Chapter Ten #2
“Margaret Wells was my grandmother,” Charlie repeated, each word seeming to cost him something.
His knuckles were white where he gripped the wrench.
“So yes, I know exactly how her story ended. I was the one who found her unfinished manuscripts. I was the one who sorted through her letters, her regrets, her careful documentation of everyone else’s happiness while she withered away in that house. ”
“Charlie, I—”
“You want to know what’s in those notes she left around York?
” His voice was rising now, years of suppressed emotion breaking through.
“Regret. That’s what. Regret dressed up as hope, spreading it around because she had none left for herself.
She chose duty over love, chose what was expected over what she wanted, and spent the rest of her life helping other people avoid her mistakes while never forgiving herself for making them. ”
Eva’s mind raced, trying to reconcile the Margaret she’d been building in her imagination with this broken woman Charlie was describing. “But the people I’ve talked to, they all said—”
“They saw what she wanted them to see,” Charlie said flatly.
“The kind nurse, the generous soul, the local character who made their lives a little brighter. They didn’t see her at three in the morning, writing stories about love she’d never have again.
They didn’t watch her flinch every time someone mentioned America, or find her crying over a box of old photographs she couldn’t bear to throw away. ”
“She sounds like she was in pain,” Eva said softly. “That doesn’t make her broken. It makes her human.”
“Human?” Charlie laughed again, that harsh sound that seemed to come from somewhere deep and wounded.
“You want to talk about human? She couldn’t even tell me about the man she wished was my grandfather.
Instead, she married a man out of obligation.
I had to piece it together from her letters after she died.
An American soldier she fell in love with during the war.
She let him go, never told him how she felt, and spent the next sixty years regretting it. ”
Eva thought of the plaque in the Minster—For the American who left his heart in York. Her breath caught. “The American soldier …”
“Now you’re getting it,” Charlie said bitterly. “My whole life, she told me stories about being brave, about following your heart, about not letting fear make your choices. And the whole time, she was the biggest coward of all.”
“That’s not fair—”
“Fair?” Charlie’s eyes blazed. “You know what’s not fair?
Growing up thinking your grandmother was this pillar of strength and wisdom, only to find out her whole life was built on a lie.
That every piece of advice she gave me came from her own failures.
That when she told me to be brave, what she really meant was ‘don’t be like me’. ”
He grabbed his toolbox, metal clanking angrily.
“So no, Eva, I don’t think she was brave.
I think she was a woman who made a choice and couldn’t live with it, so she spent the rest of her life playing fairy godmother to everyone else’s love story.
And you sitting here, turning her into some kind of romantic legend …
it’s exactly what she would have wanted.
Another pretty story to cover up the ugly truth. ”
“Life isn’t a fairy tale,” Eva said quietly, remembering their conversation in the Dales. “That’s what you keep telling me.”
“No,” Charlie agreed. “It’s not.”
“But fairy tales and stories allow us a glimpse at paradise,” Eva continued, meeting his gaze steadily. “Or the alternative. Maybe that’s why she wrote them. Not to torture herself, but to imagine different endings. To give other people the chances she didn’t take.”
Something flickered across Charlie’s face—vulnerability, maybe, or recognition. But then his walls slammed back up, higher than ever.
“Believe whatever makes you feel better,” he said, turning away. “Just … leave me out of it.”
This is it. This is why you think everyone leaves. Because he left her. The American soldier left Margaret Wells. This is why you were so harsh when we first met. Sophie isn’t the reason you’re so negative towards America – it’s this. Eva thought.
He was halfway down the stairs when Eva called after him. “Charlie, wait—”
“I have work to do,” he said without turning around. “Oh yeah, also, enjoy your drinks with Aidan tonight. I’m sure he’ll tell you exactly what you want to hear. He’s good at that.”
The front door closed behind him with a decisive thud that seemed to shake the old building. Eva stood on the landing, arms full of research about a woman she apparently hadn’t understood at all, while the window Charlie had been fixing gave one last shift and squeak, then fell silent.
By seven o’clock, Eva had showered, changed, and spent a good hour staring at the brass key on her bedside table.
Margaret Wells. Charlie’s grandmother. It all made horrible, perfect sense now—his defensiveness about the past, his reaction to her research, the pain in his eyes when he talked about people leaving.
She’d texted Courtney the revelation, receiving a string of shocked emojis and a voice note that just said “WHAT?!” repeatedly at increasing volumes.
The Vaults was exactly the kind of place Eva expected Aidan to choose—all exposed brick and Edison bulbs, with cocktails that cost more than her entire meal at The Horse and Hound.
It smelled of small-batch gin and leather furniture, with none of the comfortable mustiness of a proper pub.
The clientele looked like they’d rather be in London but were making the best of York’s offerings, all careful beards and statement glasses.
“So,” Aidan said once they were settled with glasses of red wine, “Margaret Wells.”
He produced a leather folder from his bag, sliding it across the polished concrete table. Eva opened it to find photocopies of old documents—property deeds, council meeting minutes, a few photographs that smelled faintly of the archives they’d been pulled from.
“She was quite the local figure,” Aidan explained, leaning back in his chair.
“Very involved with the inn, helped arrange financing when it was in trouble after the war. There are records of her organising fundraising events, Christmas markets, all sorts of community activities centred around the Riddle & Quill.”
Eva studied a photograph of Margaret standing outside the inn. She was younger than Eva had imagined, with dark hair pinned back and a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. There was something familiar about the set of her jaw, the way she held her shoulders …
“She looks like Charlie,” Eva murmured without thinking.
“Ah,” Aidan said, his tone suggesting this wasn’t news to him. “You’ve made the connection then. Yes, Margaret Wells was Charlie Blackwood’s grandmother. I thought you knew.”
“I just found out today.”
“That must have been … interesting. Charlie’s rather protective of her memory.” Aidan sipped his wine thoughtfully. “Though I’ve never understood why. The woman was clearly remarkable—look at all she accomplished. But Charlie acts like her story is some kind of shameful secret.”
“Maybe because he knew her as more than just a local legend,” Eva suggested, thinking of Charlie’s raw pain that morning, the way his voice had broken on his grandmother’s name.
“Perhaps,” Aidan agreed. “Though I think there’s more to it.
Margaret Wells had connections throughout York, influence that went beyond just charity work.
The inn, for instance—she essentially saved it from closure in 1947.
Arranged private financing, negotiated with the council.
Quite progressive for a woman of that era. ”
“Why are you so interested in her involvement with the inn?” Eva asked, something about his tone made her wary. Aidan clearly wasn’t the type of man who paid attention to something unless it served him in some way.
“Historical context,” Aidan said smoothly. “When you’re proposing developments for heritage buildings, you need to understand their significance to the community. Margaret Wells is part of the Riddle & Quill’s story, which makes her part of my research.”
“Development?” Eva’s stomach sank. “You’re planning to develop the inn?”
Aidan’s smile didn’t waver. “Nothing’s finalised.
I’m simply exploring options. The inn is a beautiful building, but it’s struggling financially.
And honestly it’s falling off a bit, how many people are you sitting across from at breakfast, hmm?
Sometimes the kindest thing is to preserve what matters while adapting to modern needs. ”
“Like turning it into luxury flats?” Eva couldn’t hide her dismay.
“Possibly. Or a boutique hotel that maintains the historic character while actually turning a profit.” He leaned forward, and Eva caught another wave of that expensive cologne.
“Florence is a lovely woman, but she can’t run that place forever.
And Charlie’s maps, while admirable, aren’t going to save it.
Sometimes progress requires difficult choices. ”
Eva thought of Florence’s warm kitchen that always smelled of baking bread, of Charlie fixing radiators with patient care, of Tilly sprawled before the fire. “Some things are worth more than profit.”
“Spoken like someone who’s never had to make payroll,” Aidan said, not unkindly. “But I admire your idealism. It’s refreshing.”
The rest of the evening passed in a blur of expensive wine and Aidan’s smooth conversation.
He was knowledgeable about many things—art, travel, business—but Eva noticed how he deflected whenever she tried to steer the conversation back to York itself.
He seemed more interested in where she’d travelled, what her life was like in Nashville, whether she’d ever considered living abroad.