Lady: Impossible

by Fraser, B. D.

  My mother roars into action, but not against him. Against me. She hits the seat with her fist and stands tall, towering over me as I inch away from her in shock.

  ‘You are a spoilt little brat, Emilia Pembroke. Can’t you see what this has done to him? Do you think any of us want to be in this position? You should be thankful that the debts can be paid off. If you want to generate a miracle, then marry well. Otherwise, shut up and accept your share of what’s left.’

  I hold my ground, even as guilt burns in my throat. ‘I’m upset.’

  Her reply is cutting. ‘That’s not an excuse. Am I understood?’

  I glance at my father, who still has his head in his hands. It sounds like he’s murmuring apology after apology.

  I can choose to make this uglier, or I can back down. He’s in pain – my yelling won’t bring back the lost money.

  I nod curtly, waiting until she backs off and sits down again before I address my father. But it’s not so easy to compose myself. The news is devastating. I stand there, angrily wiping away tears while taking heaving, unattractive breaths.

  I suck in enough oxygen to get a full sentence out. ‘I don’t think before I say things, Father. I apologise.’

  The shame is clear when he looks up from his hands. ‘I understand. I’ve let you down.’

  My mother, apparently dissatisfied with how this is progressing, stands again and takes charge, rounding on me without hesitation.

  ‘Go to your room. I want to speak with your father in private. He deserves to be around people who are willing to show him compassion, not insolence. We’ve already disowned one child. Don’t follow in your brother’s footsteps.’

  Humbled, I follow her instruction and decide to leave. However, each step feels heavy, like I’m wading through honey. This doesn’t feel real. When I get to his side of the room, I place my hand on his shoulder, sympathy lapping away at my anger in erratic bursts.

  He reaches for my hand, holding it there for a moment. ‘You’re nothing like Alastair.’

  Suddenly, I remember that I, too, am flawed. What I’m doing with Blair is just one example.

  I squeeze my father’s shoulder. ‘Nobody’s perfect.’

  My mother’s gaze follows me out of the room. Once I’m out, I place a hand on the corridor wall and try to steady my breathing. How we’re going to get through this, I have no idea.

  In my mind, the painting of Silsbury Hall fades, its strong stone blocks washing away like a watercolour left out in the rain.

  Chapter 16:

  The second confrontation of the day occurs barely an hour later. With my parents presumably still locked away in discussion, I exit my room with the intention of getting some fresh air. There’s a trapped feeling that comes from staying in my yellow cage – I’m crushed by disappointment and thirsty from crying. A glass of lemonade and some mild sunshine isn’t exactly a cure-all, but it beats feeling stifled.

  However, just as I pass the green bedroom, I catch a glimpse of my father’s suitcase. Blair has placed it at the foot of the bed on a suitcase table, his assumption being that my father will stay the night.

  A guest in his own house. It doesn’t make sense.

  Still, he should stay. We shall have to come up with a plan of action or, rather, he and Mother will come up with a plan of action, and I’ll be told to toe the line.

  The truth is that I feel utterly helpless. I want to assert my opinion, to dissect the problem and come up with an answer, but it’s not my money. Not yet, anyway, and even then I’ll only receive what’s left. Besides, who would give me the responsibility after my childish tantrum? My time is better spent reflecting. I need to come to terms with the scale of the loss and, while that may require sitting in front of the real monetary figures, I can at least appreciate that there will be a lifestyle change.

  Unless, of course, the estate frees up enough money to let us live perfectly comfortably. The downside to this would be that there will be no such thing as being perfectly comfortable – lose Silsbury Hall and we’ll be haunted by our ancestors for miring the family name and legacy. There’s no getting around that sore point.

  I keep thinking about this as I make it to the first floor landing, where I stop for a moment. The suit of armour further down the corridor is obviously an heirloom, and for some reason I imagine it coming to life, possessed by the angry spirit of an ancestor.

  ‘Lady Emilia?’

  Jolted out of my disturbed mind-wanderings, I turn to find Blair ascending the staircase, duster and polish in hand. He still has his jacket on, so I assume he’s on his way to clean rather than having finished already.

  ‘Blair. Hello.’

  I’m relieved. I’ll have someone to talk to now. Even if he’s not wholly sympathetic, his opinions will still provide food for thought.

  But as soon as he steps foot on the landing, I notice a few telltale signs of anger. His lips are pressed in a thin line, and his grip on the items is so tight that his knuckles have gone white. He approaches me carefully, like a hunter with a spear in hand and, by the time he stops two feet in front of me, I’m apprehensive enough to raise my hands in surrender.

  ‘Look, I know you’re probably angry about the Oliver thing,’ I say. ‘But remember I’m going through something here. My inheritance is in jeopardy. There wasn’t a good time to bring him up.’

  ‘Is that right, m’lady?’

  His words are delivered like a challenge, almost as if he thinks I’m lying.

  ‘Yes, it is right. Did you not hear me crying earlier? We’ve lost so much money – I don’t even know how much is left.’

  He at least takes a moment to digest the news but, then again, maybe he thinks I’m exaggerating. He’s slow to offer a puzzled look. I’m not sure if he’s intrigued, alarmed or disgusted. All I’m getting from his eyes is hostility.

  ‘So it’s Oliver to the rescue, is it?’

  ‘He doesn’t know anything. About the money troubles, I mean. And I didn’t know he was planning to make peace with Al.’ I flush with embarrassment, feeling silly that my voice is going all high-pitched.

  ‘By “make peace”, you mean collect his debt?’

  ‘I’m already terribly upset.’ I fold my arms across my chest and hug myself. ‘Let’s not fight.’

  ‘Fighting? Who’s fighting? There’s just you, hiding things, and me, being blindsided. Again.’

  I’m incredulous. ‘Hiding things? That’s your forte, not mine.’

  ‘What I keep from you is completely different to you not saying anything about Mr JP Morgan being back on the scene.’

  ‘What? That’s complete rubbish!’ I clench my fists in frustration. ‘You’re not even listening. I didn’t mean to upset you. I’ve been caught up in this money mess. Which, by the way, is incredibly serious.’

  He snorts. ‘Are you bankrupt?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so, but –’

  ‘Then cry me a river.’ He spits out his words as if he’s tasted bile. ‘Your Ladyship.’

  He moves to walk around me but I sidestep into his path to stand right in front of him. I knew he wouldn’t be overly sympathetic, but he doesn’t have to be an arse.

  ‘You said you wanted me until my next date. So what if my next date is with the same man who rejected me?’

  ‘Well, as you’re so well versed in rejection, you’ll have no trouble understanding that I’m through with you. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some dusting to do.’

  Again he tries to walk around me but I’m having none of it. He can’t just stomp off in a rage and expect me to do nothing.

  ‘Don’t be like this,’ I say, getting close enough to put my hand on his chest and lean into him. He turns his head when I try to kiss his cheek. ‘Blair, come on.’

  He speaks into my ear. ‘Good luck with Oliver. Let’s hope you’re worth the bailout.’

  Hurt, I don’t resist when he shrugs me off. I stand on the spot and watch as he ascends the staircase, the misery I feel threat
ening to make me cry again. It’s as if my chest is cracking open to give the heartache a quick getaway.

  It’s astonishing how attached I am to this man. Being around him has been an absolute whirlwind.

  I trudge down the staircase, staring at nothing in particular. I know I should let him go. It was bound to end in tears anyway. Better to call time on things now than to end up confused when Oliver makes his intentions known.

  If I want him to save my family home then, yes, I suppose I am seeking a bailout. ‘Gold-digging’, as it’s otherwise known.

  Somewhere, probably in the arms of Kim Kardashian, Kanye West is humming my tune.

  ***

  In the evening, my father finds me tucked away in the corner of one of the guest rooms, a place no one would think to find me. Given, I don’t think either of my parents was actually trying to find me – I’ve been here for the better part of nine hours. I can’t blame them, though. Even on a good day I should be left to my own devices, and this is definitely not a good day.

  My inheritance has been shot to pieces. Nine hours isn’t sufficient time to comprehend what changes are about to take place. In that sense, I suppose it’s time to speak to him to get a better idea how he’s faring, how Mother is faring and how we’re all going to deal with this.

  Unsurprisingly, he approaches me with some caution, slowly coming around to my side of the room before stopping at the foot of the bed. I’m sitting on the floor, hugging myself with my knees to my chest. When he places a hand on the bedpost, I look up to see a guarded but somehow curious look on his face. I try to remember if he ever found me like this when I was a child. He probably did. I was the type to hide when I didn’t get my own way.

  This time around, it’s as if he thinks one false movement from him will send me running. Though how I’d get past him, I don’t know. It’s more like he doesn’t know where he stands with me, a strange position to be in after all these years.

  He smiles ruefully, patting his trouser pockets self-consciously. ‘I checked the mural room twice and the library three or four times. I didn’t expect to find you here.’

  I nod, offering him a small smile in return. ‘Well, nobody likes this room. It’s haunted, remember?’

  ‘You still believe that story?’

  ‘Why not? It’s a good one.’

  The room has always been a strange space, decked out in tacky lavender and beige, a scheme any person under fifty would balk at. It even smells of lavender, although only faintly. As the story goes, my great-grandmother’s cat died of old age in this very room, but as my great-grandmother was senile by that stage, she thought it was merely taking a nap. A maid discovered the body the next day and informed her of the cat’s passing, yet for some reason she wouldn’t believe it. The cat was still up and about, she claimed. Since then, there have been incidences of unexplained sounds – purring, if you want to believe it – and objects being found slightly out of place. Not exactly the kind of mojo you want to channel in your humble abode.

  A wistful look crosses my father’s face. ‘I suppose the lights did flicker in the eighties. It drove my grandmother mad towards the end. She kept asking if Thatcher had brought back the three-day week and applied it to noble households.’

  ‘Yep. Haunted. We should lock a bunch of C-list celebrities in here and film them. Paranormal Activity: The Feline Edition.’

  He nods, seemingly amused. ‘Sounds like a jolly good time.’

  There’s an awkward moment where I’m not sure what to say next. Should I ask him to sit down on the bed so we can chat? Or should I stand and wait for his cue to speak?

  In the end, he takes the lead, moving closer and holding out his hand. ‘How about an aperitif in the library? Unfortunately, your mother has the key to the drinks cabinet, so I’m afraid it’ll have to be juice. That, and I can’t say I wish to emulate your brother’s penchant for drunkenness at any time of day – one cannot face the truth when inebriated.’

  I reach for his hand and let him pull me up. No matter my frustrations, he’s still my father. ‘I could do with a juice.’

  He doesn’t let go of my hand, squeezing it tight as he leads me out of the room and down the corridor. I’m transported to my childhood again. Silsbury Hall is such a large house that he often held my hand when I was a little girl, worried I’d go exploring when his back was turned.

  I yelled at him earlier, accused him of betrayal. I’ve since been trying to understand the desperation behind whatever decisions he’s made in the past. Perhaps it isn’t as complicated as I’ve been making it out to be. He must’ve taken these measures for us, to guarantee the same privileged life we’ve always had – and that generations before us had, too. Wealth is all we’ve known. Not everyone is so lucky.

  I lose myself in these thoughts, causing me to be unnaturally alarmed when we round the corner. Blair is standing in front of the library doors, looking absolutely dashing in his dinner suit. His white-gloved hands are by his sides and slowly clench as we approach, a movement I can see even at a distance. This is the first time I’ve seen him looking quite so ceremonial – I can only assume the gloves are an extra formality made necessary by my father’s arrival.

  He must hate me. It’s unfair that he didn’t give me the benefit of the doubt but, as I’ve been reminding myself, his ending the fling is a good development. It’s right.

  Right or not, however, it’s hard for me to get past how irrational his anger is. I’ve been reflecting on this for hours: he knew I was due for another matchmaker date, and said he’d bow out when that time came. Yet he’s acting as if I’ve upended our understanding and personally insulted his worth.

  I grip my father’s hand to try to refocus on our family problems.

  Blair nods as my father and I approach, opening the doors before addressing him.

  ‘Her Ladyship would like me to inform you that dinner is half-an-hour away.’

  ‘Half-an-hour sharp, I presume?’

  ‘Yes, m’lord.’

  My father indicates the silver tray on the table. ‘Then you’d better pour that juice and return to the kitchen. Otherwise she’ll have both our heads.’ He pauses. ‘No, probably just mine.’

  ‘Yes, m’lord.’

  It’s bizarre watching them interact. While it’s wholly civil, I think my father remains somewhat perturbed by Blair’s presence. Then again, perhaps he’s just uncomfortable full stop.

  We separate, each of us walking down opposite sides of the table, where Blair has already laid out two glass tumblers on coasters. There’s also a manila folder on the table, presumably put there by my father. Not wanting this to seem like some kind of business meeting, I decide to sit adjacent to him, moving the placement of my glass to the end of the table.

  ‘Head of the table, my dear?’ Father asks with a nervous laugh.

  ‘Just want to sit closer to you, that’s all.’

  Blair, having just held out my father’s chair, looks on with a sour expression, obviously free to make his feelings known to me while my father can’t see.

  Irritation courses through me. It’s reckless to act this way. My father could turn around at any second.

  I raise my chin. ‘Aren’t you going to get my chair?’

  Blair’s slow to adjust his expression as my father, whose brow has furrowed in curiosity, turns around.

  Blair attempts to recover, finally coming around to pull out my chair. ‘Yes, m’lady. Sorry, m’lady.’

  He speeds up after that, pouring the juice before either of us can tell him to hurry up. I watch my father watching him and wonder if he too is noticing the slight shake in Blair’s hand as he holds the pitcher.

  I find myself wanting to ask if he’s all right, much in the same way I did when his hands shook after my phone call with Andrew that time. It’s such an illogical compulsion, considering the situation, that I inwardly scold myself for having had it, shaking my head as I do so.

  Both men see the gesture and react in different ways. B
lair immediately clenches his jaw while my father shoots me a quizzical look. Deciding I’ll only make things worse by speaking, I offer no explanation and instead gulp down the juice in an unladylike manner, treating it as if it’s some sort of calming elixir.

  I’m hardly relieved when Blair excuses himself, though, as Father asks about him as soon as the doors close, turning in his chair to address me as directly as he can.

  ‘My, my. He doesn’t seem to be your favourite person. Though I suppose I’m not exactly in the running for that title either.’

  I shift in my seat, glancing at the manila folder. ‘I don’t think earls are meant to run for titles.’

  ‘No, I suppose not.’ He taps his fingers on the table, eventually moving his hand to the folder. After another ten seconds or so, he slides the paperwork over to me, the folder coming to a heavy stop next to my glass.

  I take a deep breath. I think I know what this is, and I’m not sure I’m ready for it.

  ‘Financial statements?’

  Suddenly looking tearful again, he clasps his hands on the table – almost as if he’s praying – and nods gravely.

  ‘You will see that the value of Silsbury Hall outstrips the debt I have accumulated. Unfortunately, there’s no guarantee that the price will hold. You know how the luxury property market is – unpredictable.’

  The ache in my chest flares again. I steel myself for the numbers, opening the folder to see a simple spreadsheet on the top of the pile. The final numbers speak for themselves, and they are screaming. Seven figure sums. Eight figure sums. Estimates ranging from worst-case scenario to best-case scenario… It all makes my head spin and my vision blur. Numbers run into each other as if they’re attempting to flee in a panic. Without a property sale, we’re in the red. The spreadsheet itself is practically bleeding.

  I could vomit right now. There’s no maths needed to prove such a feeling. I imagine this is what it’s like to have crippling ulcers or gallstones: a severe pain right in your gut.

  ‘Jesus.’ Every response I think of verbalising is either a Holy name or a swear word – or a permutation of both. I hold my fist to my mouth and bite, the searing discomfort a futile attempt at distraction.