Florida had beckoned to Steve Sanders the previous summer. He had claimed the trip to Universal was for little Madeline, but it had been obvious that Steve had created the trip for himself as a distraction from Janet's filing for separation.
He had convinced Dylan to come along and, though Dylan would have never admitted it, he did have an enjoyable time.
Until they had been stuck in a resort shop during a tornado warning.
A tornado, in Florida. A tornado, but not a hurricane.
No, the hurricane came a year later, when the last place Dylan wanted to have his flight grounded because of a hurricane was London.
Fucking London.
"You look like shit."
"Great to see you too, Mags," said Dylan, not bothering to hide his sarcasm.
"You didn't say this arsehole was with you," said Maggie Olivier, scrutinizing Dylan as she spoke with Steve.
"Did I forget to mention that?" asked Steve. "Just one night, Mags. We'll get a hotel tomorrow if we're still stuck here."
"You're always welcome, Steve, but I can't bring Dylarse back to the flat. Even if I wanted to, which I assure you I do not, Shane will kick him out the second he sees this ignoramus. And I, for one, do not want my best friend to think I went behind her back and let her ex stay in my flat when Dylarse himself knows why Brenda stopped talking to him."
"Look, Maggie, I don't even want to be here, okay?" said Dylan. "If it weren't for this fucking hurricane, I'd be in Cork already to start looking for Brenda."
There was a time when Dylan had gotten on well with Maggie and Shane both, but there had also been a time when Brenda's spirits hadn't noticeably sank every time Dylan had drawn near.
"Funny how you only care about Brenda after she disappears."
"Guess your best friend neglected to tell you how she's been avoiding my calls," said Dylan. "Seems she's made Donal her own personal secretary to screen all my calls."
"Unless she's been avoiding them for the last four years, that hardly makes any difference at all," said Maggie. "Did I miss the part where Brenda left you?"
"She wasn't exactly jumping all over herself to get me to stay," Dylan grumbled.
"Gee, I wonder why," said Maggie.
"Wait," Steve tuned into the conversation, "did you say four years? I thought it's been six years since you left Bren."
"Six years?" Maggie yelled. "Six years?"
"Uh, where did you hear that?" asked Dylan as he rubbed the back of his neck.
"Kel," said Steve. "She told us you had left London two years before you returned four years ago, which would make it six."
"Did I say two years?" asked Dylan.
"I distinctly remember it because I told Kel I thought Brandon had mentioned something about you being with Bren about the time he was going to marry Kel, but Kelly told me we had heard wrong."
"So he's an arse and a liar," said Maggie.
"You're not helping," Dylan hissed to Steve. "Maggie, we tried booking a room, okay? No one's taking reservations. They're all full because of this damn hurricane."
"I'm sure you can find a vacancy in Ilford."
"That's nearly an hour away from Heathrow."
"Good thing you can drive then, innit?"
"It's no use, Steve," said Dylan. "You stay with Mags and I'll look around for something."
"Maggie, you can't let him wander the streets of London at two o'clock in the morning in the middle of a hurricane warning," said Steve.
"Why not?" asked Maggie. "You wandered quite a bit there at the end; didn't you, Dylan?"
"I didn't cheat on Brenda, if that's what you're implying," said Dylan. "Not then, anyway."
"No, you just nearly got her sacked, instead," said Maggie. "Tiny detail."
"If this had anything to do with Dylan's drug addiction, he's been clean for years," said Steve.
"Sober, too?" asked Maggie.
"No," said Dylan, "and I don't intend to be, especially if Brenda stays missing."
Maggie looked Dylan over.
"Steve can stay at ours," she decided after what seemed to Dylan a moment far too outstretched, but may have been a mere second's pause. "I'll see if one of the lads will allow Dylan to stay the night. But no guarantees."
Dylan didn't want to stay the night.
He wanted to take his chances on a boat to Cork.
There wasn't enough money in the world to try something so reckless, Dylan was told by every fisherman and ferryman he called. Wait until the storm passes, they said.
Wait until the storm passes.
Dylan had spent four fucking years waiting for a storm to pass, and now, Brenda was missing.
He didn't want to wait for the storm to fucking pass.
"Who'd you end up crashing with?"
Dylan looked over at his host as he spoke with Steve.
"Gavin."
"Ouch," said Steve, "they really hate you."
"Maggie still a good cook?" asked Dylan.
"Amazing cook," said Steve, with the telltale sign of smacked lips. "I'll try to sneak you something."
"Heard from Val or Kel?"
"Also grounded," said Steve. "Kel's at an old sorority friend's, and Val managed to book the last available room in Chelsea. Or should I say sneak into the last available room."
"Of course she did," said Dylan. "The moment this damn hurricane ends, I'm on a boat over to Cork."
"A boat? How long will that take?"
"Four hours and a quarter, give or take."
"Won't a plane be faster?"
"If they're still grounded, I'm grabbing a boat. Ain't staying here a second longer than I need to."
"I thought you love London."
"Correction. Used to love London."
"What did happen with you and Brenda? You never did tell us."
"Night, Sanders."
"You hop the first plane you can get to search for your missing ex. There's got to be a story there."
"I thought Bran was the newsman," said Dylan, and hung up.
From Gavin's third-floor window, Dylan could view the layout of most of the block.
Including the flat he had lived in with Brenda, just around the corner from the chipper they used to frequent with Shane and Maggie.
Back when they were happy.
When they were in love.
When all they had needed in the world was each other, and their little flat in the north end of London.
When he wouldn't have hesitated to show Brenda his manuscript.
What he wouldn't give to return to those days.
Had she read his book? Had she recognized the meaning in the dedication?
He had nearly sent her a copy himself, but worried she would discard it as she thought he had discarded her.
"What happened to us, Bren?" asked Dylan against the windowpane. "We used to be so close, closer than anyone. Together, as friends, close friends who were together. And then - and then..."
And then.
The job.
The fucking scam of a job.
The offer.
Jim's offer.
Helping Dylan to avoid prison if, and only if, Dylan purposely drove Brenda away.
You have to distance yourself from her, Jim had said.
Bren will never let me do that, Dylan had replied.
If you play your cards right, said Jim, she will not only insist on distance, but she may grow to hate you.
Bren will never hate me, said Dylan.
He had been so confident.
Don't be so sure, said Jim. You push her hard enough, she'll snap.
And if I don't want to push her? Dylan had asked. If I love her and want to stay with her?
Exactly how long do you expect Brenda will wait for you when you're behind bars? Jim had answered. Do you want her to miss out on her full potential because she's waiting around for you?
No, of course not, Dylan had said.
You'll lose her regardless, said Jim. At least this way can be on your own terms, and you avoid a prison sentence.
Look, I don't need your help if it means I have to force a distance between me and Bren that neither of us want. I'll figure something else out.
May you not come to regret your decision.
Brenda had somehow found the stash that night.
The stash Dylan swore up and down wasn't his.
The stash Brenda didn't believe wasn't his.
What was Dylan meant to do? Tell Brenda that he thought her father may have set him up? He would have had to tell Brenda why. She would have learnt about his fuckup, about trusting the wrong people.
And that stash had sure looked inviting.
Dylan had ended up partaking; which, in hindsight, hadn't been the best idea to prove to Brenda it wasn't his.
So it had begun.
Jim had obtained his wish.
Dylan had spiraled, but he had avoided prison.
Technically, if one only considered the institution and not the mentality.
Four years of drinking away sheer heartache wasn't exactly freedom.
Four years without talking to Brenda was damn torture.
One stash became two. Two became three, then four, then more.
Dylan's state of mind had become entrenched in a persistent fog, a fog that left him questioning to that day why Brenda and Maggie had grown to despise him.
The magazines; those certainly didn't help. Flipping through every damn magazine that featured even a bit of Brenda's face, stomach in a vice grip, anticipating the glossy layout that would declare to the world Brenda Walsh's new relationship.
They were all unconfirmed, rumored romances. Nothing concrete.
Since she had begun gaining fame.
There was still the chance Brenda had been with other men before the fame.
She probably had, as he had been with other women.
They wouldn't have been casual, meaningless flings for Brenda, as they had been for Dylan.
An outlet to forget Brenda.
An outlet that worked temporarily, until the next damn magazine, until the inevitable following breakup when his future ex demanded to know who the fuck Brenda was and why she was paused on his television screen.
Dylan had once known Brenda better than anyone, including her own twin brother.
Now, he knew her only through the press, if anything they said about her was factual.
Dylan almost wanted an article about Brenda's new relationship to appear in that day's newstands, if only to know that Brenda had been found.
Maybe then his chest wouldn't feel like he had smacked into a woodchipper.
The fixation Dylan had on the old flat and the memories he had repeatedly tried to erase with the aid of various vices tumbled away as British curses seeped through the flat he currently occupied.
Those curses held a sense of familiarity; the warm embrace of an old, long-forgotten friend.
"Gavin?" asked Dylan.
"Mate," said Gavin, "you knew Brenda's brother, didn't you? Brendan, I think his name was? Short newspaper lad?"
"Brandon," said Dylan. "Yeah, I did know him. Once."
"You best get in here, then," said Gavin.
Dylan considered that it might be wiser were he to decline joining Gavin; yet, curiosity took hold.
It shouldn't have.
Curiosity shouldn't have taken hold, and Dylan certainly should not have given in.
Because he could have gone his entire life without seeing what he saw on Gavin's television.
A body Dylan had once known quite well.
Fished out of Cork Harbour.
Dressed as immaculately as ever, in clothing that appeared heavily waterlogged.
"Is that him?" asked Gavin.
"That's him," said Dylan.
How the words made it through the dominoes tumble-drying in Dylan's mouth, he could not determine.
It was, indeed, him.
The man Dylan had debated trying to make amends with.
The man Dylan never had.
In the future, Dylan had told himself. We'll see each other again, in the future. Make amends then. Make it right.
He'd planned out those future chats he would have with his former best friend, more so brother. What he would say when asked what had occurred in London. What he would say when asked why Dylan had temporarily gone back to Kelly, which Dylan could barely answer himself.
Brandon, normally the bearer of news reports, had become footage in one.
Brandon Jameson Walsh who was said to have been healthy, healthier than a fucking oyster.
Certainly healthier than Dylan.
Drank rarely. Never indulged in drugs, recreational or otherwise.
Had never even smoked a damn cigarette.
Yet, at the tender age of twenty-six, he had, by all accounts, succumbed to severe hypoxemia.
"Is the lad alright?" asked Gavin.
"He drowned," said Dylan. "My brother fucking drowned. Brandon might've been the only person on the planet who could tell us where Brenda's disappeared to, and he fucking drowned!"
Stealing any opportunity of making amends, until those opportunities became debris stirred up by a tsunami.
And, fuck.
Steve would have to be the one to tell Kelly, because Dylan sure as hell wasn't going to.
Kelly would be in need of comfort, the kind Dylan couldn't give because he had no comfort to offer.
He hadn't been able to rescue Brandon.
He wouldn't make that same mistake with Brenda.
Dylan wouldn't fail both of his twins, as he had done before.
He would find Brenda, and hold her as she heard of their brother's fate.
He would help Brandon, by finding the sicko who had taken Brenda and had left Brandon to hypoxemia in Cork Harbour.
Even if Dylan had to dive deep into the harbor's waters to do it.
xx
The evening had been a terrible bore.
He had spent the earlier part of it in the parlor room, listening to his father and his father's compatriots whinge about the current state of politics, along with their allegations that the world had begun shifting in favor of the less-deserving.
His exasperated argument that the world still very much favored those of wealth and continued to shun those of lesser means had upset his father, to the point that he had quickly left the room.
Susannah Keating should have been a pleasant change of pace.
But Susannah wasn't pleasant, in the slightest.
Brandon had been attempting all night to decipher what he had seen in Susannah that would convince him into an engagement.
It did not help that Brandon failed to recall any aspect of his relationship with Susannah.
He played it coy, tricking Susannah into sharing stories of their past by pretending a request for clarification.
It had been Brandon's parents who had brought them together, Brandon was told, which somehow didn't surprise him.
He was surprised, instead, by what Brenda asked him when he confided in her about his uncomfortable evening.
"Do you recall what I told you when I accepted Richard's proposal?" asked Brenda.
"I do not," said Brandon.
"Nor do I," said Brenda, "and you are unsure why you requested Susannah's hand. Are we becoming ill?"
"We may be," said Brandon. "Though I cannot become too ill. I agreed to observe a performance with David tomorrow, an assignment for his program of studies."
"A performance?" asked Brenda. "May I come along? I do love a good performance."
"I believe it will conflict with the plans Richard will inevitably have for you."
"Richard is welcome to engage in a game with Father," said Brenda.
"Is there trouble in paradise?" asked Brandon.
"I do not believe so," said Brenda. "I would just like a moment's rest from thinking of Richard."
"Spoken by a fiancée enshrouded in love. He does not seem that terrible. High-strung, perhaps, a bit too keen on remaining in Father's good graces, but not terrible."
"If a man is good to his peers but horrendous to those society deems his inferiors, is he good?" asked Brenda.
"Has Richard been demeaning his inferiors?" asked Brandon.
"He quite detests that Dylan McKay. I cannot understand the logic."
"Dylan McKay?"
"An employee of Father's, one who has seemingly upset both Father and Richard with his alleged antics."
"Is he a man to avoid?" asked Brandon, who could already see the wheels zipping through Brenda's brain.
"He seems perfectly adequate to me," said Brenda. "Adequate, but underfed. I would like to bring to him a plate for his sister. She is quite pallid."
"Father would never permit it. You cannot go out unchaperoned."
"That is what I have a brother for," said Brenda with the sweetest expression.
Brandon did not understand how Brenda had managed to persuade him into the motor car the following afternoon, to meet a man Brenda had spoken to only twice.
Brenda often persuaded him into scenarios he would not have otherwise entered had it not been at the request of his sister.
"You will not divulge this meeting to my father or Richard, will you?" Brenda asked the driver whose name Brandon did not know.
"You can trust me, signorina Brenda," said the driver. "I am aware that His Earlship should never be informed of what his children get up to when he is away."
Jameson and Cindrina Walshford had departed earlier that morning for La Rochelle, where Jameson planned to convince his brother's family to join the Walshfords on their upcoming journey.
After the previous disaster of an evening, Brandon was glad to have the distance from his father.
"Grazie, Aurelio," said Brenda.
"What did you tell him?" asked Brandon as he opened the entrance to the park.
"I thanked him," said Brenda. "In his native Italian."
"Signorina?"
"It was the closest I could convince Aurelio to Brenda. He insists on being formal. I insist on his lack of formalities. It was a compromise."
They sat, chatting further about Brandon's doubts of Susannah.
"Do you find her horrendous?" asked Brenda.
"Not horrendous," said Brandon, "though she is certainly overargumentative, with none of your sweet demeanor to balance it out."
"Were you arguing anything of consequence?"
"We were arguing over Canada."
"Canada?"
"Yes, Canada. Susannah insists they have a president. I said he is a Prime Minister."
"What would possibly possess you to argue over Canada?"
"We were accompanied by a man of the fur industry, who was speaking of his sales in Canada."
"Sounds dreadful."
"You are correct," said a new voice. "It is a Prime Minister. Sir Robert Laird Borden."
Brandon examined the man standing before him.
Lanky and, as Brenda had said, undernourished.
"Are you Mr. McKay?" asked Brandon.
"If you are asking, then you must be Mr. Walshford."
"I must say," said Brandon, "you have quite an articulation for a -"
"Person of a lesser class?" Dylan scowled.
"I had intended to say an American," said Brandon.
"Canadian," said Dylan. "I am Canadian."
"What is a Canadian man such as yourself doing in an area like Cherbourg? I would expect you would be out of your depths."
"I can see this was an egregious mistake I shall not make again," said Dylan.
He turned his back on both Walshford twins and began to head for the exit.
"What a shame," Brenda said to Brandon. "I had hoped we would avoid discarding such savory fish." Her tone increased in decibel and emphasis. "Perhaps we can find a cat to give this platter to. I believe the baker down the street may be in possession of a cat."
"Fish, did you say?" Dylan stopped in his tracks.
"A platter full of fish," said Brenda. "Freshly caught fish shipped in from Guernsey, I believe."
"Caught only yesterday," said Brandon.
"Cooked to perfection by Lucia," said Brenda.
"Lucia?" asked Dylan.
"Our cook," said Brandon. "Before joining our family's employ, Lucia had cooked for the finest culinary establishments across all of Europe. Come along then, Brenda. Let us go find this cat."
Brandon led Brenda towards the opposite end of the park.
"Valerie is fond of fish," Dylan called behind their backs. "Particularly well-seasoned fish."
"Who is Valerie?" asked Brandon.
"His sister," said Brenda, as Dylan answered, "My sister."
Flicking a quick glance over his shoulder, Brandon saw Dylan looking at Brenda as if he were noticing her for the first time.
"Lucia uses only the finest spices," said Brandon. "One whiff of this and the cat will be satisfied. If Valerie would like the fish, she may request it from the baker. If you will be so inclined as to excuse us."
The Walshford twins took several steps more away from Dylan.
"I, myself, am also fond of fish," said Dylan. "It has been a good while since I've had a decent plate of fish."
"Will you accept it, then?" asked Brenda, halfway pivoting to neither face Dylan, nor turn her back to him.
"S'ppose I will," said Dylan. "Merci."
"Pas de problème," said Brenda, handing over the plate.
"Shall we sit?" asked Brandon, gesturing to a freshly-painted bench. "Become better acquainted? So that you can understand that my younger sister's intentions are genuine?"
"Younger?" asked Dylan. "I was under the impression that you are twins."
"We are," said Brenda. "Mother says I was born a whole seven minutes after Brandon, and Brandon never lets me forget it. Valerie; she is older?"
"Younger," said Dylan as he sat on the bench. "Though she is often mistaken as older."
Brandon also sat, following through on his chaperone duty to help Brenda maintain a respectable distance from Dylan.
"What is it like?" asked Brenda. "The Atlantic?"
Dylan paused in his devouring of his meal.
"You have never seen the Atlantic?" he asked.
"I have never been outside the boundaries of Europe," said Brenda. "I have heard of these places: Canada, Mexico, America. But I have never seen them."
"Your fiancé," said Dylan through a mouthful of fish, "he is an American, is he not?"
"He is," said Brenda. "One of the few individuals Father is fond of; truly fond of, with no feigned airs. You've something..."
Using her pinkie finger, she pointed at her chin to indicate the food remains weaving into Dylan's chin.
Brandon didn't miss the glance that passed between the two as Brenda did so.
Had Richard been nearby, he may have mistaken that momentary glance for something more.
"Apologies," Dylan wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. "I am not usually in the presence of such refined company. I am afraid my table manners have long escaped me, though Valerie would claim I've never had any."
"Would her claims be correct?" asked Brenda.
"She would say they are," said Dylan.
"Here." Brandon handed Dylan a handkerchief. "I carry extras."
"Thank you," said Dylan, replacing his hand with the handkerchief.
"I believe my brother's intended meaning was that a Canadian in France is unusual to find, and so you may feel out of depths in that regard," said Brenda, brushing off Dylan's apology. "He did not mean anything more. Didn't you, Brandon?"
"My sister is correct," said Brandon. "My apologies if it came off as scathing."
"The apology is mine," said Dylan. "I should not have assumed."
"You work for our father," said Brandon. "It is understandable that you would assume I share his opinion."
"Do you?" asked Dylan.
"I should think not," said Brenda. "Father and Brandon can barely tolerate each other."
"I find Father's beliefs archaic," said Brandon. "It is the twentieth century. The date of his birth was in the nineteenth, yet he is fixated on the eighteenth."
"The eighteenth is generous," said Brenda. "The fifteenth is more accurate."
"It is an unfortunate result of his stodgy upbringing that causes us to be frequently at odds with one another."
"Brandon is far closer with Mother."
"Brenda is close with neither."
"Neither?" asked Dylan.
"I do not like the way Father speaks to our servants, and the way Mother never seems to notice or care," said Brenda. "Though Brandon believes Mother not speaking up to Father is protecting the servants."
"If you've the opportunity for a relationship with your Mama, you should take it," Dylan muttered unexpectedly. "Je suis désolée," he added in an accent that nearly caused Brandon to cringe. "Your relationships or lack thereof with your parents should not be of my concern."
"Do you miss her?" Brenda asked kindly. "Your Mama?"
"Very much so," said Dylan. "She has been gone quite a long time now, long enough that on most days, Valerie appears to have forgotten her."
"How terrible. I am sorry." Brenda's gloved hand flew to Dylan's clothed arm.
Dylan looked at his arm, gobsmacked.
"Brenda," said Brandon, in a tone between reproachful and a gentle reminder.
Brenda removed her hand.
"I do so detest these rules of decorum," she said. "If there is suffering, one should think one would be permitted to offer comfort."
"You best heed your brother's warning," said Dylan. "There may be gossips nearby."
"Gossips schmossips," said Brenda. "One cannot witness the suffering of men and sit idly by."
"I, erm, I like to imagine Mama continues to watch Valerie and I, from the skies," said Dylan. "She was a big believer that she would, perhaps beside Pa."
"Are you?"
"I do not know what I believe."
"Both of your parents are gone, then?" asked Brenda.
"Oui," said Dylan. "I swore to them both that Valerie and I would remain together, and though it has led to us moving around quite a bit, I have ensured to follow through."
It was Brandon's turn to say sorry, and to keep his own hand off of Dylan's arm.
Brenda was correct. It was difficult to not offer sympathy, particularly to Dylan.
There was something quite familiar about Dylan, which Brandon could not place.
That familiarity led Brandon to refuse the handkerchief Dylan attempted to return, indicating in silent understanding that the handkerchief had become Dylan's.
"My sister can be quite interrogative," said Brandon.
"My brother is one to talk," said Brenda.
"I must say, neither of you act at all the way I expected Earl Walshford's offspring to act," said Dylan. "Are you quite certain you are his children?"
"Unfortunately," said Brandon.
"Is it lovely?" asked Brenda. "Canada?"
A stone paperweight seemed to temporarily lift from Dylan as he detailled to the twins the beauty in the place of his birth, Cape Breton Island in Nova Scotia, and the place he was raised, Bathurst in New Brunswick.
"Nova Scotia," said Brenda. "New Scotland? I have been to Scotland; Brandon and I both. Is it similar?"
"As I have not been to Scotland myself, I cannot say," said Dylan, seemingly impressed with Brenda's Latin understanding.
"You should," said Brenda.
"One day, perhaps," said Dylan. "I should like to see Ireland first. I'm told Mama has distant cousins there."
"I should like to see it again," said Brenda. "Our trip there was short-lived."
If Brandon didn't interrupt their conversation soon, he thought Brenda may end up inviting Dylan and Valerie as their travelling companions aboard the Titanic.
Brandon could handle his father's anger, but he could never tolerate that anger being aimed at his sister.
He had not seen Richard's anger that he knew of, and he didn't want that anger aimed at Brenda, either.
Brandon made a show of checking his gilded pocket watch, a gift from their maternal grandfather on the occasion of Brandon's twelfth birthday.
To use for your sister, said the inscription embedded in the gold plating.
"Brenda, the time. Aurelio should be arriving soon."
"I neglected to pay attention," said Brenda. "Brandon is to meet David, at a performance. Can we give you a lift anywhere?" she asked Dylan.
"Merci, but the place I am to meet Valerie is faster by foot. She, too, will savor this fish."
"I am glad," said Brenda. "The spices would have been too rich for the stomach of a cat. Shall we meet again tomorrow, same time?"
"This fish should last us half the week," said Dylan. "We should not meet too often. Suspicions may arise."
"You do have a reputation to attempt to protect, Bren," said Brandon. "There is already much talk of your reported work with the suffragists."
"Only because they do not know of yours, brother," said Brenda.
"I should like to stay out of the papers," said Dylan.
"As you will," said Brenda. "Thursday, then. We shall see you Thursday. Here?"
"Thursday," said Dylan.
Brandon wondered if Dylan had realized how long Dylan had refrained from breaking his observation of Brenda.
"It was an unexpected pleasure to meet you, Mr. Walshford."
"Brandon," said Brandon. "I wholeheartedly agree, Mr. McKay."
"Dylan," said Dylan.
"I suppose none of us are too fond of formalities," said Brenda.
"Will I see you both on Thursday?" asked Dylan.
"You will," Brenda spoke for Brandon. "I am allowed out only with a chaperone, and Brandon is my chaperone."
"Her chaperone who is keen on hearing more about Canada," said Brandon.
"Then we shall meet here, and I will tell you both more stories of home," said Dylan.
He aimed a smile at Brenda, a smile which would have made Richard Worthington quite displeased.
"David may also serve as her chaperone," said Brandon. "He is the only other individual Father has allowed Mother to designate as such, with the exception of our cousin Robert when he visits from Derbyshire."
"David is discretionary, as well," said Brenda.
"David Silverthorne?" asked Dylan. "The David you were with yesterday? The David who is the cousin of your fiancé?"
"We have known him for years," said Brenda. "It is through David that I met Richard."
"It is?" asked Brandon and Dylan, in sync.
"It is." Brenda shot her concern at Brandon. "Don't you recall, Brandon?"
"Yes, of course," said Brandon, though he assuredly did not recall.
David was familiar. Even Dylan, largely unknown to him, was familiar.
Richard Worthington and how he became introduced to Brenda was not.
Perhaps Brandon would feel differently the next time he encountered Richard.
"Does your kind shake hands?" asked Brandon.
"By 'my kind,' I will assume you mean Canadians, so that we will not have a repeat misunderstanding," said Dylan. "Yes, we Canadians do shake hands, if we like the company of the person whose hand we shake."
"I believe he may have invented that last part," said Brenda.
Dylan winked at her as he and Brandon shook hands.
"Let him have it," said Brandon good-naturedly. "We English have crafted plenty of inventions to call our own."
"As have we," said Dylan. "Newsprint comes to mind."
Brandon pictured himself, clicking his fingers against rounded squares upon a faded white rectangle as words formulated on a lit larger square.
So when you meet me in the halls or in class or on the lawn at lunch, I'll be looking for more than meets the eye. And I hope you will, too. 'Cause that's where the green room is, read the screen.
"The Green Room," said Brandon.
"Sorry?" asked Dylan, squinting with a tilt of his head.
"La chambre vert," said Brandon. "The Green Room. Have you heard of it?"
"Would that be a conservatory?" asked Dylan.
"Yes, I suppose it would." Brandon shook the image away.
"We have a lovely conservatory," said Brenda. "Do you have an interest in them?" she asked Dylan.
"Mama did," said Dylan. "She had a great love for flowers. She would pick a fresh bouquet for every day of spring. The last bouquet she picked was for..." Dylan trailed off and grew quiet.
"We best be off, Bren," said Brandon.
"Bren?" asked Brenda, startled. "You have never called me Bren."
"How bizarre," said Brandon. "I am unsure of what has come over me. I don't suppose you have a hobby of water activities?" he asked Dylan.
"Diving," said Dylan. "I've always enjoyed diving."
"You do not ride the waves?"
"Are you referring to the sport of surfing?"
"Perhaps."
"I did, once. Took a rather nasty fall, too. How did you know?"
"The Green Room," said Brandon, and then again looked at his watch. "Terribly sorry, but we really must be off now."
"I have never seen Brandon this willing to converse with anyone," said Brenda.
"It is easy to converse with the both of you," said Dylan.
"Perhaps Valerie should like to come with you on Thursday," said Brenda.
"Perhaps," said Dylan.
Brandon directed Aurelio to the Worthington estate, where Richard stood outside, waiting.
"Your tardiness is well-known, Brenda, but I do expect you will not be tardy with me again?" said Richard.
"I was with Brandon." Brenda sailed through her answer. "We were speaking of you and Susannah and neglected to maintain an eye on the time."
"Then that is quite alright," said Richard. "You must bring Susannah by soon," he told Brandon, who attempted to surreptitiously examine Richard in an effort to understand why the man Brandon had evidently known for years on end seemed a stranger.
Richard held out his arm to help Brenda out of the motor car.
"Darling, Mother has set out the crystal china in anticipation of your arrival. She has insisted I ask you for tea more often."
"We shall see if it is a tea before we refer to it as such," said Brenda. "I have never known an American to make a proper scone."
"Then it is good our cook is not American," said Richard.
"Will our new home in America have a cookstove?" asked Brenda. "It would fascinate me, I think. Cooking."
"Cover Brenda Walshford, daughter of an Earl, in the ashes of a cookstove? Why, to imagine such things!" said Richard.
"I've a friend who cooks," said Brenda.
"Which friend?" asked Richard. "I am acquainted with all of your friends, and I do not know a one of them who cooks."
"An ami," said Brenda, and then waved goodbye to Brandon. "Mon ami from Breton."
Brandon communicated with the language of his eyes to tell Brenda that she best tread carefully, as Brandon didn't trust Richard to remain polite to Brenda if he knew who she had met that day.
"I was starting to think you may arrive late." David Silverthorne stood in a top hat and tails, watching Brandon step out of the car in a similar ensemble. "It is unlike you to not be early."
"We brought Brenda to Richard," said Brandon.
"I do wish Brenda would reconsider my cousin's proposal," said David.
"What do you mean?"
"She will be moving to America."
"Moving to America?" Brandon nearly toppled into a passing wagon.
"You did not realize?" David steadied him.
"I was under the impression Richard had planned to relocate here," said Brandon. "Mother had asked him when he was here for Christmas, and Richard said he would be moving here following the wedding."
"That was the impression we were given, as well, but Richard has been further promoted to a position in Baltimore; Maryland, one of the American States. He is quite satisfied there and has every intention to stay. If Brenda is to wed Richard, we may never see her again."
"Your cousin is an honorable man, is he not?"
"If Brenda remains in place and accepts the role of dutiful lady of the estate, Richard will be honorable."
"She will not," said Brandon. "This is Brenda we are speaking of. Brenda, who intentionally destroyed her sampler to upset her governess because Father had sacked Brenda's favorite gardener. Brenda, who released the horses from the stables of our uncle because she believed his horses were being mistreated, and would not tell him where she had hid the horses until she personally watched Uncle discard of his new riding crop."
"Oh yes, I remember," David laughed. "It took over a week for your uncle to round up the last horse. Your mother was furious."
"Furious? Livid, my good man. Livid is much more accurate."
"Richard will be determined to tame Brenda," said David. "If he does not, I cannot speak to what my cousin may do in response."
"We must do something. What do you suggest we do?" Brandon was unwilling to be separated from his sister by an entire ocean if there was even the slightest possibility her future spouse could turn less than honorable, or, as David had said, be determined to tame Brenda.
Brenda Walshford could not be tamed. Brandon would despise anyone who attempted.
"We must concoct a plan to come between them," said David.
"We may not have to," said Brandon. "There may be a connection forming between Brenda and another, who may be able to persuade her to go against Father and deny Richard. Do you know of a Dylan McKay? He resides in your area of town."
"Dylan McKay?" asked David. "His sister is a patient of Father's."
"His sister Valerie?" asked Brandon.
"Oh, is that her name?" asked David. "I believe I may have overheard her say it during a visit to Father, but it is difficult to not distract oneself with her beauty."
"Her beauty?"
"Walshford, if there is a woman who possesses more beauty than Valerie McKay, I have yet to make this imaginary woman's acquaintance," said David.
"Then why do you not ask Miss McKay to join you for an evening?" asked Brandon. "Your father would scarcely mind."
"It is simple," said David. "Valerie McKay is unaware I exist."
Brandon settled into the cushioned chair, brandy in one hand and a pamphlet in the other that specified the details of the performance.
A gaggle of dancers came onto the stage.
Brandon surveyed them all appreciatively, particularly the women.
"I often find ballet performances tedious," he told David.
"Watch this ballet the way you would watch an artist at work, and you may see it differently," said David.
Brandon heeded David's advice.
There were few men amongst the dancers, fewer still that performed perfect lifts of their female partners.
A broader dancer's curly blond hair hid behind the ballerina he had lifted, whose luminescent glow enraptured Brandon nearly as much as did her aquatic eyes.
"Who is that?" he whispered to David.
David read over the program.
"Kellieanna Tailors," he said.
"The company; it is Austrian, you said?"
"It began in Paris," said David. "Ballet Russes, consisting of dancers from the Imperial Ballet."
"Kellieanna is Russian?"
"Latvian." David showed Brandon in the pamphlet.
"'Kellieanna is partnered with her cousin, Stephen Sanderson," Brandon read. "'It is her first performance outside of her beloved Latvia.'" Brandon pushed away the pamphlet. "I must meet this Kellieanna," he declared.
"You are Brandon Walshford," David chuckled. "You can swan into any room to demand a meeting with her."
"Where I will be captured by the papers as I do so, which Susannah will be sure to read and show my father," said Brandon. "No, Kellieanna must not know who I am. Perhaps you can meet her first, introduce me as an individual in your father's employ whilst I change."
"A servant? You wish for me to pretend you are a servant? Do I get to order you about like you are Cinderella?"
"An apprentice," said Brandon. "I can be an apprentice of your father's. His apprentices come and go so quickly, it will be easy to pretend."
They hatched a plan, a plan Brandon only half focused on as all of his attention was on the graceful movements of Kellieanna Tailors and Stephen Sanderson.
In that moment, Brandon decided ballet was his favorite art form ever invented.
"Flowers for Kellieanna Tailors," said David, holding out the bouquet.
"Do you know Kellieanna?" asked the crew member, eyeing David suspiciously despite accepting the vase.
"My father treats her scars," said David.
"Scars?" asked Brandon. They passed through a sea of dancers he looked at only to see if Kellieanna was amongst them.
"You did not see the scars upon her collarbone?" asked David. "They were quite noticeable in her costume."
"Then you may call me unobservant," said Brandon, "for I saw nothing more than the figure of a swan."
"Careful, Walshford. You are betrothed."
"If you were given an opportunity with Miss McKay whilst you yourself were betrothed, would you reject her advances?"
"That does not apply." David blushed furiously. "I am not betrothed."
"Nor is Brandon the apprentice. Brandon Walshford is stuck in a business arrangement he cannot so easily leave if he does not want his father to become angry and take out that anger on his sister. Brandon the apprentice is in no such arrangement. Brandon the apprentice may not even have a sister. Kellieanna may be the only woman around who will not already know who I am, and I would like it to remain so."
"We cannot call you Brandon the apprentice. Brandon Valentino may be better."
"You know that my Italian is abysmal. She will see right through me."
"This is true. Brandon Walsh?"
"You hardly tried on that one. It is far too close to Walshford."
When Kellieanna opened her door to them, Brandon was not a Walshford but rather a Malone, visiting his wealthier, distant cousin David Silverthorne to become an apprentice to Johannes Silverthorne.
"Brandon Malone, is it?" asked Kellieanna in rhythmic, perfect English that surpassed Brandon's grasp on his own native language. "I should think a Malone would be of Ireland. Are you an Irishman, Brandon?"
The way Kellieanna pronounced Brandon's name, dragging out each syllable, was unlike anything he had ever heard before.
He rather liked her pronunciation.
"Adopted," said David. "Brandon was adopted. If he is of Irish descent, we are unaware."
"I was raised in America," said Brandon, for that was the only accent he could fake with little trouble.
"Oh?" asked Kellieanna. "Where in America?"
Brandon said the first state that came to mind.
"Maryland. In Baltimore."
"Maryland is in the South of America?" asked Kellieanna.
Brandon was ignorant of American geography.
"I believe Brazil is," he said.
Kellieanna took that as a joke, and laughed.
"You are funny, Brandon," she said. "Did you enjoy the performance?"
"I enjoyed you in the performance," Brandon blurted.
There was something about putting on an American accent that boosted his confidence considerably.
"Paldies," she said, "thank you."
"Kellieanna," said a voice, "who is at the door?"
"New friends," she said. "Stephen! Come meet them."
"We do like new friends." Stephen appeared beside Kellieanna. "Stephen Sanderson," he said.
"I'm David Silverthorne and this is Brandon Malone," said David. "We came to tell Kellieanna how much Brandon admired her performance."
"It was a group performance," said Kellieanna.
"Which you indeed shined in," said Stephen. "Our Kel does have a talent."
"Kel?" asked Brandon.
"A family name," said Kellieanna. "Stephen and I had planned to meet up with the other dancers. We heard of a cabaret that Stephen would especially like to see."
"A cabaret?" asked Brandon. "I can get us tick -"
David cleared his throat and subtly glanced at Brandon.
"A cabaret would be a grand old time," said Brandon.
"Then you will come." Stephen grabbed for his coat. "And Mr. Silverthorne will pay drinks."
"I will?" asked David.
"You are the one with the money," Brandon reminded David.
"Money," said David. "Yes, many francs. Many, many francs."
That David was holding onto Brandon's hat and tails worked in Brandon's favor.
"What is with him?" asked Stephen.
"Brandy," said Brandon.
"A girl?" asked Stephen. "These girl problems, I can help. Tell me about this Brandy."
Kellieanna and Brandon fell behind Stephen and David.
"Your eyes," she said, "they are fascinating."
"They are?" asked Brandon.
"They remind me of home, of the sea. Days spent by the Baltic Sea," said Kellieanna. "A ribbon, streaming above the sand in the wind. Have you been to the Baltic Sea, Brandon?"
"I haven't," he said, the first honest remark he had offered her.
"You should, one day. But the Atlantic. You must have crossed the Atlantic, to come here."
He would cross it soon enough for it to count, Brandon thought.
"Yes," he lied. "The Atlantic. Oh sure. Be mindful of the..."
Of the what? Brandon's mind asked frantically. Of the what?
"Of the sharks," he finished.
"Sharks cannot scare me off the Atlantic," she said. "Our tour will soon be in America. We will perform in a city called Philadelphia, for President Taft. Is that near to Baltimore?"
What the Dickens? thought Brandon.
Had Kellieanna picked up on his lie? How was Brandon to know where Philadelphia was in relation to Baltimore? He barely knew of the placement of Boston.
He tried to think of whether Richard had ever given Brandon any insight on American geography.
"Yes," Brandon said again, hoping his guess was correct. "How will you get to America?"
"By the ocean, of course," said Kellieanna. "Is there another way? And then, we will travel down to what I have heard is the magical land of Florida. Do you know Florida?"
She also dragged out the syllables of Florida, which Brandon thought had never sounded lovelier than it did coming out of Kellieanna's lips.
"I believe the Spanish conquistadors do," said Brandon.
"Maybe there are some in the cabaret," said Kellieanna. "Brandon, we have arrived."
She opened the doors and, at once, the small group of four was immersed in the excitable sounds of a cabaret.
Brandon ensured to steer their group away from the eager newsmen in the corner.
They had come for the show, but if they were to notice Brandon, he would become the focus of their pens.
Stephen's physique, thankfully, easily blocked Brandon from the view of any newsman.
Leaving him to concentrate only on further conversation with Kellieanna Tailors, and her tales of life on the road that had Brandon questioning if he, too, could live a life on the road as fascinating as the life of a Latvian ballerina.
-x
Sources: Google and the website for Virginia Center for Neuroscience. Green Room Dialogue: Second episode of the first season.
Thanks a million! x