by Parker Swift
I was wondering what the hell her sudden shift in topic was about when I heard movement behind me. I turned and saw that Charlotte had entered the room. Coiffed perfectly, not a hair out of place, in a wrinkleless cashmere turtleneck sweater and a knee-length wool skirt. She looked elegant country through and through, like something off the pages of Horse and Hound. Sure enough the dogs came bounding in after her, running up to Christine, who scolded them for begging before giving them each a scrap of meat from a bowl on the counter.
“You spoil them,” said Charlotte coolly.
“Good morning, Your Grace,” I said. Each time I spoke that title I felt like I was playing make-believe at some weird Jane Austen theme park, but I also hoped like hell she’d say something along the lines of Oh, please, we’re practically family! Call me Charlotte!
“Good morning, Lydia. You slept well, I hope.” No such luck.
“I did, thank you.” All of a sudden I was cringing at the possibility that she’d heard us the night before.
“Do you happen to know where I might find my son?”
“Um, Dylan and your husband went to his office.”
“Yes, well,” Charlotte said, looking at me, “do enjoy your morning, my dear, but I advise you to steer clear of the gardens. They’re swamped with busybodies this morning,” she said with slight disgust. “It’s a necessary evil, I’m afraid, but such a nuisance. Which reminds me. Mrs. Barnes,” she said with irritation, “do remember to tell Bexley to clean up the lawns tomorrow—after these horrid days, there are always rose petals about and divots in the paths. You’d think they could show a little respect since we’re letting them into our home. Honestly.”
And with that she turned and left, with the dogs in tow.
* * *
Christine left shortly after Charlotte, and I found myself wandering the massive house alone. I knew I wanted to steer clear of the tourists—every once in a while I saw groups of heads bobbing outside a window I passed. I walked down long hallways lined with enormous oil paintings in frames as thick as my legs. I thought I was headed towards the main hallway, but after another twenty minutes, I had to concede that I was definitely lost.
My new goal was to find Dylan’s room again, maybe find my sneakers and explore some part of the outside not populated by a group of strangers. But after turning down yet another unfamiliar hallway, I heard voices emerge from an open door. I knew those voices, and I slowed.
“Tristan says you haven’t returned his calls. Or taken his meetings.” Geoffrey’s voice was stern and cold.
“Is your little lackey feeling ignored, Father? Whatever he needs from me, I’m sure it can wait.”
“You know very well that Tristan needs you to sign off on the deals.”
“You’ve never required this of me before. Why must you drag me into it now? You know very well I don’t have time. As it stands I’ve already put off the Olympic committee twice in the name of coming to your rescue at Hale Shipping. Even I can’t put them off a third time,” said Dylan.
“I must say I’m rather surprised and disappointed that after ten years we are still having this discussion. I’d rather hoped you would have worked that out of your system by now. Let me remind you, Son, you have real obligations. This company is your legacy. I won’t have you betraying everything your grandfather worked for.” His father’s voice was so tense, so rigid, he almost sounded panicked.
Dylan snorted disdainfully. “Grandfather would be thrilled, I’m sure, to learn that you summon his ‘hard work’ so effortlessly in the name of your own schemes when you showed nothing but blatant disinterest and contempt right up until his death. ”
“Careful, Son,” Geoffrey said menacingly, and Dylan was silent. “I’ve been patient with your dalliance with architecture for quite a while, but being a Hale means something. It’s time to get on board.”
“Well, that little dalliance wasn’t so horrible when it got you your first invitation from Her Majesty since Grandfather died, your first invitation as duke. The only reason I’m working with you and Hale Shipping at all is because of Grandfather and my promises to him. For him, I’ll do this. But would it have killed you to take more than a criminal interest in the company your father built from the ground up?”
I heard some rustling and movement and then a searing Geoffrey. “Look at yourself, so smug about what happened two years ago, but you have no idea what’s at stake. Maybe I should just…” It was as though I could hear Geoffrey’s face turning red, steam coming out of his ears. “Get your act together, Son. Look around you. You think your little architecture firm is going to support this place? You’d throw your family’s history away that easily? Think of your beloved Mrs. Barnes, Son.”
It almost sounded like Geoffrey was threatening Christine, and Dylan was silent. I knew I shouldn’t be listening, but I couldn’t pull myself away, and at this point I was more terrified that if I moved they’d hear me.
“Father, don’t you—” Dylan started, and I could hear the groan of frustration in his words. “If you’re ready to leave Hale Shipping, then leave. I’ll stay on the board, but I don’t need to run the place, for Christ’s sake.”
A long moment of silence passed, and then Geoffrey continued. “This isn’t a joke, Son. Do you understand that? It goes beyond you. You’ll sit as president of the company whether you like it or not. If you care about this place at all, you’ll fulfill all your expectations. And since we’re on the topic of our legacy—”
“No. I’m not talking about this,” said Dylan firmly, cutting his father off.
“And not with that American—”
“She’s not…No, you know what? I’m not getting into this with you. I said no. You won’t be dictating my personal life. I won’t become an instrument of torture and repression to an innocent child.”
“You’d see another ducal line—” Geoffrey’s voice was hot, angry, and my shoulders stiffened with tension.
“Haven’t there been enough sacrificial lambs?” Dylan was truly yelling. They both were. I wasn’t sure I’d ever heard a real all-out fight between anyone before. Not one that wasn’t at a bar, anyway. And I found myself shaking slightly. It was so unnerving. Dylan finally broke the silence. “Fine. I’ll call Tristan tonight and give him whatever he needs. I’m taking Lydia home now, sir.”
“This conversation isn’t over,” said Geoffrey, and I could hear Dylan humph loudly, his voice much closer to the door. “And don’t forget about our meeting with the board Wednesday.”
I heard more movement, and I quickly ducked behind a statue by the door. I stood there for a moment, holding my breath, eyes closed, trying to process everything I’d just heard. I couldn’t imagine fighting with my father the way Dylan had just fought with his, with the threats, the accusations, the complete absence of love. No wonder Dylan was so ambivalent about this place. On one hand, he clearly loved this house, clearly felt so connected to it and to what his grandfather had done to keep it; on the other hand, when he talked to his father, he sounded adamant that he wouldn’t have children, that he was happy to let the whole thing end. I was so still, could hear my own breathing, and I tried not to feel sad for him, for everything he was willing to sacrifice just to contain this part of this life.
“Lydia, my dear.” My eyes flashed open and I was looking straight into the eyes of Geoffrey, who was wiping sweat away from his forehead with a cloth handkerchief.
“Sir, I was—” I began, terrified for a moment, but he put up his hand to stop me from speaking.
“Don’t fret. Why don’t you come into my office.”
I gulped. Surely this was a terrible idea. I tentatively followed him, wondering what the hell I’d just gotten myself into. My palms were sweaty in an instant.
“Perhaps you overheard my discussion with my son?” he began, sitting at his desk, looking not at me but at the papers covering it.
Oh fuck.
“No, I was just passing by.” But Geoffrey shook his head.
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br /> “It’s good that you heard, my dear, because perhaps you understand the situation a bit better now?”
“Excuse me?” I hoped my voice didn’t sound as harsh out loud as it did in my head.
“My son has obligations, Miss Bell, obligations that require his attention, but more importantly require the assistance and participation of a woman who understands her role in this life.” I started to speak, but he raised his hand to stop me again, and he continued. “Come now, I think we both know that you’ve served your purpose. My wife and I are grateful that you’ve gotten our son to emerge from his selfish hole, but my son is in his thirties, and he needs to think of his place now.”
“With all due respect, Your Grace, I would think that how he lives his life and who is in it is entirely up to him.” I could feel the fury building in my chest.
Geoffrey just chuckled, which turned my fury into fire.
“I admire your passion, my dear, but it’s very revealing. Do you know how my wife spent her day this past Thursday?” What? I looked at him, confused. “Of course you don’t. She fulfilled one of her many duties as the lady of his household and stood in for the queen during rehearsals for next month’s Christmas festivities. And subsequently she met with the wife of France’s prime minister and entertained her and her children for the evening. Are you prepared for those kinds of duties? Do you know the first thing about the protocols involved in participating in international social affairs?”
I looked at him, stunned. He wasn’t being fair. He knew, if not by instinct then by the look on my face, that I had no idea how to handle any of that. And I didn’t even know if that’s where Dylan and I were headed. He and I hadn’t talked about forever, and his father was already warning me off.
“I hardly think that—” I began, but Geoffrey stood up, getting impatient with me.
He shook his head and said, “I thought not.” My blood was boiling. I had that dangerous mix of brain-muddling anxiety and self-righteous certainty that meant I was about to lose it.
“You see, Lydia, Dylan is part of a great British tradition. And he must play his part. He will realize that soon enough. He’ll remember who he is, and it’s probably best for you to allow him to do that. You’ve been in London how long, Miss Bell?”
“A couple of months,” I said coldly, telling my politeness instinct to buzz off so I could tell this asshole what I thought of him.
“Is there a sum that might make it easier for you to get your feet on the ground and establish yourself a bit more? To cope with the loss of Dylan’s attentions?”
Holy shit. He was trying to pay me off. And it put me firmly over the edge.
“Excuse me, Your Grace, but you’ve seriously misjudged me if you think for one minute I love Dylan because of his money. You’ve misjudged me even more if you think I would ever take yours. And you’ve seriously misjudged your own son if you truly believe he would ever fall for anyone trying to use him. With all due respect, sir, and frankly I suspect you’re due very little, I am going to be with your son. One of these days I am going to agree to live with your son. And who knows where we’ll end up. But if we ever break up, I can assure you it will never be because of money—money he has, money he doesn’t have, and certainly not any money you give me.”
For a moment he was taken aback, nervous even, but then that steely demeanor returned. “Well done, my dear.” Ugh, he was happy I wasn’t taking the money. Fire. Pure fire in my belly.
I felt the words coming before I could stop them. “One day you’re going to wake up and realize what an incredible man your son is, and for your sake I hope it’s not too late. In the meantime, you can take your money and, as we Americans like to say, shove it up your ass. It seems to mean more to you than it ever would to me.”
I gulped, not believing I’d just said that. “And Geoffrey? This conversation,” I said, waving my hand between us, “is over.”
Chapter 16
When Dylan found me, I was sitting on a bench next to the cook’s garden, twisting a long piece of lavender between my thumb and forefinger, replaying everything that had just happened in my head. All of the warm love Dylan had ignited in me that morning was gone, and I was feeling more alone than I had in weeks. I hated Dylan’s father for offering money, but I hated him even more for instilling doubt. Was I naïve to think this would ever go anywhere? Was I actually an obstacle, obstructing some future Dylan needed or wanted? In my heart I knew that wasn’t the case, but apart from Dylan’s weekly request that I move in with him, which had become so predictable and jokey, we hadn’t really talked about it.
I was sitting on this grand estate, one that would belong to Dylan when Geoffrey died. I knew Dylan detested his father and talked about being a duke as though it were a fate worse than death. But I also knew how much he’d respected his grandfather. I recalled one of our first fights when he’d spouted off about six centuries of tradition. He respected this life. Assuming he did figure out a way to balance his passion for architecture with Hale Shipping and Humboldt Park, would I be holding him back from participating fully in something that was his right?
Geoffrey had just turned up the dial on our pressure cooker, and now more than ever I needed to give Dylan the space to figure everything out, but at the same time I also needed him. It seemed like an impossible task. That was where my mind was, heading into that unanswerable abyss, when I felt Dylan sit next to me on the carved stone bench.
“There you are,” he said. I could feel his warmth, his tall, lean body leaning into mine, but I was still lost in my thoughts.
“Lydia?” he asked, and it was immediately clear that he knew something was wrong. I couldn’t hide anything from this man. “Baby, what’s wrong?” He wrapped an arm around me, held me tightly, and I pressed my lips to his neck and lingered there, with a long, slow, simple kiss to his skin.
I still didn’t say anything. I didn’t know where to begin, and sitting right outside the open door to the kitchen didn’t seem like the place to have the conversation we needed to have.
“This place can be daunting, can’t it?” He wrapped his long fingers across the back of my head and stroked. It calmed me instantly. The single tear that had escaped disappeared into the soft fabric of his sweater. He pulled back and cupped my chin in his hand, bringing my gaze to his. “Lydia, damsel, what’s going on?”
I leaned up and kissed him. “Can we go home?”
He didn’t look entirely satisfied, as though he wanted to know what was in my mind immediately. Well, he of all people should be able to summon some patience in that department.
He nodded, stood, and held my hand tightly, urging me up. “The bags are in the car. We can go right now.”
“But I didn’t say goodbye to your mother. Or Christine,” I said, concerned. Only after I spoke did I realize I’d left out his father. I wondered if he’d even noticed.
“It’s okay, baby. They had to go into town. You’ll see them again.”
I wondered if that was true. Now there was zero doubt about the degree to which Dylan’s father, at least, and probably his mother, wanted me out of the picture.
The first ten minutes in the car were a blur. I couldn’t tell you what music was playing, what the scenery looked like, or what he even said to me. I had said something along the lines of “I just need a minute,” but eventually Dylan took my hand, squeezed it, and kissed the back.
“Please, baby. You look like you’ve seen a ghost. You seemed fine at breakfast with Mrs. Barnes. Then I went looking for you after my horrid chat with my father—you wouldn’t believe the things he said to me—”
“I know,” I said, staring into my lap at first. This was just going to pour out, it seemed. “I heard your conversation.”
“You—” I heard the confusion in his voice.
“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. I got lost. I was exploring the house, and then I heard your voices, and I didn’t want to call any attention to myself, and, well…I’m sorry for intruding, but I
heard what he said.”
Dylan was quiet. I wasn’t sure for a moment if he was mad or concerned or neither. He just looked at the road. I took comfort in the fact that he still held my hand snugly in his own.
“I was hoping I could spare you his temper and cruelty until we’d been together, oh, I don’t know, more than a few months, but…” he started and sighed deeply, and then he looked at me, worried. He was worried about me. “I guess that explains the look on your face.”
“There’s more, Dylan,” I started. “He knew I’d heard you. He’d known I was there.” I looked at Dylan and his lips were parted. I had no idea what he was thinking, so I just continued. “He invited me into his office.”
Dylan’s eyes turned sharply to mine. “Did he speak to you?”
“He did.”
“What did the bastard say?” Dylan was seething. He’d removed his hand from mine and gripped the steering wheel, his strain and anger evident in his flexed arms and white knuckles.
“Dylan.” I gulped. I didn’t want to tell him this. I had some bizarre instinct to protect him from this information, but the reality was he’d probably had far worse done to him by his father over the years. “Dylan, he offered me money to break up with you.”
“What did you say to him?” he asked. He was all eyes, all ears.
“Oh god. I can’t believe what I said.” Dylan was looking at me, so curious. “Dylan, I was totally unleashed. I told him off and said that was never going to happen and that the conversation was over. I totally lost it. I told him to shove his money up his ass.” I cringed as I spoke the words, covering my face with my hands.
Then Dylan did something I never could have predicted. He was silent for a moment, then he laughed. He actually laughed.
“Dylan?” This wasn’t exactly the reaction I’d been expecting. “What are you…?” I said and found myself laughing a little too, but more because the situation seemed surreal.