CHAPTER FOUR #4
‘Oh if I may just clarify,’ he cuts across, smiling with all the warmth of a stone.
‘Within the scope of your appointment, you possess full discretionary authority to apply proportionate physical coercion in the management of my son, provided it leaves neither permanent mark nor lasting impairment. I would not dream of limiting that latitude. I am merely suggesting a method that yields greater compliance with considerably less effort on your part.’
Lachlan blinks into a frown. ‘You’re giving me permission to hurt him?’
‘You already possess that authority by virtue of the contract you signed,’ Alistair reminds him.
‘My point is simply that violence ought to be reserved for circumstances of genuine consequence, not for Julian indulging in another fleeting attempt at brief escape. I had hoped to see evidence of your psychological repertoire, given your supposedly persuasive background in Resolution Branch.’ He exhales with patient irritation of a man discussing a malfunctioning investment.
‘My son is unruly and difficult. Until he reaches twenty-one, it is my responsibility to shape him into excellence befitting our lineage and name. You are the latest in a long line of failures, and, after the regrettable shortcomings of the last, I have revised my expectations.’ His gaze sharpens, appraising rather than concerned.
‘From this point forward, I will disregard whatever accusations of injury Julian fabricates in his efforts to challenge your authority, which will remain undiminished and, from his perspective, absolute. Unless blood is drawn, I trust you are managing him appropriately. Understood?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Excellent. How are you settling in?’
‘Very well, sir. Thank you.’
The call ends.
Lachlan replays the plainer parts of the conversation, unhappy with the bottom line. After that, Lachlan rereads his contract again, but this time seeking what he didn’t notice before.
It’s cleverly buried in Emergency Authority Conditions.
Behavioural non-compliance may warrant discretionary physical intervention, provided no permanent injury is incurred or blood drawn.
He recalls Margot warning him about the language of that, but at the time he was thinking of the fact that she remortgaged her house to pay for his momma’s latest round of chemo.
It trouble him but he can compartmentalise, so he does.
Lachlan instigates renovations for the East Wing.
It has to be staggered to keep the place liveable. Despite not wanting a personal assistant, one seems to bubble to the surface anyway. A woman who checks in with him at least three times a day and becomes indispensable.
Her name is Blaire Montbelliard. She’s twenty-two years old, highly competent and French born, though her accent is mild and leans mostly British.
His requests go through her seamlessly and he has to admit, despite his initial scorn for the idea, it’s much easier this way.
The Estate is like a world unto itself. Kitchens, staff, living quarters, laundry, cleaning, administration; it operates like a small country.
He sees Blaire with Mimi sometimes, teaching the little one French here and there. The childminders live comfortably in loco parentis although Julian remains unchecked. Lachlan decides to pull the kid for a talk.
‘Walk with me,’ he tells him, not asking.
Julian sneers coldly but obeys. ‘Be right back, Mimi.’
It’s a clear day so Lachlan heads for the grounds. ‘I spoke with your father.’
‘Did he fire you?’
‘No.’
‘Well, he will. I’ll just keep showing him the bruises.’
‘I’m here to protect you.’
‘I don’t need protection.’
‘Yes, you do.’
‘From what?’
‘The world.’
‘What part of the world do I need protection from?’
‘Whatever your father decides.’
‘I’m gonna get you fired.’
‘No, you’re not. I need this job.’
‘Oh, boohoo. Plenty of rich kids for you to stand guard over.’
Lachlan stops when they reach the lake. ‘Why don’t you tell me what you want, and I’ll see if I can meet you halfway?’
‘And why don’t you go drown yourself in the water there?’
‘Very funny.’ Lachlan sighs roughly, unused to kids. He wasn’t around for any milestones of Margot’s children, only saw pictures every few months. He’s been dealing with nothing but adults since he was seventeen.
‘There’s nothing you can give me,’ Julian informs him, ‘and I’m gonna make sure you get fired just like all the others.’
‘No, you’re not.’
‘Fucking watch me.’
Lachlan smirks. ‘That’s my job.’
?
The next day brings Julian to him in a mess of watery rage. Cheeks rose red with frustration and barely held back tears, he shoves Lachlan as hard as he can which isn’t hard at all because he’s a scrawny seventeen-year-old kid.
‘You bastard!’
Oddly satisfied, Lachlan quips, ‘Spoke to your father, have you?’
‘He told me—he told me you…’ Lachlan balks slightly when the kid’s voice breaks. ‘He said you’re allowed to use necessary force.’
Lachlan’s insides turn cold, satisfaction long gone. ‘I don’t make the rules.’
‘That’s not what he said!’
‘Well, that wasn’t my decision.’
‘You get off on hurting kids, do you?’ Julian demands, voice shaking. ‘Are you gonna hurt Mimi too?’
Lachlan stares impassively, refuses to react. ‘No one is going to get hurt.’
Julian grits his teeth, wipes his eyes. ‘Just you, motherfucker.’