Chapter 39
39
L ouis Haywood is alternating between puffing a cigar and sipping scotch when I walk into the private room he reserved at The Ivy House. It’s not even noon.
I take the rounded leather seat opposite him, fighting the urge to cough as smoke swirls around.
The Ivy House is one of the oldest gentlemen’s clubs in London. It has an exclusive membership list that’s historically included prime ministers and members of Parliament and the royal family.
My father spent a lot of time here, but I’ve never seen much of the appeal. I’d rather relax in a pub or canter across the countryside. But it’s where Louis suggested meeting, and I’m grateful to him for being one of the few people who’s bothered to really see how I am rather than just offering condolences.
“Morning, Louis.”
He smiles, appraising my appearance. “You’re looking well, Charles.”
I’m in a suit because of the garden party I promised Gran I would attend later.
But I think he means something else. At this point, I’m just waiting on the final paperwork for the deal. Once that’s signed by both parties, funds will be released. I’m close—so close—to everything getting resolved.
It’s more than that though. I’m finally looking ahead. Weighing possibilities. Considering options. Dreaming , and it feels damn good.
An invisible weight that’s gradually lifting, and maybe it’s visible to others too.
“You too,” I tell him.
Louis sighs. “Poppy has banned all my favorite things from the house. Says they’re bad for my health.”
That explains the cigars and the scotch. He’s taking full advantage of his time here.
“Aren’t they?”
Louis frowns, then snuffs out the cigar. “Spoken like a future doctor.”
I think of the business card tucked in my wallet. I haven’t called Dr. Evans since I ran into him at Buckleby Inn, but I’ve considered it.
I’m not even sure if returning to school is an option after taking more than a year off. But I want to find out.
“I was never a doctor.”
“You could be. What’s stopping you?”
“I’m considering it,” I admit.
Louis leans back in his chair, more focused on me than his vices. “Good.”
“My father wouldn’t approve.”
He heaves out a sigh. “James was a complicated man, Charles. You don’t need me to tell you that. But he loved you and your sister. You were a lot more than a legacy to him. He might have had a hard time expressing that, but it was still true. And he left you with a heavier burden than any son should have to bear. Now that you’ve got everything sorted, I think he’d tell you to be selfish for a bit.”
I can’t picture my father ever saying those words. His whole identity was built around duty and responsibility. And just because he failed in some respects, I’ve never felt like that gave me the freedom to do the same.
“Maybe.”
He half smiles, like he realizes I’m unconvinced. Like he knows that coming to terms with my father’s expectations and plans—and loss—is something I have to accept myself, same as I’ve realized. That was easier to push to the side when I was focused on simply getting through the immediate issues, not having to map out a long-term plan. I’m scared to jinx the solution, but assuming the deal goes through as expected, I’m going to have less to manage and a giant source of stress alleviated.
“You knew my father before he got married.”
Louis nods, even though I wasn’t really asking. I know he and James graduated from Cambridge together over a decade before my parents met. “I did indeed.”
“Do you know why he married her?”
A question I was never brave enough to ask my father. We didn’t discuss the topic of my mother. She was taboo to talk about from the moment any painting with her in it came down from the walls. The one time I discussed her with my father in the past sixteen years was when her wedding invitation came and I informed him I was attending.
“Only the most obvious reasons. Georgia was beautiful and charming. She also appeared to care little about the title—at least at first—and I know that appealed to James.”
“What do you mean?”
“You would understand better than me. Your father might have been a dutiful duke, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t struggle with the role. He found different ways to deal with it. Marrying your mother was one example—choosing a woman who was somewhat unexpected. The gambling is another. Men who are content in their lives don’t take the sort of risks that—” He stops speaking abruptly, then reaches for his scotch. “I didn’t mean to imply …”
“It’s fine, Louis. I’m trying to understand why he did what he did. What he would have expected from me if he’d …” I shake my head.
“He never would have seen you become duke, Charles. No matter how long he lived. That’s the downside of titles.”
“Not the only one.”
He sighs. “I’m sure. But comparing yourself to your father isn’t going to make the role any easier. You’re dealing with challenges he never did—with problems he created. Your loyalty to your family is admirable. But don’t let it overtake your own ambitions. Your own happiness. You can be a doctor and a duke, if you so choose. Focus on the options you have, not the limitations.”
I rub my fingers along the beaded edge of the leather armrest. “I met a woman. She’s American.”
“Ah. You’re worried you’re repeating your father’s mistakes?”
“Not exactly. Lili’s nothing like my mother. Our relationship is completely different from my parents’. But I do … I don’t think I can be the son my father raised and the person I want to be around her. It feels like I have to decide between them.”
Louis leans forward. “James raised a son who makes his own choices, not a man who always does what others expect. By choosing your own path, you’re honoring that. I know you’re angry about the burden he left you with, and you have every right to be. But don’t let that convince you he didn’t love you or wasn’t proud of you.” He pushes his glass away, closer to me, then reaches down and returns with a rectangular black box. “I was waiting to give this to you, but now feels like the appropriate moment.”
I reach for it, opening the zipper that runs the perimeter and flipping the lid off.
It’s a stethoscope. Black rubber and shiny silver aluminum.
I lift it out of the box.
“Your father ordered that three years ago, when you told him you were enrolling in medical school.”
There’s engraving around the curve of the diaphragm. Dr. Charles Marlborough , it reads.
“I knew where he’d kept it, so I grabbed it when I was at Newcastle last week. I had a feeling, after our conversation then, that there were a few things you were struggling with.”
“Thank you,” I say, still staring at it.
My father didn’t raise any objections about my choice of career path, but I never got the impression he was particularly pleased with it. He would rather I went into banking or law. Some more distinguished profession.
I didn’t realize how much that bothered me until now, as I’m faced with some proof of his support. Medicine wasn’t what he would have chosen for me, but he was planning to give this to me at my graduation. He intended to support my choice.
“Thank you,” I repeat. It comes out as more of a croak.
“He didn’t want you to be the same as him, Charles. He wanted you to be better.”
I nod, not able to come up with any words of response. I’m swamped with emotion, and it’s not all negative. None of it is actually.
For the first time since he died, I’m grieving my father without any animosity.
I’ve been so furious with him. For driving recklessly. For his careless financial choices. Even for marrying Georgia and for letting their relationship fall entirely apart so that Blythe and I had no contact with our mother. Divorcing her didn’t have to result in a total estrangement.
Right now, all that anger is absent. I’m remembering the happy moments. The rides across the moor and the trips to Villa Park for football matches and the talks in his study when he’d ask about my life and not just my grades.
I miss my father—and not just because of what his death left me with.
Louis seems to sense I’m overwhelmed. He pats my hand, then changes the subject to an upcoming trip to Edinburgh he and his wife are planning. Asks about Blythe. Inquires about Gran’s health. And, with a cheeky smile, requests I tell him more about Lili.
I’ve avoided my godfather since Papa’s death because I was worried about what I would say. Business strategy aside, I was concerned what Louis would think about my father after learning the truth.
But Louis doesn’t seem to see him any differently. He was already acquainted with my father’s flaws.
And talking with someone who knew my father—really knew him—is the closest I’ve felt to Papa since I got the call about the accident.
When I leave The Ivy House an hour later to pick up Lili, I feel a lot lighter than when I arrived.