Trophies (34 page)

Again at Aunt Edith's suggestion, I
transferred my half-hearted studies to the English Cambridge.
William had long since matriculated and was now an increasingly
famous London barrister, side by side with our father, and the
name-brand recognition possibly sparked interest in my application
despite my generally lukewarm academics. Some of the professors and
a number of serious students, at least, welcomed me warmly.

But next year, again, I was asked to leave.
Again I had retreated from civilized company and migrated toward
the percentage of the student body my father would have termed
"dodgy." Again there was no proof against me. And again, the
impression of me as a brooding undesirable overwhelmed all other
considerations when the time came for the university officials to
determine my academic fate.

They didn't know the truth and admitted they
didn't want to. They just wanted me gone. I'd been in England for
eight months and hadn't heard word one from my parents or William.
My trophy case garnered a few more articles, items that symbolized
something for me, nothing of real value, which was as good a
description of my time there as any.

Without a qualm I wired Aunt Edith for funds
to return to Boston, booked a berth aboard a tramp steamer
departing the next day — flying seemed so boring in comparison —
sent my luggage aboard, and returned to campus to drop off the
key.

But a silver Rolls lounged in front of the
quad, all sleek retro lines and mirror polish, and among the
students crowding the sidewalks not only my head swiveled. I had
never bothered to learn driving, it just never interested me the
way it did my peers, but even I could admire a machine like that. I
wondered who rated such luxury — a banker's son, I decided, or a
doctor's — then I recognized the man leaning against the rear
fender. It was William and he met my gaze with his chin jutted out.
Just like Father.

The resemblance was uncanny. The only way I
could be certain it was William and not Father was the smooth skin
about the eyes and lack of grey hair frosting the black. Otherwise
it was as if my earliest memory of Father had stepped out of my
brain, dusted itself off, and struck a pose against the side of the
car. Even the pin-striped dark suit looked the same, except Father
usually wore white shirts and William that day wore grey with a
maroon cravat.

Suddenly awkward for no reason I could
identify, I stopped on the sidewalk in the bright autumn sun and
listened to my slow heartbeat. There was no reason for William to
be there, that day of all days, and I wondered if he knew I was
leaving school. Again. Leaving hadn't bothered me prior to that
moment; I knew I'd keep the friends who interested me, and they
were all that mattered; but for some reason, having William there
and knowing, too, changed my exodus from a lark to something almost
shameful.

"Hello, William."

For a long moment his gaze held me
motionless, something like what headlamps do to young deer. Then he
stepped to the English passenger-side front, opened the door, and
turned to me.

"Get in," he said.

It never occurred to me to refuse, even
though his eyes were narrowed and his jaw was tight. After all, he
was my brother, estrangement or no. I slid into the seat. He swung
the door to, strode around the front of the car, and settled behind
the wheel. His black leather driving gloves contrasted elegantly
with the dove-grey interior. The engine caught at the gentlest
touch on the starter, and William shifted gear and steered the big
car off campus.

I knew the answer but asked nevertheless. "Is
this yours?"

"Yes." He turned onto the southbound road
outside town, the long way to the A40, and shifted up. "Did you
send your luggage ahead?"

"Of course." So he did know. My embarrassment
deepened. My heart beat even louder and I listened to its slow
drumming in my chest as if I had never heard it before. Certainly
it had never sounded quite like this.

He shifted again. "Are you returning to
Boston?"

"Where else?"

"The estate."

Where my family lived. "I didn't realize I
would be welcome."

"I never said you would be." He glanced
askance at me, green eyes slitted.

Too late, I realized he was driving into the
wooded parkland and not to the A40 and civilization at all. I
couldn't believe I had been stupid enough to accept a ride from
him. He was the one with the boxing trophies, not me.

I drew a deep breath. "Did Father send you?"
The bitterness in my voice was an accusation.

"I didn't tell him I was coming." He guided
the car to the verge, parked it, and killed the engine.

We sat silently, not facing, while the
dashboard clock ticked loudly: four seconds, five, six, seven.

"What do you want, William?"

Finally he turned to face me. His chin still
jutted, but his eyes were more focused, as if he really saw me for
the first time. He studied me — eleven seconds, twelve, thirteen —
while my pulse picked up speed. With a sudden desperation, I
wondered if I could outrun him.

"We're going to talk." He popped his door
open. "Get out."

We squared off in the shade of the ancient
oaks edging the road and glared at each other. I made sure to keep
out of reach.

"Charles, what in hell do you think you're
doing?"

He even sounded like Father, the same studied
measured tones that could hypnotize juries into whatever affect was
necessary to assure his legal victory. At that all-too-familiar
modulation, something inside me rebelled, as if I again faced
Father in his library.

"You know, I used to listen to Father
practice that tone of voice," I said. "He'd have the butler prop a
full-length mirror in his study, and he'd watch and listen to
himself as he practiced his arguments. He used it on me, too, when
he wanted to frighten me. I'm accustomed to it, William, and I'm
not eleven any longer. That tactic won't work."

He stepped toward me. I stepped back, just as
far.

"Answer the question."

"You'll have to explain it first. Are you
referring to any particular action, or was that just a
rhetorical—"

"This is the second university that's kicked
you out."

So he did know, and in detail. Again I was
embarrassed. "They asked me to leave."

"Don't quibble." William eased closer again,
but not so close I felt the need to retreat. "They're being polite
because of Father. Believe me, this has not been kept quiet. People
are talking. To us."

"Well, I wish they'd talk to me instead. This
is the first I've heard of any trouble."

"Oh, so Harvard asked you to leave because
they didn't like you?" He scoffed. "Lady Fiona's been comforting
Mum. 'I wouldn't worry about it, Charlene. It's not always the
parents, you know, sometimes it's just bad seed.' " He'd always
done an accurate if cruel imitation of Lady Fiona's voice, which
was as scrawny as her neck. In an odd sort of way, I found the link
through time almost comforting.

Not that I'd tell him that. "Mum won't be
seen in public, right?"

"All right, you don't give a damn for Mum.
You've already proven that. Just answer the question. What is wrong
with you?"

And suddenly I had to admit the significance.
My shoulders sagged. I answered him honestly, the same way I'd
answered Father when he succeeded in cutting through my defenses.
"All I know is, I'm not meant for university."

William paused, examining me as if I was a
hostile witness. My face turned hot beneath his gaze. He was eight
years older than I and could afford a Rolls; the flat in London was
a given. I'd had to wire Aunt Edith for the funds to return to
Boston and had no idea what to do with myself, something that
seemed increasingly clear to everyone, even me. At that moment,
amidst the shame and jealousy, I felt the first stirring of real
hatred for my brother.

"I can accept that," he said finally. "Not
everyone's born to be a barrister."

I took a deep breath. "Thank you."

And in that moment, as I lowered my guard in
relief and started to reconsider those fraternal conceptions, he
snaked out an arm, grabbed me by the shirt front, and hauled me
close enough to smell his mouthwash. Again; he'd fooled me again,
and I let him. I tried to push far enough away to take a swing.
Effortlessly he hauled me back and slammed me against the car.

"Let me go!"

He shook me. "Oh, stop it. Listen, Charles.
I'm giving you a choice."

A healthy fear grew amidst the resurgent
hatred. I had no intention of listening to anything else he said. I
tried to twist away, digging my fingers into his wrist to break his
grip. He shook me again, like a puppy. Too late, I saw his flying
fist, tried to turn my face, but he clipped me sharply on the
cheekbone and my head hit the top of the car. Hopefully I dented
it.

The blow stunned me. I sagged in his
grip.

"You know, Charles, Aunt Edith's turned you
into a real gentleman." There was no mockery in his voice;
actually, he sounded rather proud of me. "You've got the polish
Father and I have always lacked. She's taught you to be elegant and
you've always been graceful." He moved suddenly and my stomach
exploded beneath his blow. "But it's all a veneer. She hasn't
taught you anything about real life and she hasn't made a man of
you."

He moved casually, signaling his intentions
up front; we both knew I was defenseless. He released me, raised
his fists, started at the top and worked his way down. First my
cheek, then my chin, quick right-left blows that bounced me off the
car again, then another vicious smash into my solar plexus that
crushed a moan from my lungs and doubled me over. His hands closed
on my upper arms — by this point I could only see fireworks — and
whirled me face-first into the car. I flailed against the smooth
hot metal but found no grip before he twisted my left arm between
my shoulder blades. I
knew
I was finished. William laid
three roundhouses on my kidneys then let go. I slid down the silver
metal to my knees and couldn't move.

"Are you listening now?" He wasn't even
breathing hard.

Oh, I hated him. "What choice?"

"You're returning home with me."

"What? Why ever?"

"You're rejoining the family, little brother.
You'll make calls with Mum and escort her shopping. You'll assist
at the firm, running errands and clerking, and you'll earn your
keep. When you've decided upon a course of study you'll enroll at
the Swindon college. You will, of course, continue to live at home
until you've proven we can trust you not to shame the family again.
Only then will you return to university and you'll still come home
over holidays and continue in the firm during long vacations. Is
that clear?"

It sounded like hell on earth. When I felt
homesick, it wasn't for the oaks of England but the roses of
Boston. "You want me for a trophy." Speaking was agony and my voice
was reedy.

"What do you mean?"

I finally convinced my dry eyes to focus and
glared at him sideways. He hadn't even rumpled his cravat.

"You want me under your thumb long enough to
convince the neighbors that whatever they heard was an ugly rumor.
You want to clear the family name. You don't want me at all."

He was quiet for only the briefest of pauses.
"That's right."

"And my other choice?"

"I'll finish what I started." Again he
paused. "I think you need a thrashing."

Oh, yes, he was just like Father.
"Bastard."

"I don't have all day." There was an edge to
his voice now. "Make your choice."

"You've no right."

He grabbed my shirt again. My body followed
along and slumped against the car. My knees refused to lock. Only
his grip kept me upright. I twisted my face away to hide my
frustration. But he laughed. I hated him so much I wondered if I
would explode.

"How much convincing do you need?" The
contempt in his voice wasn't subtle and it made up my mind for
me.

"I'm not going back."

He laughed, louder this time. "What? Not even
now?"

I caught and held his gaze. "Never."

To this day I'm uncertain exactly what he saw
in my expression. But the laugh died in his throat. William leaned
his head back, looked down his Roman nose at me for a long
considering moment, and I knew I had won the only fight that
mattered. I had robbed him of his trophy.

"You little sod."

He began with my right eye.

current time

William met me at the station.

Of course, the first attorney Sherlock could
reach on such short notice. William or Father: which was
preferable? I should have been grateful to all of them, I suppose,
but at that moment having to ask William for help was just one more
humiliation in a losing streak I was determined to snap.

"Understand," William said after Detective
Wingate flipped on the recorder, "I'm not licensed to practice law
in any of the United States of America. All I can do is observe and
make certain Charles' rights are not violated until he can obtain
more appropriate counsel."

William admitting to an imperfection? The man
who set the standard I couldn't reach, and now when I needed him he
adopted limitations? I shot him a glare. But his expression as he
stared back was wondering, as if he understood my responses no
better than Father, and when I turned away I found Wingate
watching, too, his eyebrows up. The amount of perfection in the
interrogation room already had my teeth on edge and we'd barely
begun.

"You can't legally do even that," Wingate
said. "But to keep the case clean, we'll allow it." One vertical
line creased his forehead, as if he worried that a good American
shyster wouldn't consider it all that clean and would find a means
of dismissing his case because of this little trans-Atlantic
arrangement. "Are you sure you don't want to call someone better
qualified?"