Chapter 45
Chapter Forty-Five
Harry
When I return to the hall, my eyes immediately seek out Toby, my chest constricting when I see he’s beside Oliver Hartwell.
I know Oliver is happily married to Prince Callum, but knowing Toby can be by Oliver’s side and no one will bat an eye still hollows my stomach. If he came to join me in my circle of aristocrats and Tory MPs, there would be many raised eyebrows.
I want Toby next to me. I want his snarky contributions to the conversations swirling around me now.
I just want him.
He left abruptly from the library, just as I was about to express my swirling feelings. But perhaps it is for the best. I’m not sure if articulating our current situation will be of any benefit.
Toby’s face looks troubled as he has a brief conversation with Oliver. Oliver’s gaze moves to me, a scowl etched upon his features.
I tense. I suspect Oliver Hartwell’s eagle eyes didn’t miss the fact Toby and I were out of the room at the same time. Has he discerned what is going on between us?
Nausea churns inside me. I’m fairly confident Oliver Hartwell will keep Toby’s secrets for him. He will not betray his friend even to score a victory over me.
But it just reinforces that I’m dabbling with fire by continuing anything with Toby.
However, I really don’t think I possess the strength to resist him.
I tear my eyes from Oliver’s knowing gaze, trying to regain my composure.
The night lingers on. My mother makes her excuses to depart early, but my father remains by my side, talking strategy with a circle of longtime friends and allies, their laughter ringing out above the din of the crowd.
The mood among the Conservatives is upbeat, the feeling that power is within our grasp.
I force a smile, attempting to engage in the banter, but my gaze is constantly drawn back to Toby, who seems deeply engrossed in conversation with Oliver.
I have such an overwhelming longing to know the subject of their discussion.
The banquet hall begins to empty, the sound of footsteps and muted conversations echoing off the high ceilings as guests depart.
I watch as Toby embraces Oliver and Prince Callum before heading towards the coat check. I quickly disentangle myself from my group and make my way towards him, my heart racing with each step.
I cannot allow Toby to leave without saying goodbye. I simply want to talk to him again, hear his voice, even if it is merely engaging in benign small talk.
The coat check is located in a small antechamber off the main hall, with staff efficiently sorting through the racks of coats and handing them back to their owners. I navigate the space with purpose, dodging the other guests as I close the distance between Toby and myself.
Toby is shrugging into his coat, fastening the buttons.
“Is that a new coat?” I ask as I sidle up to him.
Toby turns, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Yes, it’s probably not surprising my old one turned out to be unsalvageable. The dry cleaner almost fainted in horror when he saw it.”
“It looks warm,” I say.
“It turns out I have a new appreciation for the value of a warm coat.”
An assistant comes up with my own coat, and I slide it on.
“There are many things I have a new appreciation for since I came back,” I say as I button my coat.
Toby inhales sharply but meets my gaze squarely. “Like central heating, right? I know how much you enjoy being warm.”
“Ah, but there’s something to be said for the ambiance a fire provides,” I say.
“Yes, you can’t underestimate the ambiance generated by a real fire,” Toby agrees, a small grin creeping onto his face. I can’t help grinning back.
It’s so us. I’m feeling lightheaded, breathless, by the rightness of this. This banter between us, the quick-witted back-and-forth that Toby and I have always had, one that often masks a deeper layer of meaning, a secret language that belongs solely to us.
But Toby’s smile fades when my father arrives by my side.
“I’ve arranged for the driver to bring the car around,” he says, his tone brisk and businesslike. His gaze skims over Toby, his forehead furrowing.
I know my father is worried my feelings for Toby will derail the campaign, derail what our family has been working to achieve for generations.
But I suddenly realize Toby has never met my father. It feels wrong that two of the most important people in my life don’t know each other.
“Father, this is Toby Webley,” I say. “Toby, this is my father, Arthur Matheson.”
My father sticks out his hand, ever polite, even when greeting the man he’s worried will be his son’s downfall. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Toby. I guess I need to thank you for your part in keeping my son alive and bringing him home.”
Toby stares down at my father’s outstretched hand but makes no move to take it. He glances at me, and something flickers in his eyes, an emotion I don’t recognize.
It almost looks like regret.
But then he’s squaring his shoulders, lifting his chin as he directs his attention back to my father. “We’ve actually met before.” His tone is cool.
My father’s eyebrows come together. “I’m sorry. I don’t remember.”
“No, I guess you wouldn’t remember me. I was sixteen, and I’d come home from school early, and you were just leaving my flat after visiting my mother. I’m sure you remember her though. Evelyn Pointer.”
The name means nothing to me, but my father lurches back like he’s taken a punch to his stomach.
“I’ve always wondered if you’d ever put two and two together and realized I was her son,” Toby continues, his eyes not leaving my father’s face.
“Because besides the time we met, I’m sure she talked about me, right?
Probably even showed you photos because she was that kind of mum.
But you didn’t care. You probably didn’t even pay attention to anything she said.
You were only there for the fucking, right? ”
What the hell? I whip my head around to stare at my father.
He’s gone deathly pale. He opens his mouth as if to speak, but no words come out.
Toby presses on, his voice like steel. “Do you have any idea what you put her through? She was a vulnerable widow swept off her feet by this charming aristocrat who took an interest in her. You made her fall for you, and then you dropped her like a stone.”
Oh, holy God. He can’t mean… The woman my father had an affair with that cost him the party leadership… Is Toby actually saying that was his mother?
My father seems to shrink under the weight of Toby’s accusation, his shoulders slumping.
Toby’s gaze flicks to me, and I can’t muster any other expression than reflecting the absolute shock and horror I’m feeling.
I’ve spent a lifetime suppressing my emotions, but there is no way I can keep these feelings down.
Toby turns his attention back to my father. “So excuse me, but I don’t particularly want to shake your hand.”
“I’m sorry,” my father chokes out the words.
Toby looks at him for a few silent seconds, his face a mask of controlled anger, over twenty years of unspoken resentment and hurt condensed into a single, loaded glance.
Then he turns away, walking down the steps, his hand raised to hail a cab.
I stand there, staring vacantly after him, stunned.
I watch Toby get into the cab, watch it move down the street, its taillights retreating.
Our car pulls up, and I climb in blindly, barely comprehending my body moving, my mind still stuck on the pain and anger etched onto Toby’s face. Nausea washes over me as I begin to comprehend my father’s actions and the impact it had on Toby’s life.
My father’s face is ashen.
“I had no idea…” he says.
I don’t say anything.
“I loved her. I truly loved her. She was warm and witty and…” He trails off, rubbing a hand over his face.
“She talked about her son, Tobias. All the time. I never realized…”
My father seems incapable of completing sentences at the moment.
I’m struggling to know how to reply. I’ve never felt so disillusioned, so perplexed, so utterly lost. I don’t know how to reconcile the father I love with the man who could so callously treat a woman in such a manner.
The reason behind Toby’s instant dislike of me when we first met becomes painfully clear. The inexplicable barrier I perceived between us during our time in the wilderness suddenly takes on a new, troubling significance.
My father’s folded in on himself, and I’ve never seen him look so diminished, so…little. A little man.
I think about my father going into battle against Dentworth, of the relentless campaign he waged to bring the abusive headmaster to justice.
And it dawns on me how the hero in one person’s story can be the villain in someone else’s.
There was so much anger on Toby’s face, but underneath, I saw a glimmer of the vulnerable teenage boy who helplessly watched his mother’s heart break at the hands of the man standing before him.
And I can’t move past the fact that my father hurt Toby’s mother and, by extension, hurt him so much.
I know Toby will be hurting again right now.
Which means I need to see him.