Hand Me Downs

Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Now“Branwen? Come on, what are you doing in there?”

She jumped at John’s sharp voice, not sure how long she’d been sitting in the bathroom caught up in a half-memory, half-dream. He waited for a second, then tried to open the door she’d locked. Even considering the jet lag—and the awful memory still fogging her brain—the stress of the last few weeks showed when he went from concerned to upset in a flash.

“If you’re sick again please let me in, or at least answer.”

She jerked the door open, her temper matching his.

“I’ve been telling you all day nothing is wrong with me, now you won’t even let me alone in the bathroom. John, if you’re trying to drive…drive me crazy, you’re on the right path!”

She’d been about to say drive me away, but she couldn’t forget what a mistake that had been. She hadn’t stopped soon enough.

John had the high color in his cheeks that meant he was excited, cold, or angry.

She was betting on the latter. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath before he looked back at her.

“If you’ve finished?” he said in a voice as cold as his eyes.

Branwen was sure he did this on purpose when they were arguing, making unclear statements to throw her off balance. It had rarely been a problem before now, and she was not enjoying learning just how good he was at it.

Sometimes she despised his damn logical mind. She decided he meant in the bathroom and moved around him.

He stood looking at her for what seemed like an hour, and she concentrated on changing her shoes. She was afraid if she met his eyes now, she’d tell him everything.

The strain of keeping this to herself was making her as sick as the hormones.

As soon as he closed the door, she was up and out into the hall.

A woman’s voice startled her before she’d taken three steps.

“Branwen?”

She froze, hoping it wasn’t her grandmother. The Warlowe matriarch hated anyone messing around in the attic, and she would certainly protest if she knew what Branwen was eager to visit. She turned to see Fiona, her grandmother’s companion.

The fiery red hair had faded nearly to white, but Fiona still wore it long and piled on top of her head. Her clear blue eyes hadn’t faded one bit, nor had the cheery apple flush of her cheeks.

She’d kept the estate organized and running smoothly for decades, but manager or housekeeper or any other title wasn’t nearly intimate or important enough.

She truly was part of the family.

“Creoso, dear, I thought it was you!” Fiona said, welcoming Branwen not only to the house but back to her Welsh-speaking family.

“Bore da, Fiona!” Branwen said, feeling the morning finally was good.

Fiona hugged Branwen then went right into her greeting ritual of looking her over for any kind of damage inflicted by living abroad. She finished with her hair, as always.

“So thick and heavy, it always gave your aunts headaches. I’ll just leave this in your room and we’ll go downstairs. Where’s that handsome husband?”

Fiona moved to open their door.

“Wait Fiona, John’s asleep. I’ll take it in later.”

Where did that come from? She’d always had trouble with such quick thinking, seeming to come up with the perfect thing to say after the moment had passed. She took the wicker basket full of matches and kindling for the fire and set it beside the door.

“He’s sleeping? About time he figured that out. Always so tired and befuddled after the flight, poor thing. Come down with me then. Quite a crowd gathered already, and your Grandmother’s holding court.”

She took Branwen’s arm in hers.

“I think I’m going up to the attic while he’s asleep,” Branwen said, willing him to stay in their room for just a minute or two longer. “If you see John later, don’t tell him I’m up there? I’m looking for something for him, and I want to surprise him. I’m hoping he’ll be out long enough for me to get it hidden down here.”

Fiona’s eyes lit up to match her merry smile. She loved to play.

“Of course! Let’s get a torch and the key and get you up there before he stirs. Your Grandmother has been insisting on both doors being locked again lately. I’m not sure who she thinks would want to sneak in, or what she thinks could possibly be getting out. Oh, and a warm coat, it’s bitter up there. I’ve got just the thing for it.”

Branwen let herself be bustled down the hall and away from their room, delighted at how well this was working out.

From the way John had been looking at her, she was afraid he was getting too close to the truth for himself, or at least getting close to insisting she tell him what was going on.

Once he got started asking questions, that would be the end of it. Part of her knew it was pointless to put off the inevitable, but she was still relieved when they turned the corner out of sight from the room.

John didn’t like the attic. The dust and disorder made him uncomfortable and brought on wretched sneezing fits. It felt like a safe place to her, like a huge, dusty cocoon. And she’d have a chance to think.

It might very well be simple escapism, but she knew she’d feel better when she got to Aunt Cian’s trunk.