15. Where Lies the Hoax
WHERE LIES THE HOAX
FRANCESCA
C aitlin Henderson—or Dr Browning, as she’s known professionally—proceeds to ruin my morning.
I’ve just finished getting ready to head to the castle for breakfast when I find her on my doorstep.
Her bleached blonde hair is in its regular chignon, scraped back so tightly it’s practically given her a facelift.
Her terra-brown Louboutin boots are nearly up to her knees, only centimetres away from the hem of her faux fur coat.
She’s got a takeaway coffee cup in one hand and her phone in the other.
“Frankie-dear,” she greets in a heavy American accent, like she’s run into me at the mall and not outside of the cottage where I’m supposed to have breathing space.
Of all the people to waylay me on this fine morning, my childhood shrink would probably be at the bottom of that list, even beneath Godwyn’s fucking ghost.
She was my therapist from ages six to fifteen.
Amongst the nobility of Sheffolk, mental health is considered a taboo word, something that you treat quietly or just completely ignore—which means Caitlin is one of only three psychiatrists they let into their circle.
Therapy, according to them, is fine as long as there’s a plaque on the wall with some Latin words and sessions are referred to as ‘a little chat with Dr This-and-That’.
I was subjected to those chats after the lake.
Until I realised, of course, that I wasn’t a patient to her but some sort of entertainment.
Begged Gran to cut it off after Caitlin decided my stories held more weight than her confidentiality clause.
Little-Francesca had to be onto something, considering how Dr Browning’s reputation is currently going up in flames.
“Doctor,” I greet, locking the door behind me, and she barely allows space for me to pass. “You’re a long way from your office.”
She laughs that professional one that used to put me at ease. “Yes, I was called here actually. Had to cancel some last-minute errands, too. A chat seems best considering you’re housing such important guests. So, here in the cottage or the castle?”
And that’s the trigger: guests . Two princes.
Two walking endorsements she can latch onto.
There’s an excited gleam in her eyes, like she just can’t wait for me to spill everything, to tug on anything that may lead to the royal princes of Marzod.
Of course being seen in close proximity to them could help prove that she’s still trusted, still allowed in important circles.
I’m buffering on what she’s just said. “Wait, called here?” Gran hasn’t requested a session in years. “No, I’m sorry, but you must be mistaken. I’ve got nothing scheduled with you for today.”
“Francesca,” her voice takes on a gentle approach. “Let’s not fight this. I know it’s been a while but it’ll be extremely negligent of me to ignore?—”
“ Negligent ,” I echo, stepping off the stoop and making my way down the path. She follows behind me. “Interesting word choice for somebody whose confidential patient stories keep finding their way into conversations.”
“People exaggerate.”
“Yes, I’m sure they do, but I promise I’m not at risk of weeping into my breakfast before the princes, Dr Browning. So you can be on your merry way.”
It’s almost funny how much of a polar opposite she is to her son.
Charlie can be a nightmare at the best of times, but at least he’s not a busybody.
His mother will start dragging back the floorboards if you leave her alone with it long enough.
And if she had her way, she’d one day be my mother-in-law.
Imagine that. Dr Browning at every holiday, sipping tea on my couch and writing down every single thing about my marriage.
Hard no, I don’t claim that future.
We reach the little bend that curves towards the garden and I follow beyond it, hoping to shake her off before I reach the castle. “Francesca, I’m just trying to help. Please, the last thing I need is you misinterpreting my intentions. Come on, we’ve always had a good relationship.”
“What we had was a billing arrangement.” I pull a face.
Her heels are still clicking after me, up each step leading into the castle.
I stop just before the doors and turn to look at her.
Her long lashes are heavy with mascara, and there’s a dollop of concealer beneath her eyes that she didn’t blend properly.
God, she’s been crying. I stay my pity, lest it invite trouble I’ve long since gotten rid of.
“Caitlin…” It’s my turn to take on that gentle shrinky tone.
“By all means, invite yourself to breakfast; you’re a family friend, after all.
” She perks up at that. “But do us both a favour and try not to dissect the princes over the croissants; don’t dangle their names as proof for re-admittance into whatever societies you’ve been kicked from.
” A brief scowl appears on her mouth. “Because the eldest one? He doesn’t like strangers who linger in the hopes of getting information. ”
With that, I turn on my heel, but Caitlin quickly pockets her phone and then reaches for my hand.
My very not-gloved hand. The world lurches as I get dragged back into memory, choking as the scenery repaints itself before my eyes.
The steps vanish, and so do the castle walls and the ornate knocker I was about to push.
I’m gone from Redford, trapped behind Caitlin Henderson’s eyes.
The air stinks of cologne and sweat. My jumper’s woollen material has been replaced with red silk, and my knees dig into a soft mattress.
There’s something firm and muscular wrapped around my waist. The vision’s too blurry to make out the details but it’s a tattooed arm, holding me close.
The bed thumps in a brutal rhythm, and there’s hot breath at my neck.
Her voice falls from my mouth in a high-pitched moan.
Oh.
Oh.
For fuck’s sake.
Is she mid-fuck?
I ram my mind into the connection, smashing through it. When the memory clears and I’m back on the steps, I yank my hand back, clutching it as though she’s burned me. The horror must show on my face.
“What?” she lifts her hand to her cheek. “Is my lipstain smudged?”
I just stare because, out of everything else going on in her head, my curse decided to swallow an orgasm.
There’s nothing smudged; she doesn’t even have a hair out of place but something about her has changed because that memory wasn’t filed under ‘a good time’—it stank of regret, or else I wouldn’t have been granted access to it.
The unease grows when I remind myself that Chief Inspector Henderson doesn’t have a single tattoo on either arm.
Instead of answering, I just walk away, praying that God will take pity and scrub the memory from my brain.
Seconds later, I’ve shoved through the doors of the dining hall and find my uncle, Edmund, and Eric taking breakfast. The latter has seated himself at the furthest chair away from them, and I’m too irritated to even laugh.
“Who the hell , in this mostly functional family, invited Caitlin Henderson?”
All three heads turn. Uncle Hamish nearly chokes on his scrambled egg, leaving Edmund to pat his back.
Eric, on the other hand, lowers his coffee, and his gaze is a microscope shifting into focus.
Instead of caffeine, he drinks in my flushed cheeks and the way my fingers are trembling.
New notes are being taken in that internal dossier of his.
Extremely sheepishly, Hamish lifts a hand. “I…” He clears his throat. “I may have told her you’d be open to speaking. You know, what with… everything going on.” He casts Eric a quick glance, but the prince pays him no mind. “Thought you might appreciate a familiar face.”
“The last familiar face I’d want to see is Caitlin Henderson, Uncle. The woman’s a pest!”
Edmund scoffs into his cup. “That’s not really fair now, is it? She’s done wonders for many people—so you shitting on her is really offensive, y’know.”
“Oh look, Edmund coming to the defence of his mother-in-law-in-spirit,” I bite.
Hamish opens his mouth to break it off but wisely decides against it.
“Just because you had a positive experience with her doesn’t magically erase the fact that I had a horrid one.
Two things can exist at once, y’know. Ugh, I hate her . ”
“Duly noted,” says Hamish as I moodily plop into the seat closest to Eric. He watches with a flicker of amusement when I ask him to pass the milktarts. “I’ll make sure everyone on Redford knows to never put you two in the same room again,” Uncle adds laughingly.
“You’re making her sound like a villain,” mumbles Edmund.
“To many, she is ,” I emphasise, watching Eric mix two spoons of sugar into my rooibos tea.
“But obviously you’d defend her; you turn into a Yorkie anytime somebody tries to criticise the Hendersons.
Caitlin literally sells some of her patients’ information for social capital—do you not watch the news? ”
“Yes, because they’re always truthful.”
“The public deemed me odd for years because as a child, I said that the lake sometimes speaks to me,” I argue, throwing my hands up in exasperation.
“I spoke those words only twice, and it couldn’t have been the goddamn lake that gossiped, now could it?
I hate arguing with you, Ed, you know I do, but I won’t sit with my mouth stitched while you defend the woman who handed my childhood tragedy to the tabloids. ”
He falls silent, and I see the war in his eyes.
He detests arguing with me just as much as I do, so there’s a temptation to give up, but the side that is devoted to Charlie’s family always prevails.
“So I guess you’ll just continue bottling everything up, huh?
Maybe you should just talk to her instead of talking to people who aren’t there.
You act like you’re cursed, like the whole world is against you, when the reality is that you’re just plain fucking insane ?—”