Chapter Fourteen

“JONATHON!”

He gave a start. “Christ, don’t yell at me like that.”

Mike smirked. “That was the fourth time I said your name. What planet were you on?”

Jonathon sighed heavily. “Sorry. I was thinking.” He glanced at his phone. It was only ten thirty. Mike wouldn’t need him to help in the pub for a few hours yet, and Jonathon had a lot going on in his head that needed sorting out.

What was required was a walk.

“Listen, would you mind if I went out for a while? Not too long. I just need some fresh air and a bit of space.”

Mike cocked his head to one side. “Actually, you’ve hit on something I’d meant to mention. Anytime you’re ready, I’ll take you and your suitcase up to the manor. You don’t have to stay here, y’know.”

The last thing Jonathon wanted right then was to be left alone in that big hall, with only his thoughts for company. Add to that, he was kind of getting used to being around Mike. Maybe too used to it, especially if Sue had already noticed his interest in her brother.

He chuckled to himself. Who wouldn’t be interested? I’m not blind either.

“If it gets to the point where I’m in the way, you have to let me know, all right? And if I’m not? Well, is it okay with you if I stay here? I… like it.”

Mike smiled. “You’re not in the way, I like having you here, and truth be told, when you leave and go back to wherever you came from, I’m gonna miss you. Now, go for your walk. I’ll have fresh coffee waiting for you when you get back, if you want it. And if you have work to do on your laptop, or whatever, then by all means, get on with it. You’ve done more than enough for me this week.”

Impulsively, Jonathon gave Mike a hug. “Thanks.” He left Mike in the bar and headed for the door.

Outside, it was a beautiful morning, and he realized August had arrived without him noticing. That meant the fete was only ten days away, on the twelfth. He’d originally planned to stay until after then, but now everything was up in the air. Recalling Melinda’s words on the importance of the fete, he decided to stick with his plans. Besides, by then, word would surely have got around about the new lord of the manor.

And there lay the crux of what bothered him.

Jonathon strolled through the quiet leafy lanes, drinking in the quaint atmosphere. It was certainly nothing like Manchester, where he currently resided. He loved the vibrant city, its bars and social life, the buzz of activity that seemed to permeate everything. Of course, it was also a long way from his family, which was an added bonus. But his inheritance brought with it a dilemma. Could he give up his life in Manchester for the peace and tranquility of Merrychurch? Granted, he had always loved the village, even when he was a teenager, but that had been for limited periods of time. Taking on the responsibility of the hall, living there permanently… could he do that?

Then there were his father’s expectations. Marry, produce offspring….

Jonathon knew he had a stubborn streak. It had been commented upon ad infinitum when he was growing up. He also knew his refusal to give any thought to his father’s wishes had little to do with being stubborn and more to do with the fact that he was not prepared to deny his sexuality, not even for his family.

Then it occurred to him.

If I’m lord of the manor, in Merrychurch, what can he do to prevent me from living as I want to live? In Manchester he’d been free to do just that, away from the prying eyes of his father. No one gave a shit that he was Jonathon de Mountford, youngest member of one of the oldest families in England. There, he was just “that photographer” who lived and worked in a converted building off Canal Street, occasionally hooking up with someone when he felt so inclined, but more often than not keeping to himself.

Hookups in Merrychurch? Even with Jonathon’s limited knowledge of the village, that seemed highly unlikely. Given the demographic of the inhabitants, he could see how such behavior might alarm or outrage his new neighbors. And as much as he had no desire to become part of the establishment, he didn’t want to fly that much in the face of tradition.

“You look like you’re deep in thought.”

Jonathon dropped back into the present and glanced around him. The tall, bearded man with the shock of dark brown hair was vaguely familiar. Then it came to him. “Hi, Sebastian. Sorry, I didn’t hear you approach. You’re right, I was in a world of my own.”

“I’d hope it was a pleasant world, but I can understand if it wasn’t, given the circumstances.” He eyed Jonathon keenly. “How are you doing?” At his side, he pushed a bike.

“To be honest, I’ve kept myself busy.” It was only moments like this, when his own thoughts occupied him, that the grief intruded.

Sebastian regarded him with warm brown eyes. “You must allow yourself time to grieve,” he said softly. “You may not have spent your whole life with Dominic, but you loved him, that much is obvious. And shedding tears over a loved one is never wrong. We all need to do that sometime.” His brow furrowed slightly. “We all have regrets when someone passes. We feel we didn’t spend enough time with them. We feel cheated. But we all have to let go. You will always have your memories of him. No one can take those from you.”

Jonathon stilled, his mind focused on those times he’d spent with Dominic. “You’re right, of course.” Sebastian’s remark about regrets had struck a sore point. Only now was he realizing just how much he didn’t know about Dominic, and yes, he felt cheated. Someone had stolen the years Jonathon had thought he had left to get to know his uncle, the one relative who appeared to understand him, to accept and encourage him.

He gave himself a mental shake. “And what are you up to this morning?”

“Melinda made some soup and bread for Amy Prescott and sent me round to the house with them.”

Jonathon grinned. “I didn’t realize ‘delivery boy’ was one of the roles of a curate.”

Sebastian laughed. “I have many roles, believe me.”

Melinda’s words came to mind. “What are you doing tomorrow night?” Jonathon asked suddenly.

Sebastian snickered. “Friday night? Not a lot, but that’s normal. I don’t tend to do much of an evening, except read, unless I’m working on a sermon, of course. And seeing as Lloyd is preaching on Sunday…. Why do you ask?”

“Would you like to come to the pub and have a drink with me? We could even play darts, if you feel like it. Not that I’m any good. I think I’ve played maybe twice my entire life.”

Sebastian flushed. “Really? I haven’t played darts in years.” He smiled. “I used to be good at it.”

“A pint or two, a couple of games….” Jonathon nudged Sebastian’s arm. “Go on, say yes.” After what Sebastian had just admitted, it was obvious Melinda was right and he was in need of a night out. Besides, Jonathon was touched that Sebastian had stopped to inquire after his well-being.

Sebastian’s eyes gleamed. “Okay. Tomorrow night. Nineish? Or is that too late?”

“Nine sounds good. And if you’re really lucky, I might make you a cocktail.”

Sebastian snorted. “That might be a step too far for me. I’m more of a beer man myself.” He flexed the fingers of his right hand. “But a game or two of darts appeals to me. Prepare to be beaten.”

Jonathon laughed. “Oh, I get it now. Let’s take advantage of the poor nondarts player.”

Sebastian hoisted his leg over the bar of his bike and got on the saddle. “Of course. It wouldn’t be fun otherwise.” And with that, he set off, pedaling slowly at first, a tuneful whistle drifting back toward Jonathon.

Jonathon continued on his walk, choosing the lane that led toward the manor. Around him was the sweet chirping of birds in the hedgerows, and from above came the call of an elusive skylark. People walked toward him, most of them giving a friendly nod. He was beginning to understand why Dominic liked to spend time in the pub or at local events. He might have lived in the manor house up on the hill, but he had also forged connections in the village.

When Jonathon reached the stone posts bearing the de Mountford crest, he stopped at the roadside and gazed up at the white stone house. Since the meeting with Mr. Omerod, the possibility of living there seemed more… real. It was a far cry from his flat in Manchester, located in a busy district, the noise and bustle of traffic always in the background. Yet Jonathon had known quiet. His travels through Australia and India had provided him with a glimpse of spiritual peace, moments when he had cast off the trappings of modern living and embraced the knowledge that he was but a tiny speck in the cosmos. Moments that had humbled him, when he’d reached for his camera to try to capture just the tiniest part of the awe that had welled up inside him.

He could ignore his father’s wishes. He could refuse to take on his inheritance. But Jonathon knew that by doing that he would be denying Dominic’s wishes too, and he didn’t think that would sit happily with him. And that left only one course of action.

It looked like Jonathon was about to move to Merrychurch.

Coming to that realization was sort of cathartic. It was easier to accept that his life was about to change in one important aspect. His address might alter, but he had no intentions of giving up the career he’d begun—there was plenty of room at the manor for setting up a studio. And if he was going to have a fresh start in Merrychurch, then he’d have it on his own terms.

Jonathon wasn’t about to initiate a village Pride event or shout about his sexuality from the rooftops, but he’d begin the way he meant to continue—not hiding. And if someone important—please, God—came into his life, then the village might see something new for the first time in its history.

A gay wedding.

Jonathon smiled to himself. Whoa there. Let’s not put the cart before the horse, right? There was a lot of ground to cover before such a momentous occasion could be reached, and it was going to take baby steps to achieve it.

Then it occurred to him that it was arrogant to assume he knew anything about the inhabitants of Merrychurch. For all he knew, half the village comprised of couples on the LBGTQI spectrum. That made him smile. His father would have apoplexy.

Feeling much lighter in spirit, Jonathon turned around and headed back to the pub. As he neared the center of the village, he had an idea. Trevor Deeping lived on Mill Lane, Mr. Omerod had stated. Maybe it was time Jonathon paid him a visit. Nothing heavy, just a little chat concerning a certain bequest. That, added to the odd way Trevor had behaved that night in the pub, led Jonathon to think there was something there that needed investigating.

Listen to me. I sound like a regular Poirot. And it’s not as if this Trevor is a suspect.

Still, Jonathon wanted answers. And talking to Trevor looked like the only way to get them.

He clicked on Maps on his phone and quickly located Mill Lane. Of course, that didn’t help him any; Trevor and his wife, Sarah, could live in any house along the road. Jonathon strolled through the village, noting the tiny lanes that could only accommodate one car’s width. Merrychurch had come into existence long before traffic had been a consideration. When he spied the white sign with its black lettering, he turned right onto Mill Lane, which turned out to have seven houses along it, all on one side. On the other was a wooden structure, whose dark green panel declared it to be a water mill, still in operation. A stream ran the length of the lane, ending in a small pond where it was scooped up by the water wheel that turned slowly, spilling the clear waters into a deeper pond. It was undeniably quaint.

But quainter still were the houses. They were all joined together, with a long thatched roof that covered them. Each had tiny windows, some with boxes filled with flowers, the cobbled road surface ending at the front door. At the far end of the lane, Jonathon spied an area for cars—a good idea, since parking in front of the houses would have been an eyesore. He was willing to bet that every last one of them was a Grade II listed building, and he was dying to see what they were like inside.

Jonathon wandered along the cobbled lane, trying not to peer through the windows. What individualized each house was the paintwork: they were done in pastel shades of pink, pale green, pale yellow, and pale blue, reminiscent of the houses he’d once seen on the south coast. Nothing garish, thank goodness.

It was then that he noticed the hand-painted signs attached to the stone walls, each bearing a name. There was the ever-popular Dun Romin’, Rainbow’s End, The Haven…. Jonathon thought it a cute touch. When he saw the fourth sign, however, he came to a halt.

Deepings Den.

Yeah, that couldn’t be a coincidence.

His heartbeat racing a little at his own impetuosity, Jonathon lifted the brass knocker and rapped on the deep blue door.

A woman with long blonde hair opened it, her forehead creased into a frown. Then she smiled. “I remember you. You’re the cocktail man.”

Jonathon laughed. “A fairly apt description, I suppose. Hi, I’m Jonathon de Mountford, and if my memory serves me, you’re Sarah. I was wondering if your husband is home.” He kept his tone nonchalant.

Sarah shook her head. “Sorry. He’s been away on business this week. He should be back later this afternoon, though.” She tilted her head to one side. “De Mountford? So you are Dominic’s nephew. I thought when someone said it in the pub that they were joking.” She narrowed her gaze. “Why do you want to speak to Trevor?”

It might have been his imagination, but Jonathon was certain a hard edge had crept into her voice.

“I just wanted to have a chat, that’s all.” He had no idea if Trevor even knew of the existence of the bequest and didn’t want to create waves.

“I see. Well, I’ll be sure to tell him you called.” She gave him a polite smile. “And now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go back to my washing. It was nice to see you again.” And with that she closed the door.

Jonathon couldn’t be sure, but he had the distinct feeling he’d just been lied to. His instincts told him Sarah had no intention of telling Trevor about his visit, and judging by her expression, seeing Jonathon was about as nice an experience as sucking on a lemon.

So what on earth is going on here?

Jonathon turned around and strolled back up the lane, heading for the pub. He still had questions, and he wasn’t going to be happy until he had answers.