Every night, at 9:15pm sharp, the music starts.
Thaddeus Watson sat up in his bed. The deceivingly cheerful notes were ringing in his ear. Snarling, he stalked to the window and leaned out. "You evil bastards!" Thaddeus yelled, shaking his fist into the dark. "No matter how hard you try, I'm never going back!"
Chest heaving, he crossed his bedroom to sit at his desk. A finished letter waited to be sealed. "Never." He whispered.
As much as it broke his heart, he knew the letter would have to go out.
"Abigail, get me that bread." Marcellus' voice boomed, disturbing the silence.
Abigail Watson managed to repress the startled jerk that threatened to bubble up at the demand. With a sad smile towards her son, John, she reached in front of him and took the remaining chunk of bread she had baked that morning. John was too used to the slight to even move. John Watson hated family dinners. Ever since he was in the hunting accident at the age of 15, his father couldn't stand the sight of him. Then again, by that time, Marcellus was only interested in two things: his bank and his brandy. For years, Marcellus planned to invest enough into the business so John and his brother did not have to fight over ownership. But when John had been accidentally shot three years ago, he lost just enough functioning in his left arm to be considered useless by the patriarch. Clearly, his twin brother, Harry, would be taking over the bank and John would be in charge of the other business
The farm.
Apparently, John's slight disability was too substantial for the "difficult" work of banking but was insignificant for planting and harvesting wheat. It seemed that the curse of the old family farm continued into Marcellus' brood. Somehow, the Watson bloodline only produced twin sons and nothing else. Marcellus and his twin, Thaddeus, had fought over ownership of the land until Marcellus gave up, ran away, and finished his schooling. After a few too many drinks, Marcellus loved to tell the tale of sleeping out in a back alley with nothing but an extra shirt as his pillow. Once upon a time, before the drink had drowned every aspect of Marcellus' life, he had been quite the charismatic individual. He had even managed to secure the patronage of a wealthy banker after retrieving his wallet from a pickpocketer. The fact that Marcellus had convinced the boy to steal from the elderly man was neither here nor there.
From there, Marcellus was groomed into the life of a banker. He had thought that he would no longer need to worry about that damned farm and when his sons were born, immediately envisioned a large enterprise: Watson and Sons. But all that was ruined the day his son stupidly got himself shot.
Ever since that day, Marcellus refused to acknowledge his son. John learned to wait until his Uncle Thaddeus called for him and requested that he move from his London home to the farm. With a small glance across the table, John watched as the tips of Harry's ears turned red-a sign of both guilt and the beginnings of intoxication. It was only due to love for his brother that John did not mention who was at the shooting end of the gun. Harry had not just inherited the bank from Marcellus, but his drinking problem as well. Softening, John dropped his eyes and stared at his empty plate until the meal had concluded. Judging by the empty glass at Marcellus' left hand, John figured he only had a few more minutes until the old man stumbled to his study.
Unfortunately, Marcellus did not have the same plan. Once he had finished wolfing down his supper, he wiped his mouth and glared at John. "You." He growled.
Abigail squeezed John's hand under the table. John knew his mother wanted desperately to defend him, but previous experience only taught them that fighting Marcellus would only make things worse for the two. John wished idly that Marcellus would hurry with his speech about how John was a disappointment so that Abigail would run off to her morphine and John could read in silence. He braced himself as Marcellus stood to refill his glass. It was going to be a terrible and long night.
Turning back, Marcellus stood with derision shooting from his eyes. "How is it that whenever I figure out a way to avoid that curse, you manage to fuck it all up for me? I bet your ancestors are just cackling at my plight. Ever since Breannan Watson killed Gabhran for control of the family farm, like fucking Cain and Abel, we Watsons have been doomed to repeat history. But I got out of it, I got it right. Thaddeus lived and I rose above that poverty-ridden life. Until you. Just had to get shot, didn't you? But then I found another way. You just had to stay married, you idiot boy, long enough for Thaddeus to die and the farm would have been transferred to the Fitzpatrick family. But then Jasper died first, didn't he?"
The simple mention of his former husband's name elicited a frightened shiver down John's back. Marcellus had managed to procure a back-up solution to his little farm problem. By arranging a marriage for the Fitzpatrick's younger son and using the farm as a way to sweeten the deal, Marcellus ensured the farm would be out of his hands. The Fitzpatricks were relieved to have a farm to send Jasper off to and since the Fitzpatrick-Watson union would bear no sons, Harry would be free to marry and start a family without the threat that haunted the Watson men for generations. It was the perfect solution. Too bad no one considered how much of a bastard Jasper was. But it wasn't John's fault that Jasper was killed after trying to short-change a prostitute for her services shortly before the farce of a wedding. Men running that sort of business were not the kind to consider family curses. Still, Marcellus blamed John for allowing Jasper to consort with those women.
And as much as John tried to play the grieving widower, he could not help but wish he had been there as the two men held Jasper down as the third stabbed him over and over. John would have given his right arm to be the one to kill the younger Fitzpatrick. But he didn't linger over those memories lest he wanted to be plagued by nightmares for the next several days. Instead, he retreated to more pleasant memories. Normally Marcellus wouldn't know the difference.
It wasn't until an angry hand slapped down a sealed envelope did John realized that his inattentiveness was noticed. Ignoring his father, John peered down at the barely legible scrawl. Thaddeus was not an educated man, but he was proud enough to address a letter to his nephew. John did not need to open the envelope to know he was being summoned back to Scotland.