Chapter 35
Callum
Ipoured just enough sherry to coat the bottom of the glass.
The pale gold caught the light as I swirled it once, then took it in a single pull—a small fortification against the hours and days ahead.
I let the warmth linger, then set the empty glass on the silver tray, the sound ringing soft and clear through the vacant room.
The drawing room was, as ever, regal and immaculate. The chairs and settees were upholstered to repel comfort—as stiff and unyielding as the legacy they represented. It hadn’t changed much since I was a boy, and probably never would.
The sherry clung warm and smooth to the back of my throat.
I considered pouring another—slightly more generous—but thought better of it.
The day would be long. The fortnight longer.
I needed to pace myself if I had any hope of remaining upright, let alone sober, in a house where the temptation to fortify—or anesthetize—was as plentiful as the family’s expectations.
A sharp staccato of heels echoed down the hallway, moving with precision and purpose. I abandoned the decanter, loose and half-wild with relief, and turned toward the open doorway.
Isabel swept in like a gust of air too vivid for these walls. Her auburn hair caught the light, and her eyes—blue, bright, incisive—locked on mine. She wore a crisp blouse and dark trousers tailored to perfection. Effortless elegance, as always.
“Cal, darling! You made it!” She crossed the room in two long strides and folded me into an embrace that somehow maintained equestrian posture. She smelled of florals and leather. “I thought you might’ve lost your nerve and gone into hiding.”
“Not yet,” I said, stepping back to take her in. “But I haven’t ruled it out.”
She swatted my arm lightly. “I’ve missed you, you dreadful man.”
“You have no idea how glad I am you’re here.”
She smiled, bright and knowing, then glanced around the room. “And where’s this mysterious young woman you’ve imported? Have you frightened her off already?”
“Upstairs, freshening up,” I said, settling into one of the red velvet sofas. “We’ve only just arrived.”
“Good. That gives us a moment to conspire before she realizes how mad we all are.”
I laughed, the sound echoing off the high ceiling. “I think she’s already worked that out.”
Isabel sat in a chair across from me, her movements smooth and precise. She crossed her legs. “And how’s she handling it?”
“Brilliant, actually. Far more composed than I am. And she survived meeting Mother.”
She raised a brow. “Impressive.”
“Yes. Granted, it was only five minutes, but hopefully it’s a good sign that she’ll actually last the trip. And not run away screaming and never speak to me again.”
Isabel leaned back, studying me. “You care for her.”
“I do.”
Her gaze didn’t shift, but her voice softened. “Then let the rest of them be damned.”
I let out an unsteady breath, some tightness easing in my chest.
“Father included,” she added, rising to pour herself a sherry.
“How livid was he when I insisted on bringing her? You know he’d never admit it to me.”
“Livid?” She shook her head. “Not really. Caught off guard, maybe. But…”
“But what?”
She retook her seat and took a measured sip. “Talk to him, Cal.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Since when are you so cryptic, Isabel?”
Whatever retort she had planned vanished when Gabrielle appeared in the doorway, tentative and wide-eyed. Her gaze swept the room, as if unsure she’d stepped into the right place. But when her eyes found me, they softened with relief.
I sprang up, crossing to her in a few quick strides. She shifted instinctively into my side, and I slipped a protective arm around her waist, pressing a kiss to her cheek.
“There you are,” I said softly, guiding her in, letting the warmth of her presence melt away my tension. I turned to Isabel, whose eyes shone with interest. “Isabel, meet my Gabrielle.”
Gabrielle extended a hand, her smile careful but genuine. “It’s so nice to meet you in person.”
Isabel took Gabrielle’s hand in both of hers, warm and gracious. “Likewise. Cal talks of little else.”
Gabrielle’s cheeks colored, her eyes flicking to mine. I squeezed her waist gently and felt the faint tremor of nerves beneath the fabric of her blouse.
“Please, sit,” Isabel said, gesturing to the sofas with a graceful sweep. “Cal, get the poor girl a drink.”
I crossed over to the drinks tray. “Sherry before lunch, darling?”
Gabrielle shrugged as she perched on the edge of the sofa. “If that’s the protocol.”
I smiled as I poured a modest measure and brought it to her.
She lifted the glass and took a careful, controlled sip. The liquid glowed amber in the early afternoon light, catching the faint tremble in her hand before she politely set it down on a side table, trying with valiant effort to mask a grimace.
“Not to your liking?” I asked.
“Not really, no. I hope that’s not wrong.”
I reached over, took the glass, and finished it in one swallow. “More for me, then.”
She flashed me a smile, then turned her attention back to my sister. “How are the last-minute wedding details coming along? I hope the chaos hasn’t consumed you.”
“Not yet, but it’s doing its best. The florist is a menace—keeps trying to sneak in lilies, which I detest. And the caterer—” She let out a theatrical sigh. “Don’t get me started.”
Gabrielle’s laugh was soft, an attempt at finding her ease. “Sounds like a nightmare.”
“It’s a bloody circus,” Isabel said, though more amused than frazzled. Her eyes flicked to me. “And don’t you dare smirk. Your turn will come soon enough.”
The last of the scones sat half-eaten on my plate, its sugared crust crumbling slightly where I’d broken it open.
Not too sweet. Still warm. Proper. I’d spent years insisting you could get a decent one in the States, but sitting here now, I knew better.
You could replicate the recipe, perhaps.
But not the taste. Not the texture. Not the memory baked into it.
Late-afternoon light slanted through the tall windows, gilding the edge of the china and casting long shadows across the library rug.
Teatime. A pause in the day that served no urgent purpose—except perhaps to remind us that life needn’t always be rushed.
The Americans, for all their strengths, had never quite grasped the value of a ritual built around slowing down.
For all I’d cast off…this, I had missed.
I eased back into the cushions and wrapped an arm around Gabrielle’s shoulder.
She leaned into me, easy and unselfconscious.
Mother pressed her lips into the faintest line but offered no comment.
The library air was steeped in the scent of tea and the low, smoky trace of my father’s tobacco still lingering in the wood.
He hadn’t smoked in here for years, not since Mother had drawn the line. But the room hadn’t forgotten.
I brushed my thumb along Gabrielle’s arm, tracing the soft wool of her jumper and the grounding weight of her closeness.
Across from us, Isabel and Mother exchanged a glance—a wordless flicker—then both turned toward us with a well-practiced sort of interest. I shifted, the old upholstery creaking beneath me, and set my empty cup down on the table.
“Do you have everything you need?” Mother asked Gabrielle.
“Oh yes, thank you,” Gabrielle replied.
“Dinner is served at eight. We usually gather in the drawing room at half seven.”
Gabrielle glanced at me, confusion on her face, though she desperately tried to hide it.
“Seven-thirty,” I explained, low next to her ear.
She gave a small nod, then turned back toward my mother with a composed smile. “Everything’s been wonderful so far. The house is…breathtaking, really. And the tea,” she added, gesturing gently toward her cup, “perfect. Thank you for making me feel so welcome.”
A pause—only a beat—but I felt it. Mother inclined her head. “How kind.” Her tone was neither cold nor rude. Just…final. Like closing a magazine without bothering to read the rest.
Gabrielle didn’t falter, but beside me, I felt the faintest hitch of breath.
Avery appeared in the doorway, unobtrusive as ever—waistcoat immaculate, expression unreadable. “Mr. Hawthorne,” he said, his voice smooth as the polished floorboards. “Lord Branleigh has asked to see you in his study.”
Mother looked up sharply. “I didn’t realize he was back from London.”
“He returned just over an hour ago, ma’am.”
“And he didn’t want tea?”
“He said not.”
She shook her head. “London must not have gone well.”
I looked at Isabel, and she caught my hesitation. Before I could speak, she stood, smoothing the lines of her trousers with a brisk motion. “Gabrielle,” she said, her tone conspiratorial, “shall we take a turn in the garden before dinner?”
Gabrielle looked at me with the faintest trace of worry, but the warmth of Isabel’s invitation was hard to refuse.
“I’d like that,” she said, voice bright, if not quite steady.
She stood with care—poised but tentative.
She was trying so hard, and I tried not to imagine the weight of it—of all of this.
“Thank you for tea, Lady Branleigh,” she said, her voice polite but edged with the slightest uncertainty.
Isabel looped her arm through Gabrielle’s, drawing her out with ease. Avery remained, waiting with precise patience, the timeless clockwork of the house ticking smoothly around him.
“I’ll show you to his—” he began, then stopped as I shook my head.
“I know the way,” I said as I rose to my feet, the words firmer than I felt. I leaned down and kissed Mother on the cheek.
Avery stepped aside, and I passed him, my footsteps measured down the long corridor. The walk to my father’s study felt longer than I remembered, as if the house had grown in my absence.
The door stood ajar, a thin strip of light slicing into the shadowed hall. I hesitated, my pulse quickening, then pushed it open with a steady hand and stepped inside.