Jory smiled to himself, double-checked the fall area was clear, and jumped off.
An hour or so later, Jory slung his backpack onto the passenger seat of the Qubo and changed out of his climbing shoes. He felt better now. Calmer.
And absolutely ravenous. Time to head home.
Traffic through town was light, the rush hour, such as it was, already over, and Jory made it back to Roscarrock House in good time. He parked the Qubo in the old stables and was stowing his backpack and climbing shoes in the boot when Bran walked in, car keys in hand. Jory froze. Damn. Why the hell hadn’t he put everything away down at the bay?
Had Bran noticed?
“Off out?” Jory asked, trying to sound casual. He was a grown man, damn it, and he didn’t need Bran’s permission for his hobbies.
But he didn’t have the energy for a row right now.
“Obviously.” Bran gave Jory an unreadable look. He was wearing a dark suit and tie, so presumably was going to some kind of business dinner. “You’re late back.”
“Making the most of the weather.” Jory kept his gaze level.
After a moment Bran, turned away and went to his car.
Jory found Bea in the kitchen, staring into the fridge as if hoping a meal would magically spring out and cook itself.
Or maybe merely wondering who’d had the last of the celery sticks. If she’d wanted them saved, she shouldn’t have left them so temptingly close to the sour cream dip.
She looked up at Jory. “Oh, hello. You’re late.”
“Uh, yes.” Jory forced himself to go on cheerfully. “I was going to cook—care to join me?”
She blinked and straightened. “All right. As it’s just the two of us.”
He hadn’t expected her to accept. It was an unpleasant shock to realise he’d probably better come up with something a little more “proper” than his half-formed plan of having whatever was in the fridge with pasta and canned tomatoes. Of course, there were any number of ready meals in the freezer, but he had his pride.
In the end, he knocked up a quick risotto, adding a kick with some leftover chorizo, which she eyed dubiously but tucked into well enough with a comment of, “This is actually quite nice.”
Jory narrowed his eyes at her over a forkful of food. “You know, it’d be a better compliment if you left out the ‘actually.’”
“When did you learn to cook? I always assumed you ate in hall, at your universities. I did.”
“That’s because you were only there for three years, as an undergraduate. And not every university is like Cambridge. Dining in a medieval college with a high table and Latin grace is one thing. Mucking in with a load of teenagers in an overcrowded student union café is quite another.”
She half smiled. “I always did wonder how you managed, living a student lifestyle all these years. Bran used to say he thought you just didn’t want to grow up.”
“Bran can—” Jory caught himself up short. This friendly atmosphere between them felt like a fragile thing, easily shattered. “Make his own dinner,” he finished weakly.
“He does have your best interests at heart.”
Did he, bollocks. “I think I’m old enough to judge for myself what’s in my best interest, thanks.”
Bea frowned. “You know it wasn’t easy for him when Father died.”
“Uh, no. I’m sure it wasn’t.” Jory racked his brains for innocuous topics of conversation. Then he had it—something Mal had asked about.
Not that he was hoping to use it as an excuse to talk to Mal again. Obviously.
“Bea, I was wondering—that legend about Mary Roscarrock back in sixteen-oh-whatever turning to piracy. I know we play it up for the tourists, but is there much truth in it?”
She gave him an odd look. “Why the interest?”
“I, um . . . For Gawen. He likes to learn about family history.” Jory instinctively felt it would be better not to mention any possible museum exhibits until he knew more about the subject. Bea might be difficult about that sort of thing, and there was no point starting a fight before it was necessary.
“I’m sure he’s heard the stories already.”
“Yes, but he’s, uh, very factually minded. I think he’d appreciate knowing how much of the legend is actually true. Do we have any family records, anything like that?”
Bea put her fork down, although she was only halfway through her risotto, and pushed her chair back.
“Bea?” What on earth had he said to upset her? He put down his own fork, ready to stand up if she did. “What’s wrong?”
She shook her head. “It’s nothing. . . You should finish your meal. Don’t let it go to waste.”
That was rather hypocritical of her, as although she stayed at the table, she didn’t touch the remainder of her food. Jory had more or less lost his appetite too, but he ate anyway. Maybe it would help her compose herself.
He’d probably given her too much on her plate in any case.
After a few minutes, he was rewarded by her speaking again.
“It brought back some memories, that’s all.” She had a drink of water, then replaced her glass precisely in the middle of the coaster. “I don’t suppose I’ve really thought about Mary Roscarrock since I was sixteen.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You do recall what happened that year?” Bea asked, her tone impatient.
Jory hesitated, then said it anyway. “Dev was born? But I don’t see—”
“I needed something to distract me, all those months I was just . . . waiting. It wasn’t like I could go to school. So I looked up her history. Mummy helped. We sorted through old family letters we found in the attic, and went over parish records. It was something we could do together that wasn’t too tiring. Although she did seem better that year. For a while.”
Jory had a sudden, vivid image of his sister, visibly pregnant, being kept out of everyone’s sight. Locked up
