Chapter 21 Growing Up Hawthorne - 16 Years Ago
The black town car rolled through wet countryside, tires humming over the slick road. Sebastian sat stiffly in the back seat, hands clenched in his lap, blazer too crisp, shoes pinching. Rain needled the windows. Every mile away from Paris felt like another door closing.
He hadn’t cried at the funeral. Not when they lowered her casket.
Not when Jér?me hugged him goodbye at the train—not even when his uncle had whispered desperately that there were other options, that Sebastian didn’t have to go to Hawthorne, that Jér?me could find a way to keep him in Paris.
But now, with the fog-drenched silhouette of Hawthorne Manor looming ahead, his throat ached like he might.
He hadn’t been here in years. He remembered towering halls, a voice like ice, a man who spoke to his mother like she was a threat and a prize. Back then, she’d called him “Charles.” For everyone else, it was Lord Hawthorne.
Sebastian wasn’t sure what he was supposed to feel.
The car pulled up to the front steps. Before the driver could open the door, Sebastian stepped out himself, suitcase in hand.
At the top of the stone steps stood Charles Hawthorne. Impeccably dressed, expression unreadable. The mist curled behind him like stage fog.
“Welcome home,” Hawthorne said, voice dry as dust.
Sebastian’s grip tightened on the handle of his bag. “Thank you, Father,” he said, careful, polite, the French accent still curling the words.
Hawthorne’s eyes narrowed—calculating. “Still clinging to your mother’s vowels, I see.”
Sebastian straightened instinctively. “I can adapt.”
A long pause.
“We’ll see,” Hawthorne replied, then turned on his heel and entered the house without waiting.
Sebastian followed. The entrance hall swallowed him in marble and silence. He remembered flashes from before—portraits like judges, fireplaces that burned cold. The place smelled like polish and absence.
In a side room, a fire sputtered in the grate, struggling against the chill.
“You’ll dine with the adults,” Hawthorne said, glancing over his shoulder. “This isn’t Paris. You’re not here to be coddled.”
“I understand.”
“Prove it.”
Sebastian stood in the center of what was to be his room, alone.
The quarters were spacious but austere—no trace of childhood softness.
A four-poster bed. A writing desk. Shelves of leather-bound books that looked untouched.
The rain drummed against the windowpanes, turning the manicured gardens outside into a blur of grays and greens.
A sharp knock, and a maid entered with pressed shirts. “Lord Hawthorne says you’ll need these for dinner, young master.”
She hung them in the wardrobe with efficiency, then paused, her voice dropping. “There’s fresh lemon cake in the kitchen, if you’d like some before—”
“That won’t be necessary, Mrs. Morrison.”
Hawthorne stood in the doorway, eyes flicking from the maid to Sebastian. “My son won’t be sneaking food like a common servant’s child.”
She nodded and hurried out.
“Lesson one,” Hawthorne said, closing the door. “Staff will try to coddle you. They’ll offer you sweets, tell you stories about your mother, claim they’re ‘just looking after you.’ Refuse them. You are not to be pitied.”
Sebastian swallowed. “I’m not hungry anyway.”
Hawthorne’s expression softened by a fraction—calculated, practiced.
“I know this transition is… difficult. But you’re a Hawthorne.
And Hawthornes don’t stumble, even when the ground shifts beneath them.
” He crossed to the bookshelf, selecting a slim volume on strategy.
“Your mother was brilliant but sentimental. She’d have you reading poetry and playing violin until your fingers bled.
” He placed a book on Sebastian’s desk. “You may not be old enough to drink, but you’re old enough to understand power.
Read this, it’s more practical for where you’re headed. ”
Sebastian glanced at the book. “Where am I headed?”
“Higher than you can see from here,” Hawthorne replied. “Dinner is at eight. The Hungarian Prime Minister will be joining us. Listen, observe and don’t embarrass me.”
Dinner was formal and humming with low-grade menace. Sebastian sat between two politicians. Across from him, Hawthorne dissected a bishop’s position on morality like it was a chessboard. Silver gleamed. Wine flowed. Sebastian said nothing—just watched, listened, absorbed.
Until the bishop mentioned the upcoming trade conference in Brussels and joked about the Caledonian delegation always being “fashionably late and fiscally absent.”
Sebastian, quiet until then, spoke up. “I read that Lord Devon’s daughter got married recently. To some senior official in Belgium, I think.” He paused, uncertain if he should continue. “Perhaps they’ll want to make a better impression this time?”
The table stilled for a moment.
One of the politicians chuckled. “You keeping tabs on cross-border alliances now, young man?”
Sebastian shrugged, tone mild. “You can learn a lot by reading the society pages. Often they print the same names as the political pages—just with better pictures.”
A ripple of laughter followed—from the amused, the opportunistic. The bishop looked surprised.
Hawthorne’s expression didn’t change, but his fingers tapped once against the rim of his glass.
The Hungarian Prime Minister leaned forward. “Your son has quite the observant eye, Charles.”
“Indeed,” Hawthorne replied, sharp eyes never leaving Sebastian. “Though his mother’s influence still… colours his perspective.”
Sebastian felt the subtle barb but kept his face neutral—a skill he was learning by the hour.
By dessert, Sebastian found himself answering occasional questions—carefully, tentatively. He hadn’t meant to draw attention. But he had. He’d passed something invisible.
Later, as the guests drifted off in clouds of cigar smoke and ambition, Hawthorne laid a hand on Sebastian’s shoulder.
“Sharp instinct,” he murmured. “Unexpected. But useful.”
Sebastian flushed. The smallest ember of pride stirred in his chest.
“You’ll do.”
It was the first compliment he remembered from a man called father.
It wouldn’t be the last.
* * *
Three months passed in a blur of lessons—not just schoolwork, but a constant education in power. Sebastian learned to recognize when Hawthorne was using him as a prop, when he was testing him, when he was showing him off.
One evening, Sebastian found himself in Hawthorne’s study. Rain lashed against the windows as his father spoke on the phone, voice liquid silver.
“Minister Blackwood, you misunderstand me.” Hawthorne’s tone was reasonable, patient—the same tone he used when pointing out Sebastian’s failings. “I’m not threatening to reveal your involvement. I’m offering to protect you from those who would.” A pause. “Consider it insurance, old friend.”
He hung up and turned to Sebastian, who pretended to be absorbed in his book.
“What did you observe?” Hawthorne asked.
Sebastian looked up. “You weren’t angry, even though he clearly upset you.”
“And?”
“You called him ‘friend’ after he challenged you.”
“Why?”
Sebastian thought for a moment. “Because he’s more useful afraid than antagonized.”
Hawthorne’s lips curved slightly. “People are tools, Sebastian. Some need to be sharpened, others need to be stored carefully until needed.” He gestured to a chessboard on his desk. “Do you know why I prefer chess to poker?”
Sebastian shook his head.
“In poker, your victory depends on deception—convincing opponents you have something you don’t.
In chess, true mastery comes from making them see exactly what you have…
and still being unable to stop you.” He moved a pawn forward.
“You can have brilliant bluffs. But the world always calls eventually.”
“Come,” Hawthorne said, gesturing to the chessboard. “Show me what you’ve learned.”
That night, Sebastian lay awake, listening to the rain.
On his nightstand sat three books: a battered copy of The Prince rewritten for younger readers, a slim volume of war strategy quotes, and a glossy illustrated biography titled Great Leaders of the Empire.
His father’s idea of appropriate bedtime reading.
Next to them, hidden inside a hollowed-out copy of Great Expectations, was a small photograph of his mother, smiling in a Paris garden.
He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to feel anymore, but he knew what he was supposed to become.
* * *
A year into his new life, Sebastian stood beside Hawthorne on a receiving line at the embassy. His French accent had faded to an occasional inflection that his father now referred to as “cosmopolitan.” He’d grown three inches. His suits no longer pinched.
“Lord Hammond approaches,” Hawthorne murmured, barely moving his lips. “His grandson was just expelled from Eton—drugs. He’s sensitive about it.”
Sebastian nodded imperceptibly.
When Lord Hammond reached them, Sebastian smiled with practiced warmth. “Lord Hammond, Father tells me you’ve been instrumental in the new conservation bill. I’ve heard it’s the most progressive environmental legislation in a decade.”
The old man’s face transformed with pleasure. “Did he now? Well, between us, it was a battle getting those stubborn industrialists to see reason…”
As Lord Hammond continued, Sebastian caught his father’s approving glance. This was the game. Find the vanity, stroke it gently, watch doors open.
Later, in the car ride home, Hawthorne reviewed Sebastian’s performance while scanning documents on his tablet. “Better. You’re learning to read people. But next time, don’t press so hard on Hammond’s environmental interests—the man’s investments tell a different story than his public platitudes.”
Normally, Hawthorne kept such documents secured in his private briefcase, but tonight, after several glasses of scotch with the ambassador, he’d grown careless, leaving papers exposed as he shuffled through them.
Sebastian caught a glimpse of ministerial letterhead. A list of names. Figures with too many zeros.
Hawthorne noticed his gaze and snapped the folder shut. “Curious?”
“No, Father,” Sebastian lied smoothly.
“Good. Curiosity is for scholars and fools. Precision is for men of power.”
But Sebastian had already memorized three names from the list—one of which he recognized as a vocal opponent of his father in Parliament.
That night, Sebastian added the observation to a mental ledger of his father’s rare moments of carelessness. He wasn’t sure when or how such knowledge might be useful, but he was his father’s son now.
He knew to save every advantage, no matter how small.
Later, as he lay in bed, he realized that the ache in his throat when he thought of Paris had dulled. The memory of his mother’s laugh was fading. In its place was a growing hunger—to impress, to calculate, to win.
He didn’t realize then that every compliment was a chain. And he wouldn’t feel its weight until he started trying to run.