Hawthorne

1

Camilla White

A fter my own mother’s death at the age of fifteen, I never thought I’d be in this position again. At least, not this soon. Especially not regarding the only other person closest to me.

Elizabeth Hawthorne was like a second mother to me. Despite being part of a renowned and influential noble family, she never made me feel less than her, with me being nothing but the daughter of the old manor’s housekeeper.

At first, right after my mum died, I thought I was done for and would be going into the system until I turned eighteen, but no. Aunt Lizzie, as she kindly allowed me to address her, took me in and allowed me to stay, working part-time while I finished my studies.

She never imposed limits on my presence, letting me grow up comfortable within this manor’s walls as if it were my childhood home—it certainly became it.

Aunt Lizzie also made an effort to connect with me. From being adamant about asking for my company in her tea time to always seeming interested in my news, asking about school or what interesting things I was learning. As the years went by, our bond became so strong that she became the closest I had to family.

She also taught me etiquette and how to deal with people from her background, which was extremely important because when her health first started to deteriorate, I was the one accompanying her everywhere.

It was when I graduated with my biology degree that Aunt Lizzie’s health started to deteriorate. It’s not like it was a hard choice to make…Instead of looking for a job in the area I studied for and giving my degree some use, I decided to stay and fully take over my mother’s old job.

It was only fair I’d give Aunt Lizzie back everything she gave me.

She gave me a family when I had lost mine, a home when I was left with nothing, and helped me become the woman I am today.

But now that she’s gone? I truly am alone in this world.

“Camilla, where do I put this?” a young property worker asks me while holding a huge Crown of white lilies.

This shows how much Aunt Lizzie treated everyone with respect. It’s not only the maids taking care of the service; every single worker in this property has shown up to help. Even the ones on their days off.

“Outside in the garden,” I tell him. “Right next to Mrs Hawthorne’s picture. There’s an altar there for all tributes.”

He nods and scurries off.

All preparations are in full swing for when the elite starts showing up. While Elizabeth Hawthorne had no official title due to her marriage to the late king’s bastard son, she is still part of the Hawthorne family—the most important Ducal family in the Kingdom of Monera.

While the smallest and most remote still-standing Monarchy in Europe, right in the middle of the Mediterranean, Monera is still one of the most influential governments in the world. Why?

The fact the country has the biggest stocks of nutmeg in the world, turning us into the main supplier, makes us the most unassuming economic power.

While the country excels in that and other matters…the inner political issues are…a mess. The fact that Aunt Lizzie’s late husband was the current king’s half-brother does not make them exactly welcome in court. This is especially true because the Constitution does not exclude illegitimate children from inheritance, and a lot of noble people still disagree with that rule because it means normalising adultery. Thus, I reckon many important characters won’t be present.

King Charles certainly won’t.

Even with her family’s well-renowned ancestry. This marriage was a failed attempt to clean Joseph Gotta’s bloodline, which had been stained with adultery from his birth. Even if it wasn’t his fault, he was always the one paying the consequences. They both did.

So, if neither was accepted in life, I doubt she would be in death, even if she was technically the king’s sister-in-law. Some have family and throw it away like it’s nothing, and others, like myself? They’d sell their soul to the Devil just to bring them back.

“Camilla, the first guests are arriving,” one of the maids exclaims, catching my attention.

With a mental shake of my head, attempting to send away all my thoughts, I straighten my back and dust off my clothes. The walk to the main door only takes me a minute, and as soon as I open it, the first couple of people show up.

And, so it begins…

We exchange all the necessary formal and frivolous greetings. These people will have nothing less than the maximum that is theirs by birthright, whether you agree or not.

Once the arrivals finally slow down, I walk around the main hall to make sure food and beverages are being served properly and everything is up to standard.

Her direct family members haven’t arrived yet, but I reckon it’s a matter of time until they show up. As the younger sister of the late Duke John Hawthorne, her nephews and their mother will certainly be present.

“Thank you, Camilla,” Viscount Sacromonti mutters once I bring him a glass of champagne.

With a small curtsy, I walk away, heading to where Mariah holds a tray full of drinks. That’s when the butler waves from the main door, and I rush, just in time to see a long limousine park right across from the entrance, signalling the arrival of the most important noble family in the kingdom—only second to the king himself.

The black door from the back of the vehicle opens, and the axis of my world stops, turning upside down. This invisible force takes over my body and keeps my attention on the tall, muscular man stepping out.

His short sandy-brown hair is slicked back, a trimmed shadow of beard covers his sharp jaw, and an all-black suit sits perfectly on his body.

Piercing dark irises lock on mine, and a shiver runs down my spine upon the eye contact.

Hypnotised. Enthralled.

It couldn’t be any other way with the current Duke of Hawthorne.

His eyebrows frown ever so slightly, inciting butterflies and memories buried in my subconscious for almost a decade.

But yet, I don’t waver. Dazed and lost in his handsomeness, with a wild heartbeat inside me.

Vincent Hawthorne, Elizabeth’s oldest nephew.

A long time ago, when the tragedy of the world we live in hadn’t affected us yet, as kids, he often visited Mrs Elizabeth with his father, the late duke. And despite my…humble origins, they always allowed us to spend some time together and play outside.

Even though he was five years older than me, he always wanted to play and do most of my bidding. For me, a lonely kid in this huge property, his visits were the highlight of my days.

But when he turned fifteen, the visits suddenly stopped. I later came to understand he was sent to boarding school, and university quickly followed.

I haven’t seen him in years.

He’s no longer the scrawny, nerdy kid I used to know. Opposite me slowly climbing up the stairs with his mother’s arm wrapped around his elbow, an imposing, confident man approaches.

A few steps away from me, the duchess, Sarah Byron the duke’s mother, clears their throat, and to avoid unnecessary awkwardness, I curtsey and start my rehearsed welcome speech, “Welcome, Your Graces. I’m grieved that we meet in such circumstances, but I am also grateful for your presence. It would mean the world to Mrs Hawthorne.”

That’s only when I finally straighten and offer them a small smile.

“She sure taught you well,” the duchess chimes in.

“Thank you,” I mumble and step to the side, letting them in.

As they step forward inside the house, Vincent’s eyes linger on me until he can no longer look without being noticed, and I do the same.

The intensity affects me, making my hands sweaty and my legs feel like jelly, but I try my best to shrug it off by looking away to close the doors behind them.

That’s when I see a man standing behind them both, awfully similar to Vincent but with a lightness that the first doesn’t have—and never did.

He must be Edgar Hawthorne.

“Hello there.” He smirks as if he’s in on a secret no one else knows.

“Your G-grace,” I stammer before bowing my head, feeling like a kid who has been caught doing something they shouldn’t.

Not wasting any more time with me, he follows in their footsteps. As the three of them make their presence known, the light chatter dies down.

Duchess Sarah Byron lets go of her son’s arm, and he steadily walks up to the little memorial I prepared with his aunt’s portrait.

“Thank you, everyone, for coming. Even though it’s a sad day, we’re here to celebrate Elizabeth Hawthorne’s life, and she’d be delighted to know that all of you are here to celebrate her memory and pay their respects.”

The duke’s words carry easily to all corners of the room. He’s not loud, but he’s strong and sure of himself, emanating dominance through every part of him. Especially his voice. So much so that I feel its vibrations on my own body, making my stomach somersault and my heart rate quicken.

In an attempt to not let myself get roped into weird and random feelings, I keep myself busy, ensuring everything runs smoothly as the memorial is now in full swing with the presence of the guests of honour.

Just as I finish fixing one of the buffet’s tables, I notice a stomp from the corner of my eye, just in time to see Eleanor Courtenay, the duke’s ex-girlfriend, flipping a tray full of champagne to the ground.

The poor waitress that was holding it scrambles to the ground to pick up the mess the other woman made, knowing she’ll be the one to blame.

“I’m sorry, Your Grace.” Mariah’s apology comes out rushed and panicked, squeezing my heart in sympathy.

With a few long strides, I reach them and try to assure the young girl, “It’s fine, Mariah.” And before someone else can speak, I add, “Fetch me something to clean this, please. I’ll take care of it from here.”

As expected, Eleanor is not happy and chimes in with a poisonous tone, “It’s not fine! She spewed all the drinks. It’s a miracle I wasn’t hit with anything.”

I grit my teeth and inhale, containing my temper. I’m used to dealing with obnoxious and entitled people, but it doesn’t mean it doesn’t still get on my nerves.

“I am sorry, milady,” I grit out with the official term of her nobility level. Even though some are more powerful or above others, it’s common sense to use your grace . It’s a way to show respect.

Except this woman does not deserve it after the way she treated one of Aunt Lizzie’s employees.

Eleanor narrows her eyes upon hearing the term, but all I do is give her a fake apologetic smile and add, “It’s Mariah’s first day, and she’s nervous. The girl needs the job,” I lie. “I am relieved you weren’t hurt and appreciate the grace of forgiving her mistake. Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?”

“No, thank you.”

I tremble upon the sound. It keeps me rooted in place and confused. Eleanor’s mouth opened, but the sound that just came out of it wasn’t her voice. It couldn’t be.

My suspicions are confirmed when none other than the duke shows up from behind me, placing himself by Eleanor’s side. The mere sight of him makes my breath hitch anew.

“Camilla,” he acknowledges before turning his attention to Eleanor.

Afraid he’ll be worse than her, I quickly start rambling, “Your Grace, I am sorry for what happened. I’ll be taking care of it right away.”

Those eyes that seemed dark a few minutes ago now look brighter. Reddish-brown irises glance at me before Eleanor catches his attention. Only, she catches mine, too.

“If you do as you did the rest of this event, please don’t bother,” Eleanor’s words cut through my chest like sharpened knives. “This is so boring.”

Boring?

It’s enough to make my blood boil and my temper blow up, the final nail in the coffin.

“I am sorry, ma’am,” I start, completely disregarding all of the terms I should be using to address her directly. “This event is to pay respect to my late boss, Mrs Elizabeth Hawthorne. Every setting and/or step has been followed according to her direction. I am afraid this boring event was not planned to please you or any other attendant but the person in question who is no longer with us.”

Eleanor gasps, and the duke’s eyes widen. It collides with the moment that Mariah returns with the cleaning tools. I extend my hands to her so she can let me clean, but she starts doing it herself.

Shit, I need an escape.

Looking at the time on my wristwatch, I notice it’s time for the main speech.

“Your Grace,” I turn to the duke. “It’s time for someone to do a speech in Her Grace Elizabeth Hawthorne’s honour. She had appointed you to be the one to speak.”

“Wait,” Eleanor interjects. “Vincent, you can’t seri-”

“Of course,” he cuts her off, completely disregarding her. Then, extending his arm, he hints at me to show him where his next destination is. “Lead the way.”

So, I start walking. What I wasn’t expecting was for him to walk by my side. And close. Too close. So close that our hands graze each other several times with each step we take. And it’s so intense that the mere touch is enough to make my skin tingle.

“You still got quite a mouth on you, Little Milla ,” he whispers, his body slightly bent over mine with his mouth way too close to my ear.

In response, I jerk away, my head swivelling to the side to face him, and the only thing he does is…smirk.

Somersault.

Fluttering.

Shivers.

Fireworks.

My body is a wide range of adrenaline, causing the most outrageous feelings while my brain remains an empty piece of white paper—lost in time.

Oh my god.

His smirk widens, and he winks. Winks.

“I’m sorry. I know it was out of place, but—”

“No need. I heard the whole interaction, and if you wouldn’t have jumped in to defend my aunt…I would have,” he confesses. “But be careful with the way you talk with your superiors in the future. It can get you into dangerous situations.”

His voice is flat, but I swear I recognise a little bit of amusement in his tone. That makes me lift my eyes to look at him. Long gone is the cocky smirk, now replaced by a deviant smile.

Heat creeps down my neck towards my chest and is impossible to stop, making Vincent’s eyes lower, following its path.

Shit, what the hell is happening?

I need distance . That’s why I point to the podium where the microphone is and nod for him to step up before I scurry away and lock myself in one of the many bathrooms of the manor.

For the remainder of the event, I keep myself away from the Hawthorne family and try to manage the memorial from the shadows, avoiding him.

When the last person finally leaves and I’m left alone, I sigh in relief.

I head to the memorial, where all the flower Crowns are gathered by her picture and bring a chair to sit by it.

I can finally mourn her like I want to. The tears fall and run down my cheeks as I stare at the smiling face centred within a wooden frame.

Her blonde hair is pulled back into her signature low bun. Her face is set in a serious expression, defining even more of her wrinkles. Here, in paint over canvas, she looks like those evil women in their formal portraits, even though she always used to be nice and kind to everyone around her.

As I stare back into the empty look of her bright blue eyes, I wonder what the hell is going to happen now that she’s gone.

I have no one else in this life, and this house is all I know, but I doubt the person receiving everything that was hers will want to keep me, too.