Page 18 of Eternal Devotion

He dashed a coy look in my direction.

If I had the capacity to blush, I feared I might have.

“Do you mind walking?”

“Not at all.”

Ensley took me along the same streets I’d wandered the previous Friday, pointing out key restaurants and locations, indicating where I could find the best burgers, pizza, and Chinese food.

“You do not want to go to Juicy Stacks. It’s a trick. Their burgers are dry as shit and tasteless.”

“Noted.” I’d never had a burger in my life but had admired them plenty over the years.

The wind blew, and Ensley huddled inside his jacket, commenting on the chilly weather and encroaching winter. “Is it cold where you’re from?”

“Often.”

“Do you get snow?”

“Depends where I’m living.”

Around the next bend, Ensley pointed at a short building with tinted windows. “If you play pool, there’s the billiard hall, but if you like to dance, I suggest Heartwood. Bands and booze, if that’s your thing. A little country-leaning, but we forgive it. We don’t have a nightclub. Closest one is Toronto.”

The entire city felt country-leaning, but I wasn’t complaining. In fact, Owen Sound felt more like a town than a city. Besides, I didn’t need nightclubs and dance bars. I needed to find Iulian and go home, where I could return to my life on the periphery of the world.

We weaved along countless roads, Ensley marking important sites and landmarks, until he veered onto 9th Street and aimed for the bridge. He stopped midway across and peered over the railing.

Ignoring the discomfort in my bones, I moved in beside him, observing the flowing water and noting the concrete barrier shoreline encasing the channel where it ran through the city.

“Owen Sound was established in 1841 and was originally called Sydenham.”

“I didn’t know that.”

Ensley turned to face me, leaning an elbow on the rail. His attention was a physical caress, his smile open and free. It was almost enough to distract me from the uncomfortable location and flowing water.

“This is the Sydenham River,” he explained. “It empties into Georgian Bay. Our little settlement wasn’t officially named Owen Sound until the 1850s. I did some research after showing you the house. Apparently, it was built in 1856 by some rich guy named Sebastian Branson, an entrepreneur who relocated to the area because of its growing industry. The harbor became a prominent hub for shipping. Timber, limestone, agriculture. I don’t know. This guy had his fingers in the pot and earned a pretty penny.”

“Branson. It’s called the Branvilla Estate, correct?”

“It is. I love history, and after we found all those paintings upstairs, I was curious. I had some time on my hands today, so I checked the chain of title, which is a house genealogy, if you will. From there, I researched some key players in the Branson family tree, hoping to identify some of the portraits. Want to know what I found?”

“Sure. Can we keep walking? It’s rather cold by the water,” I lied.

Standing over a river, secure bridge notwithstanding, made it hard to concentrate, and I enjoyed listening to Ensley talk. I didn’t want to miss a word.

“This way. We’ll find the Jeep, and I’ll show you where I live.”

We strolled back the way we’d come, and Ensley regaled me with the mansion’s history.

“Sebastian Branson had nine children and died in 1881 at the ripe age of sixty. Since his wife passed on earlier the same year, the house went to his oldest son, Robert. He’s the guy in the portrait holding the hat. The one with the wild mustache. Robert moved in with his wife and five children. I believe the picture of the woman was her. Isabelle. Robert and his family lived there until 1897 when he died of tuberculosis. He was fifty-one.

“The house then passed to his oldest son, Caspian. Caspian was apparently an odd fellow. I strongly suspect that was a euphemism for gay. He lived in the mansion alone until he died in 1955. He never married or had children. From what I read, he had regular male visitors who stayed for long periods several times a year. I suspect, although I couldn’t confirm, that the portrait of the boyish, younger man was his lover.”

When Ensley paused for effect, I smirked. “How… riveting.”

“Right?” He laughed. “Anyhow, none of Caspian’s siblings wanted to take over the mansion, so it sat empty. The deed passed to his sister, Fiona, who was ten years his junior. She had two sons. One died in the First World War, and the other, Peter, fought and came back injured. He took over the estate, living like a recluse until his death in 1984.”

“Another recluse. Did he take after his uncle, perhaps?”