Chapter Twenty-Three #2
For a moment, his mother only stared at him. Then, she said, “Your great-uncle and I made it a point to make sure the house—and your inheritance—passed along to you on your twenty-fifth birthday. Your father knows that.”
For once, Oliver was incapable of speech. Not only had William Booth destroyed any hope of Oliver hearing from his mother, but he’d also convinced his son that he was doomed to a miserable life in Rosewood, under lock and key with his father.
He heard Kalila’s voice in his head, her words from their night in Regent’s Park clear as day, telling him that things shouldn’t be this way.
She was right.
“You didn’t know,” his mother murmured, bringing him back into the room. “Oh, Oliver. I’ve failed you in so many ways.”
“No,” Oliver choked out. “No, you haven’t. He has. He always has.”
“But look at what you’ve made of yourself,” she said. “Hughes told me that you study at the Polytechnic University.”
“Father always implied that you knew,” Oliver told her, the words sounding stupid to his own ears. “And that you were disappointed in me for it because you still hoped I’d become a violinist.”
“If I ever hear another violin in my life,” Rosemary said, “it’ll be too soon.”
Oliver laughed. “I couldn’t agree more.”
A cheeky glint appeared in his mother’s eyes. “Hughes also said something about a young lady.”
“I see Hughes couldn’t help but expose all of my deep, dark secrets,” Oliver muttered.
“I’m your mother, Oliver,” she said. “If Hughes hadn’t told me, I would have figured it out at some point myself.”
He smiled despite himself. “Motherly intuition, is that it?”
The smile that came over Rosemary’s face was almost identical to his own. “I’m afraid so.”
“In that case,” Oliver said, “there is a young lady.”
“Oh, thank the Lord you didn’t marry before we found each other again,” Rosemary burst out. “I worried about that all the time, you know.”
“I haven’t asked her that just yet,” Oliver told her, vaguely aware of how odd it was that they were managing such casual conversation. “I’m waiting for her to admit she’s gone and fallen in love with me. You know how it is.”
Rosemary leaned against the back of the chaise. “You’re exactly as I imagined you to be.”
“So are you,” he murmured.
“You can marry in Kent, if you like,” she said. “I don’t know how many people I can fit into the cottage, but the garden could work for a wedding breakfast.”
Oliver mirrored her posture, his gaze focused on the wall in front of him. “For a while, I told myself I’d never settle down with anyone.”
“Why?”
“I was worried I’d end up like him, or that I’d make someone miserable without meaning to.”
Rosemary pressed a kiss to his temple. “You’re nothing like him. I’ve always thought so.”
“But whatever anxiety I had about it just—disappeared one day. And now I can’t help but wonder why I ever felt that way at all.”
“Love will do that to you,” his mother said softly. “Risks are nothing in the face of it.”
“I’m sorry,” Oliver said, turning toward her. “For not writing.”
She pulled him toward her. “I’m sorry for leaving you.”
They stayed like that, a mother holding her son, twenty-three years feeling like nothing more than twenty-three seconds.
There was no anger, no resentment. Whatever traces Oliver had held onto melted away, even if he knew he was entitled to all the bitterness in the world.
He had, after all, been a child caught in the crosshairs of his parents’ crumbling marriage.
But then, his mother had been caught in those crosshairs, too.
And she was more than a shadowy fount of maternal affection to him now.
She was a person—one who was deserving of his empathy and forgiveness.
And as she held him, he knew that she felt the same about him.
Because he had been old enough to reach out for a long time, could have written whenever he’d pleased. He hadn’t, just as she hadn’t, either.
Even after decades apart, they were still alike, down to their every flaw.
And William had made sure to keep them apart, as drunk off the power that gave him as he was off the liquor he favored.
A knock came at the door, and Hughes stuck his head in. “Apologies for the interruption, sir, but your father is home.”
Oliver felt his mother stiffen next to him. “Where is he?”
“In his study.”
“I’ll go to him.” Oliver stood, holding out a hand to stop his mother from following. “He’ll go mad if he knows you’re here. I can take care of this.” He looked to Hughes. “Keep her away from him.”
Hughes nodded. Oliver headed to his father’s study before his mother could speak, glancing at the old clock as he passed. He still had some time before he had to ready himself for the seminar. Not a lot of it, but some.
He burst into his father’s study without knocking. William jumped, the movement causing his brandy to spill over the edge of his glass.
“What is the meaning of this, boy? Are you completely devoid of any manners?”
Good, Oliver thought. He isn’t drunk yet.
“Rosewood is mine,” Oliver said, “isn’t it?”
The color drained out of his father’s face, and he placed his glass down on the desk with a careful clink. “Where in God’s name did you hear that?”
“Answer the question.”
“That damned mother of yours. Did she write you?”
“I wrote her.”
“Did you now? And what, pray tell, inspired you to pick up your pen after twenty-three years of silence?”
“I wouldn’t have if—” Oliver stopped speaking, once again feeling very much like a little boy, though a much more helpless one.
“If?”
Oliver swallowed. “I would have never thought to write to her if I’d been happy here. I would have been content to believe that she’d simply chosen to leave us, that we were better off.”
He didn’t know if it was the truth, necessarily, but he liked to believe that there was a universe in which he could have been happy at Rosewood with his father, no matter how unrealistic it was to assume he was capable of forgetting his mother entirely.
“We are better off,” his father bit out. “And what, now you’ve written her, and she’s told you that this house is yours? Is that it?”
“Why could you not just—love me properly?” Oliver asked, ignoring the question. “What is wrong with you?”
William stared at Oliver, his mouth pressed shut.
“You convinced me that love wasn’t worth anything,” Oliver continued, desperate to expel every bit of hurt from his body. He hadn’t let himself feel it for so long and now—now it was all he felt. “I only recently realized that—”
His father scoffed. “Love? What do you know of love?”
“I’m in love, so one could argue I know plenty,” Oliver snapped. “Not that it’s any of your business.”
“And?”
“And I intend for the two of us to live at Rosewood.” He paused before clarifying. “Just the two of us.”
“Just the two of you?” William repeated, his voice barely concealing an undercurrent of disbelief.
“I cannot believe you’d have the nerve to sound surprised,” Oliver said. “Did you really think I’d spend my entire life living under your boot? That I wouldn’t find a way to escape you?”
“I did, in fact, think that.” William pressed his palms to the table and stood up. “You were always too much of a coward to stand up for yourself, Oliver. Even now, I see your fear. You’re not as fine an actor as you seem to believe.”
His father’s words stunned him into momentary silence. He thought back to his conversation with Comerford and how pointless it had been.
This, too, was a pointless conversation. Oliver was beginning to understand that just because someone could converse, it did not mean one should. Not everybody deserved the privilege of conversation.
“Get out,” Oliver said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You’ve enough money to find yourself another place to live.” Tears began to threaten, as sure a sign as any that he needed to end this, and soon. “We won’t be living together anymore. It’s time for Rosewood to change.”
“Theatrics,” his father spat, picking his glass up and taking a healthy gulp of brandy.
“Not at all. Would you rather I bring solicitors into this?”
“You haven’t a leg to stand on.”
“No,” Oliver agreed, “but I’m sure Mother could provide me with one.”
His father’s back straightened, the tension in the room suffocating and heavy. Despite it, something inside of Oliver released, the sensation painful and wonderful all at once.
“I highly suggest you begin making arrangements,” he said, turning to leave. “You have one day.”
With that, he exited the study, returning to the hallway where he slumped against the wall, his eyes brimming with tears. Twenty-three years of strife ended in an instant. How could anyone be expected to cope with such a thing?
Hughes materialized as if from thin air, handing him a pressed handkerchief.
“I made arrangements for your mother to spend the night at Mivart’s,” he said, referring to the hotel, “even if I do think it’s your father who should find himself a room for the night. She agreed that leaving before he caught wind of her presence was wise.”
“You did well,” Oliver said, his voice wavering. “She can stay here once he’s left.”
“I know this is not the most opportune time,” Hughes murmured, “but you’re expected at the seminar.”
Oliver sighed in resignation. But, with Hughes’s words suspended in the darkened hallway, he realized that more lay in store for him.
And for Kalila.
And there was no amount of drama he wouldn’t go through if she were on the other side of it. For her, he thought, he would go through anything.
Oliver gathered himself up and allowed Hughes to ready him for the evening. By the time he was dressed, he looked as if he hadn’t experienced even the slightest bit of heartbreak that day. Funny how a bit of polishing and dressing up could do that to a person.
Bidding farewell to Hughes, Oliver made his way to the university. The seminar was to be held in the great hall, which was teeming with people by the time he arrived. Oliver scanned the crowd, catching sight of a head of curly blond hair.
Kalila?
The person in question turned around, revealing himself to be Dameer Rafiq.