Chapter 10
10
B lythe wanders downstairs shortly after noon. It’s the first time I’ve seen my little sister in two weeks. She’s spent summer so far traveling with her friends, returning to Newcastle Hall for sporadic weekends, but mostly preferring to stay at the London flat I lived in before becoming the eighth Duke of Manchester.
“Where’s breakfast?” Blythe asks, surveying the empty table.
“You mean lunch?”
She makes a face as she sinks into one of the Chippendale dining chairs. Yawns, her brown eyes still bleary with sleep. “Thought you’d sleep in, considering the time difference.”
Blythe inspects her fingernails, painted a bright shade of pink, and I know it’s the closest she’ll come to asking how my trip to New York was.
She flat-out refused to accompany me to the States to visit our mother, which was the expected response. I get why Blythe doesn’t want to see Georgia better than anyone, and it’s her decision to make.
But I experience a fresh surge of anger toward Georgia, watching my sister forcibly project disinterest. Blythe shouldn’t be the one who has to make an effort with our mother. Neither should I for that matter.
“It was bloody hot. Our cousin Ellis is fairly entertaining.” We exchanged numbers last summer, but Ellis never called or messaged. Since I left New York, he’s already texted me twice. “I played polo at Georgia’s husband’s country club.”
Blythe doesn’t react to the brief recap, continuing to stare at her nails. Eventually, she asks, “Did your team win?”
I smile. “Yes.”
She makes an approving hum in the back of her throat.
“How was”—I try to remember where she called me from—“Budapest?”
Blythe perks up, finally making eye contact. “Oh, it was brilliant. And then we went to Sintra. We visited Cabo da Roca and Queluz National Palace.” She glances around. “It was about the size of this place.”
I snort and shake my head. “I’m sure the Portuguese would appreciate the comparison.”
My sister smirks. “They should have built a bigger palace if they wanted to avoid comparisons.”
“Are you here this week?” I ask.
“Until Wednesday. I’m going to Saint-Tropez with Zara and Emily.”
My stomach churns, the eggs, sausage, and toast I ate for breakfast threatening to make a reappearance. Part of me—all of me—was hoping I could avoid this conversation until after the sale was finalized.
“I’m selling the villa, Blythe.”
A rare instance of my sister being speechless follows.
“What?” she demands. “Why?”
“We hardly use it. It just sits there, and I’m?—”
“So?” she interrupts. “ I use it. Let it sit.”
Do I tell her? That’s been a weekly—sometimes daily—question that’s echoed around in my head ever since a roomful of barristers informed me exactly what I’d inherited along with my father’s former title.
Blythe has one year of university left, and I don’t want to be the one who ruins it for her. I’m all she really has since her independence has never meshed well with Gran’s strict nature. For his many faults, our father adored Blythe. Showered her with warm affection I’d thought he was incapable of. She’s mourning his death in the same way she grieves our mother’s absence, even though she’ll never admit to either. Our parents both let her down in different ways, and I never want to do the same.
My hope was to resolve everything without Blythe ever knowing the truth. But until Kensington Consolidated or another investor writes a check, my best option for staying afloat is to sell more assets.
“I need to sell it, Blythe.”
“It’s Mu—Georgia’s.” Blythe drops eye contact and starts picking at her nail polish.
“Papa left it to me,” I say gently, pretending not to notice her slip of the tongue.
The French villa hasn’t been in our family for generations, like most of the properties I own. It was purchased by my father twenty-seven years ago as a wedding gift to my mother. It’s where they honeymooned.
I haven’t visited it in years, but Blythe goes often. I knew she’d be unhappy about the sale, but it makes no sense to keep it.
“It should have been mine,” Blythe mumbles.
I don’t disagree. If things were different, I’d give it to her as a graduation gift.
“I need …” I exhale. “I need to sell it, Blythe. There’s a lot— a lot —that Papa left that I’m trying to learn and catch up on, and I just … it’s one less thing to manage. You can still go on Wednesday. It’s not going on the market until next week.”
I’m traveling to the south of France to sort out the sale—a trip I wasn’t looking forward to and am now dreading.
“Why can’t you just hire someone to manage everything for you? Then, you can go back to school and?—”
“It’s my responsibility, Blythe.”
“So, my opinion doesn’t matter?” she challenges.
“Of course it matters. I just … it doesn’t change this decision. I’m sorry.”
My sister says nothing, just studies me. For a few seconds, I think she’s going to call me out. She knows I sold an office building in Beijing last fall and an apartment complex in Vancouver. Properties I hadn’t even known my father had purchased. I’d paid little attention to his business dealings because I didn’t think I needed to. Between another sale and her card declining, it’s not a massive leap to consider the possibility that we’re having money problems.
“Fine. Sell it.” Blythe shoves her chair back and stands. “I’ll see you later.”
“Where are you going?”
“I feel like a pastry from Pain Pain,” my sister tells me. “Then, Claire and I are going shopping at Covent Garden.”
I sigh. I shouldn’t take it personally that Blythe wants to spend time with her friends, but it feels like her haste to leave means my being a good brother is another thing I’m failing at.
“Granny is expecting us for tea at three,” I remind her.
“I can’t make it.”
“Blythe …”
“What? We both know she only wants to see you anyway.”
I want to argue, but it’s not entirely inaccurate. Changing Blythe’s or my grandmother’s opinions—and they don’t share many to start with—is like attempting to bend iron.
“She loves you.”
“And I love her. Especially when I’m not being forced to listen to a lecture on my posture or my manners or how fashion is a hobby, not a proper course of study. I’ll visit her for tea next week.”
“You promise?”
“I promise. I’ll see you for dinner.” Blythe spins toward the doorway.
“Wait. This is for you.” I bend down to retrieve the paper bag on the floor. Set it on the mahogany table and slide it toward my sister. “From Georgia.”
Blythe’s response is predictable. “I don’t want it.”
My jaw works as I study her proud stance. Squared shoulders, lifted chin, narrowed eyes. She looks so much like our father. So do I. Blythe has Georgia’s brown eyes, but neither of us inherited her blonde hair. We both look like Marlboroughs. Act like Marlboroughs.
I never saw my father’s cracks. Not until he was gone and no longer able to hide them. I’m worried I’m missing Blythe’s. That mine are forming under the pressure of holding everything together.
I exhale, trying to keep my composure. It’s fucking exhausting, acting as the bridge between two people determined to keep their distance.
Two hours spent in ten stores—that was how long it took to pick out the wrapped handbag sitting on the table. One very similar to the purses spilling out of Blythe’s overstuffed closet. One that she would probably love if gifted to her by a friend or an admirer.
But the one thing worse than returning home with a gift my mother didn’t want to buy and my sister would never use would have been coming back empty-handed, allowing my mother to completely ignore the existence of her other child.
I nod toward the bag. “Take it.”
Maybe she can hear the fissures forming in my voice.
Because Blythe listens for once. She takes the bag and tells me, “I’m glad you’re home, Charlie,” before leaving the dining room.
My grandmother lives in a townhouse in Knightsbridge that overlooks Hyde Park. For most people, the coveted address and five live-in staff would be a recipe for contentment.
Grace Marlborough is not most people.
For all the privilege in her life, she’s also endured more than her fair share of hardship. My grandfather died when I was six. My dad inherited the Duke of Manchester title young, just like I did. She’s seen the title pass through three generations in her lifetime.
As I open the metal gate and walk up the short stone path, I pray the tradition ends with me. Assuming I have children and there’s anything left of the dukedom to pass on. Otherwise, everything will end with me.
Elsie—the woman who’s assisted my grandmother for longer than I’ve been alive—answers the door. She beams when she sees me. “Hullo, Charlie. How are yuh?”
The sound of her Cockney accent hits me with a strong dose of nostalgia. Elsie outlasted all of the nannies Blythe and I had. She’s a fond reminder of childhood—the easier, smoother patch of my life between losing my parents. The closest to a surrogate mother I have.
“Good, Elsie.” I kiss her weathered cheek, then hand her one of the bunches of flowers I bought from the newspaper stand down the street.
Her smile stretches wider, overtaking her wrinkled cheeks. She’s in her early sixties now. “Yuh spoil me. I’m puttin’ ’ese in me room.” Elsie glances down the stone walkway, one eyebrow, threaded with gray, lifting when she registers Blythe’s absence before she shuts the door behind me. “Yuh ain’t the strictest bruvah.”
I sigh. “I know. Granny in the sunroom?”
“Aye.”
I thank Elsie and continue walking down the hallway and past the staircase. The only adornment on the cream-colored wall opposite the stairs is an oil painting of Gran, my father, and my grandfather. It was painted when my father was fifteen. There used to be a similar family portrait hanging in Newcastle Hall, but Papa wiped all evidence of Georgia’s existence from the manor as soon as she left. Out of anger or sadness, I’ll never know.
My grandmother is perched on the edge of a floral settee in the sunroom, a spread already laid out—steaming tea, scones, and clotted cream piled high in a glass bowl. My stomach grumbles, still on American time. It’s past dinner there, and all I’ve eaten today was breakfast.
Granny’s eyes are sharp and assessing as she appraises me, the flowers I’m holding, and the conspicuous absence of Blythe.
“Hello, Granny.”
She accepts the flowers and a kiss on the cheek with a demure smile. I take my usual seat in one of the armchairs opposite her.
“Hello, Charles. Where’s your sister?”
It’s obvious Blythe isn’t here. But of course, she’s going to make me say it.
“She couldn’t make it.”
My grandmother clicks her tongue as she hands the bouquet off to Alfie, her butler. He shoots me a smile before leaving the room.
“You spoil that girl, Charles.”
She’s not wrong. I’ve done everything I can to insulate Blythe’s world since our father died. Protecting her peace of mind is my main motivation at the moment. The last bit of normalcy in my life.
Instead of that, I say, “You’re looking well.”
My last visit was a week ago, right before I left for New York, and Granny was coming down with a cold.
A small nod is the only acknowledgment before she asks, “How is Georgia?”
There’s little love lost between my grandmother and my mother. Unsurprising, considering how my parents’ marriage ended and the years of deterioration leading up to their divorce. Negative feelings toward Georgia might be Blythe and Gran’s strongest commonality.
“She’s fine,” I reply, unwilling to provide my grandmother with any ammunition.
My mother is fine. Our relationship isn’t.
During my visit to New York, she treated me like I was a trophy to show off, not a son she wanted to reconnect with. I want a confidant. A parent to assure me that everything will be okay rather than a grandmother and sister relying on me to restore the life they’re accustomed to. Hundreds of staff and employees whose livelihood is entwined with the dukedom.
I fill one of the teacups, then announce, “I’m selling the villa in Saint-Tropez.”
“Good. I told James that purchase was a mistake.”
Granny’s unfazed reaction is as predictable as Blythe’s dismayed one was. As far as I know, my grandmother has never visited the property in France. She avoids leaving London at all costs. Unless it’s a trip to Newcastle Hall, her outings are purposefully limited to the Chelsea Flower Show, Wimbledon, Royal Ascot, and Christmas pageants at Westminster Abbey. She culls her calendar to accept only the most exclusive invitations.
“You’re attending the Hughes wedding this weekend?” she asks.
I take a sip of Earl Grey rather than answering.
Theodore Hughes was a classmate of mine at Oxford. But I received an invitation to his wedding because I’m the Duke of Manchester. It’s an occasion sure to be attended by many people I’ve spent the better part of a year avoiding, so, no, I had no plans to go.
An answer I know Granny won’t like.
“ Charles .” Her tone sharpens, and I brace for the incoming lecture. “The Hugheses are a prominent family. You not attending will raise questions we don’t want asked right now.”
My jaw works as I take another swallow of tea. Easy for her to say. She doesn’t have to deal with the scrutiny reserved for the duke.
But logically, I know Granny is right. I’ve been … hiding, for lack of a less pathetic word. Mourning my father, grieving the end of life as I knew it, and scrambling to fix my father’s mistakes.
I couldn’t afford to drop a few thousand quid during a wild night at a nightclub in SoHo any longer. Dropping out of medical school and moving to Newcastle after inheriting the title were somewhat expected, but my abrupt absence from the social scene wasn’t.
Finnegan Byrne—better known as Fig—is the only friend who still reaches out regularly. He mentioned the Hughes wedding to me months ago. He was good friends with Theo at university and asked me if I was attending.
I responded with a vague “Maybe,” which we both knew meant no.
If I’m recalling right, the wedding’s being held at Carys Park in Wales. Only an hour and a half from Newcastle Hall, but an hour and a half farther than I feel like traveling to spout off a bunch of lies.
“Beatrice Campbell will be attending,” Granny adds, as if that were an incentive to show up.
I have no issue with Bea. But I also have no desire to get married anytime soon, and that’s the reason Gran is bringing Bea up.
In my grandmother’s eyes, my father could do no wrong. I think she’s still processing that he frittered our family’s fortune away.
She let him wait until he was in his early thirties to get married. Approved of his choice of American bride when it couldn’t have been very hard to foresee my parents were a poorly suited couple.
Me? Granny has been dropping names of women she considers well-bred and worthy of the Marlborough name since I was still in university. With more frequency in the past year. I’m not just responsible for keeping us out of bankruptcy. It’s also up to me to father a son before I die so that the Duke of Manchester title doesn’t get passed off to some distant cousin.
No fucking pressure.
“I’ll go,” I say, knowing that’s the only acceptable answer in my grandmother’s mind. At the very least, I’ll have a chance to catch up with Fig. Hardship—even hidden—has a way of revealing true friends, I’ve learned.
Granny smiles, satisfied. “Good.”
We visit for another hour, and then I leave. It’s a forty-five-minute drive back to Newcastle Hall. Unless I encounter bad traffic, I’ll have time to go for a ride before dinner with Blythe.
My mobile buzzes in my pocket as I’m walking down the sidewalk toward my parked car. It’s a New York number.
“Hello?” I answer.
“Charles, it’s Asher Cotes. How are you?”
Foreboding slithers down my spine. I don’t know Asher very well, but I got to know his cheery tone during our meeting last week. It’s conspicuously absent now.
“I’m good,” I lie, struggling to keep the defeat out of my voice. “How are you?”
“Good, good. Unfortunately, I’m calling with some bad news.”
My stomach drops in response to the confirmation. “You’re not investing.”
“Afraid not. The hotels are valuable pieces of real estate, and it’s an enticing offer. But we have some internal changes happening at the company—nothing bad and nothing I can share details on—but it means the board has decided to press pause on any new investments during the transition phase.”
I release a long breath, hoping Asher can’t hear it. “I understand.”
“I’m sure it’s not what you were hoping to hear. But it’s a great opportunity, Charles. Someone else will snap it up.”
I hum in what I hope sounds like an agreement, biting my bottom lip until I taste the coppery tang of blood. My voice sounds even as I reply, “No problem. Thanks for letting me know.”
“Good luck, Charles. If you’re back in New York anytime soon, let me know. Would love to grab a drink, talk some football.”
“Will do,” I say. “Bye, Asher.”
“Bye, Charles.”