulls up alongside the building in the empty parking lot. Still straddling his bike, he takes my helmet, then brushes my hair out of my face as I stand.
“A little brisk, was it?”
“Didn’t bother me,” I lie. Because I don’t want him to think I’m, what, uncool?
He smiles in return as he gets off the bike. I’m not sure if that’s an approving look or because he knows I’m only putting on a brave face. Either way, I like that I get that out of him.
No one greets us when we walk inside on a gust of wind that throws dry leaves at our heels. The room is dark, save for soft amber pin lights over glass display cases and the open window shutters at the back of the room, casting harsh shadows.
“Hello?” I call out in search of anyone to help us.
“The lunch lull?” Nate says.
“Guess we beat the rush,” I joke.
We wait another minute or so before losing patience and heading off to wander the exhibits on our own. My gaze absorbs every detail, an eagerness building deep in my belly. I’m on sensory overload in here. Everywhere I look, I see something that begs for my attention. Photos, newspaper articles, handwritten letters. Leather-bound journals open to dates of some significance. Pieces of personal artifacts. Jewelry and carved gifts from foreign dignitaries.
I let out a giddy sigh.
Nate looks over, an indecipherable glint in his eyes.
“What?” I say self-consciously.
“Nothing. Just…” His tongue comes out briefly to moisten his lower lip. “You should see yourself right now. Your whole face is lit up. Cheeks flushed. You look like you just…” He trails off, wrenching his gaze away.
“Like I just what?” I ask. Because I’m a masochist.
His eyes flick back to mine. Just for a moment. “Like you just had a good fuck.”
I feel those words between my legs.
“Oh” is the only syllable I manage to utter through my dry throat.
All business now, he drifts toward the nearest display. “All right then. What are you hoping to find?”
I force my mind back on task. “Okay, so I found a note hidden in the backing of the portrait. It was written by a young woman named Josephine.”
“The subject of the portrait, you reckon?”
“I think so. In the note, Josephine was telling someone she couldn’t marry him because she was in love with someone else. There’s a chance it’s one or more of the Tulley brothers, but I need evidence to support the theory.”
Nate and I drift around the room. There’s an enormous family tree dating back centuries hanging on the far wall. On another wall, a painted coat of arms and a military uniform with medals and other regalia. All of it offers remarkable glimpses into the legacy of the Tulley family, but none of it is of importance to my investigation.
“What got you curious?” I ask suddenly. We’re at opposite sides of the room, strolling past exhibits.
“Huh?”
When I glance over my shoulder, I catch him watching me. “You haven’t been around much lately,” I clarify. “I was surprised to hear from you today.”
“Yeah.” He turns back to the framed pictures on the wall, reading the printed labels beside deteriorating pieces of paper. “It occurred to me you don’t have many ways to get around to conduct your research. Thought I’d be of service.”
“I see. Purely academic interest then.”
I scrutinize a gown in a standing glass case, which was purportedly worn by a Tulley at a royal wedding during the reign of William IV. I feel Nate’s intermittent gaze at my back.
“As research assistants go, I’m moderately reliable,” he drawls, then wanders off again.
He’s a tough nut to crack. Stiff upper lip and all that. I can never quite tell if he’s being flirtatiously obscure or politely evasive.
Or maybe I’m simply reading too much into this again. Nate doesn’t go to college. He works nights as a bartender when he isn’t playing gigs. So it’s possible he has a lot of daylight time on his hands and not nearly enough ways to spend it. In that case, I’m a brief distraction between obligations.
Then again, Jack and Jamie aren’t offering to drive me an hour into the country for homework.
“Take a look at this,” Nate calls from another room.
I search for him until I find a hidden corridor tucked behind a bookcase. In the small room, a projector shows black-and-white newsreel footage of ships arriving at a port. Weary, huddled people in blankets disembark at the pier. On the adjacent wall are framed news articles, photographs, and two small oil portraits of a familiar figure.
“The Victoria,” I breathe. “William, the middle brother, was lost at sea when the ship sank.”
I’ve seen photographs of William Tulley before. In this context, however, surrounded by the footage of the disaster’s aftermath and headlines from around the world that announced the tragedy, he feels more alive than a grainy image in a book.
He was a handsome young man in his midtwenties with soft, narrow features and a rebellious mustache, his gaze perpetually fixed toward the horizon. A wanderer’s spirit.
“He was cute,” I remark.
Nate’s amused voice tickles the back of my head. “Was he now?”
“Sure. I mean, I totally would’ve tapped that,” I say before remembering I’m not with Eliza but rather with a gorgeous Englishman.
That gets me a strangled laugh. “I reckon poor old Will would’ve been riddled with confusion if you hit on him using that phrase.”
I start laughing too and affect a (not good) posh British accent. “Hullo, sir, I would like to tap you. Please, remove your britches.” I turn to beam at Nate. “Hot, right?”
“So hot,” he says solemnly.
I continue to study the Victoria materials, wondering why William Tulley ended up on this doomed ship. “You know what’s wild? William wasn’t even on the official passenger manifest. Wasn’t scheduled to take the voyage. He was a last-minute addition to the crossing.”
“How on earth do you know that?”
I smile smugly. “I’m a possessor of infinite knowledge, Nate. That’s how you roll when you spend your entire life in the library.”
“Should we brag about that? Truly?”
A laugh sputters out. “Fair critique. But it came up in my research. I tracked down the manifest, and his name wasn’t on it. Instead there was a handwritten notation from someone at the shipping company saying Lord William Tulley would be joining them. They even cleared out a first-class cabin for him. Probably had to kick out some poor soul to make room for his lordship. Annoyingly, it doesn’t say if he was traveling alone or not.”
“But the fact that he boarded the ship at the last minute must mean something, right? Running away to America to nurse his broken heart.”
“Or,” I counter, “running away to America with the woman he stole from his brother.”
“Also a possibility,” Nate says unhelpfully before moving toward the next display.
A few moments later, he calls me over again.
“Over here.”
He gestures for me to join him in front of a glass case. Inside, two pieces of paper lie side by side. The handwritten letter is addressed to William’s mother, the duchess. Dated mere days before the Victoria embarked from England, the letter is written in black ink that has become faded over the decades. I lean in and squint to make out some of the text.
Rest assured, dear mother, we shall reconcile when we’re both good and ready. Brothers cannot hate each other forever. This shall pass.
“He’s talking about his relationship with Robert,” I tell Nate, excitement surging through my blood. “That’s the eldest brother who disappeared.”
Some parts of the letter are difficult to read, so I pull out my phone and snap several pictures of the display case. I’ll upload them to a photo editor later and play around with the exposure settings, see if I can make the words more palatable to the eyes. But the important thing is I was right.
William and Robert were estranged before William boarded that ship.
And while there’s no mention of Josephine, this is the strongest indication yet of the rift between the sons that could explain Josephine’s place in the story.
“What do you think it means?” Nate asks.
“I don’t know. Nothing I’ve found so far suggests Josephine was on the ship. Did William leave England because she chose Robert? Or did she follow William to America and leave Robert behind?”
I’ve still found no clue as to how or why Robert disappeared. There are plenty of theories but none with any evidence I could hope to follow. As with everything in this mystery, each clue is another unanswered question.
Continuing our search, we come across a diary entry from the duchess. She describes her son Robert as the steadfast sort, a young man with an intense conviction and will but well-liked and admired by his peers.
William, in contrast, was never at peace to sit idle on the grounds of the estate. His heart seeks exploration, the duchess mused. He was most fulfilled when out on some new adventure, which was a difficult pill to swallow for a mother who wished to keep her sons close to her.
“Hello there.”
The sudden appearance of a tall middle-aged man startles me.
“Sorry I didn’t hear you sooner,” he says, his expression rueful. “Afraid I fell asleep in the back after my lunch.”
“That’s all right,” I answer. “I hope it’s okay that we’re in here. The door was open.”
“Of course. All are welcome.” He smiles. “Though we don’t get many visitors if I’m being frank. Are you a student?”
“Yes, actually.”
He nods, hunched under the low ceiling. He’s lanky and brittle in a wool sweater and collared shirt. “That’s about all who find a reason to come here these days. There’s the ladies’ bridge club on Sundays. And we do get the odd photo shoot. An episode of Midsomer Mysteries was filmed here once.” That last tidbit brightens him right up.
“Well, that’s something,” I say with a smile. “May I ask a strange question?”
He beams at me. “I adore strange questions.”
“Excellent.” I gesture to the large portrait hanging on the wall behind Nate. “Do you have a theory about Robert Tulley? About what happened to him?”
“Ah.” He thinks on it a moment. “Well, I can’t say I know better than any who’ve attempted to answer that question before. However, Robert was a charming, honorable man who cared a great deal for his family. I suppose whatever occurred, it was quite extraordinary. I’ve often wondered if it was his kindness that did him in.”
“How do you mean?” Nate asks.
“Loyal young man like that, perhaps too trusting of the world. There are any number of ways for someone to take advantage.”
I purse my lips. “You believe he was killed then. Rather than ran away.”
“Who’d run from all this?”
I take his meaning. The former glory. The wealth. The titles and privileges. It’s an ironic metaphor, though, standing in this empty, dark little cottage surrounded by the faces of the dead. Sifting through the wilting remains of the Tulley legacy as their estate crumbles into scandal and bankruptcy.
“They’re buried out there, you know. Nearly every one of them. If you’d like to visit.”
My breath hitches. “Would that be okay?”
I’d been tempted when we first drove by, but it seemed uncouth. Cemetery tourism has always felt wrong to me.
“They sit there all alone otherwise,” the man says soberly.
Nate and I make our way out to the cemetery and walk the rows of weathered headstones. The man at the museum gave us a map of the deceased, and we soon find Robert Tulley’s empty grave. I stare at the eerie blank space where the date of death should be.
“My mother left me,” I say.
Which is an awkward way to start a conversation, but the instinct to do so erupts from my mouth without permission.
“Sometimes she’ll send a birthday postcard or something,” I continue. “Mostly, though, she disappeared. Dropped me off at my dad’s doorstep when I was two and fled without a backward look. I don’t know where she is or what she’s doing. When she dies, I might not even know.”
“That’s brutal.” Nate’s voice is low, somber. “I’m sorry.”
“I guess what I’m trying to say is it’s weird how context changes the story. History talks about Robert in these mysterious, tragic terms. But what about the people who knew him? The ones left behind. Did they feel abandoned? Discarded? Or if he left for love, why did he let his family forever grieve his loss without closure?”
Nate watches me with that inscrutable expression of his. “You’re passionate about all this.”
I shrug, hoping the heat flaming my face doesn’t appear as obvious in the cooling late-afternoon air.
“Who doesn’t love a good story? It’s romantic, isn’t it? Love and death and tragedy-torn families. Beats Instagram and reality TV or whatever bullshit.”
Nate cracks a half smile that quickens my pulse. “Can’t argue that.”
We walk toward the next row, where I stop in front of another headstone. Lawrence is here as well. The youngest brother, whom the duchess described in her diary as a spoiled, petulant child. The books that mention Lawrence before he became the patriarch of the Tulley family labeled him an unserious, uncurious boy with no remarkable qualities. A boy who managed to be so unlike his brothers.
“If Robert hadn’t disappeared and William hadn’t died,” I say, “Lawrence wouldn’t have inherited the family’s land and titles. He wouldn’t have produced the descendants who humiliated the Tulley name and drove the estate into ruin. It’s tragic.”
“It’s a very British story,” Nate says wryly.
“I take it you aren’t a monarchist.”
He slides a dry glance at me. “No.”
I step away from Lawrence’s grave. As we continue exploring, Nate shoves his hands in the pockets of his worn jeans, his long legs moving in easy strides. He’s got this completely unfazed aura to him. Unfettered. More than that, he gives off the vibe that he might take off at any moment. He’s here with me now, but only because he chooses to be. Nothing or no one can capture him unless he lets them.
“Shall we head off then?” He glances at me.
“Sure, let’s— ” My gaze snags on a flash of color among the greenery. “Actually, wait. Just one more thing,” I tell him before dashing off.
I steal a handful of pink and orange flowers from a nearby bush and carry them to the grave of the duchess. Bending down, I carefully lay them on the weathered stone. I don’t know what propels me. Maybe the fact that she lost so much. That we spent the afternoon combing through her private words. It feels wrong to trample through the family’s dead without some gesture of appreciation.
As I stand with muddy prints on the knees of my jeans, Nate holds out a dark red flower I hadn’t noticed him pick.
My heartbeat accelerates.
“What’s this for?” I squeak, trying to talk through the surprised lump in my throat.
“Reminds me of your hair.” He twirls the short stem between his long, callused fingers. “And I felt like it.”
I bite my lip. Hard.
This is the guy who doesn’t do romance.
Our fingers brush as I accept the flower from him, and my pulse kicks up another notch. Avoiding his eyes, I duck my head and smell the delicate petals.
“Abbey,” he starts. Voice low.
I swallow. “Hmm?”
The distance between us has closed by inches, and when I look up, his face is hovering over me with dark come-hither bedroom eyes. The intensity is almost too much. I’m so hypnotized, in fact, that I barely notice we’re getting closer and that my eyelids are drifting shut, until my phone buzzes in my pocket with such insistence that someone had better be dying.
We jerk apart as I pull my phone out to read the text.
Jamie: You’re meeting with Lord Benjamin Tulley tomorrow afternoon.
“Holy shit,” I blurt out.
That startles Nate. “What’s wrong?”
“No. Wow. I can’t believe he did it. Jamie got me a meeting with Lord Tulley for my research.”
“Ah. All right.” His hands slip into his pockets again. “Shall we go?”
He turns away to head back to his bike.
I stare after him, uncertain. Talk about whiplash. I’m not sure I understand what was about to happen before Jamie’s text, except that I’m nearly breathless when I type a reply.
Me: Thank you! I owe you.
How’d you manage that?
Jamie: You’re welcome, and yes, you do. He’s a lad from school. Several years ahead of me but we’ve met a few times. Friends of friends. Try not to embarrass me, darling.
He follows that with a winking emoji.
Bless that boy.
It’s good to have friends in high places. Particularly ones whose interruptions stop you—no, save you—from making the incredibly stupid mistake of kissing someone else’s boyfriend.
