Chapter Twenty-Two Grant
Chapter Twenty-Two
Grant
“You’re thinking awfully hard.”
I blinked, finding myself staring down into my tea. “Yes, quite.”
“Everything all right?”
My grandmother asked politely enough, when in actuality, she’d probably heard from my mother, who’d heard from Rose that something happened, and it was driving her quite mad not to know every single detail.
Not because she was a gossip—she wasn’t.
But the sand in the proverbial hourglass was disappearing rapidly.
After a call from my father about a trustees’ meeting being scheduled for the next day in London, my grandmother had bumped up their flight. My mother and Caroline were packing. Mercy, still asleep in our room, was none the wiser.
“Tired,” I admitted. “Didn’t get much sleep.”
Her gaze narrowed and I sucked in a breath, waiting for the barrage of opinions I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to hear.
“You can rest after we leave. But I would like to say goodbye to your wife.”
“I’ll wake her up shortly.” It was no problem.
I’d already suffered the disgusting wrench in my chest watching her sleep as the sun rose, sprawled over the bed as she was wont to do, snoring lightly and her hair an absolute disaster.
If I loved her any more, my head would explode.
I took a sip, grimacing when I found the tea cold.
“Would you like a cuppa? I need to boil some new water for myself.”
“Please.”
As I busied myself in the kitchen, I could feel Grandmother’s gaze on my back. If she kept her opinions to herself for much longer, she was likely to burst wide open.
“Might I ask what was on your mind?”
I filled the electric kettle and pressed the button, then turned, leaning against the counter with my arms folded across my chest. My eyes met hers. They were unreadable. Like my father’s. Like mine could be. “Volatile markets,” I admitted.
“How so?”
“Well, how to navigate them. It’s a gut instinct to be successful in weathering that volatility. Knowing when to hold on to something.” I watched her expression carefully. “When to let go. If we’re humble enough to diversify when things don’t go our way.”
“Patience,” she said, tone stout, eyes unflinching. Knowing. “One mustn’t panic during the dips. It will only make things worse.”
Oh yes, she abso-fucking-lutely knew something had happened.
The truth of it struck dead center, in that space between my ribs.
If we’d been a different family, if we’d had years of emotional transparency rather than decades of perfecting the stiff upper lip, I might have admitted how poignant that was, after a sleepless night haunted by the very panic of which she spoke.
“I won’t ask for details,” she said, and dear Lord, if my sister gave them to her, I’d never forgive her. “But I think you know exactly what to do. You just don’t want to because it’s hard.”
She refused to drop my gaze, even when I flinched.
“You might be right,” I admitted hoarsely.
“It’s a ghastly burden, but I usually am.”
The water was boiling, and I turned away, lest she see my faint smile and think I found her humorous.
I removed a mug from the cabinet, one far more casual than she was used to, but she didn’t complain as I filled it with the steaming water. The tin of tea bags sat between us on the counter, and she reached forward to extract one.
“Milk?”
“Just a splash, please.”
Only the sound of clinking spoons filled the kitchen while we prepared our tea. I took a bit more milk than she did, and added some sugar because I’d need all the help I could get in staying awake long enough to get through this day.
She took a sip and hummed in approval.
“My skills were honed after years of your grandfather teaching me what he knew, God rest his soul. Your father learned from both of us.” Her gaze was sharp.
“But you always seemed to know instinctively what the best course of action was, without any outside guidance. It drove me mad, if I’m being quite honest.”
“It wasn’t a slight to you or Father that I didn’t come to you.”
“I know that now.”
I nodded, chest unclenching at the quiet admission. Maybe this accident was the bridge to mutual understanding. I wouldn’t return to London simply because she wished it, or because my fortune could be greater than it was now.
Grandmother set down her tea and gently laid her hands over top of mine. “I want you to be happy, Grant. And I cannot leave here without knowing that you are. I’m worried, and I won’t pretend otherwise.”
There was no place for vulnerability in this conversation. No space to unpack just how difficult it was to answer that question, should she ask it of me directly. What I could give her, however, was the truth that kept me anchored in the middle of all the turbulence.
“I am happy with her. No matter what it looks like.”
“You truly love her?” she asked. Slowly. Like she knew the answer but was asking it anyway.
“To the point of madness.”
Her brow wrinkled slightly, then smoothed out in the next moment.
“Goodness, the histrionics. You certainly didn’t get your romanticism from my side of the family.”
“That was from mine,” my mother said, entering the room with a smile, Rose wheeling her suitcase behind her. “Good morning, son.”
“Mother.” I kissed her cheek.
Rose tried to ruffle my hair and I smacked her hand away. “Is there coffee yet?” she asked.
“No.”
She prepared her tea without complaint, settling into her favorite corner of the couch while Mother moved their suitcases by the front door and waved for the driver.
“We’re talking about your obsession with your wife, I take it?” Rose asked, smiling sweetly.
My eyes narrowed, enough that she should know to keep her mouth shut. “Yes.”
“Did you tell Granny about the greenhouse?”
I was going to murder her in her sleep. “No.”
“What about the greenhouse?” Grandmother asked.
Before I could formulate a believable lie, Rose interjected, eyes wide and innocent. “They did some gardening yesterday after we left. Made quite a mess too.”
Innocent, my arse.
My mother gave Rose a chiding look, which she ignored.
“Are you satisfied leaving him in peace, Mother?” Mum asked.
Grandmother eyed me for a moment. “I wrote the whole thing off as a rebellion. Or a safeguard, I suppose. You really loved her all this time?”
Rose’s eyes met mine, brow lifting in silent question.
In that question, I couldn’t help but think of Mercy.
On her hands and knees, fingers covered in dirt and the rain drenching her skin.
The agony she felt over lying, when all she saw, all she knew, was that their love, even if it felt misplaced at times, was incredibly real. Something she’d never felt.
In fact, the only love she remembered feeling was from her brother. Her students, of course. Friends at school. But that sense of family that she’d cultivated was gone, and all she had in its place was me, telling her things out of the realm of believability.
Could I keep lying to my family, knowing Mercy would judge me for it? Knowing she’d carry that weight among everything else she was forced to carry right now? Knowing it might give her just a bit more ammunition to argue this whole situation was more than she could bear?
I closed my eyes and gave a slight shake of my head. “No. I didn’t. Not the whole time.”
The kitchen fell silent, only the slight catch of my mother’s breath breaking the quiet.
When I opened my eyes, my grandmother’s face was disappointed. “Quite the show you two put on.”
“It wasn’t a show,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest. “That was all very, very real.”
“Don’t I bloody know it,” Rose muttered.
We ignored her. For all intents and purposes, it was just me and Granny in that kitchen. I held all the proverbial cards because there was nothing she could do except tell me that I was a grave disappointment.
“‘To the point of madness,’” she said quietly. “Is that right?”
I nodded, unable to speak over the thick lump in my throat.
“My goodness.” She closed her eyes briefly. “When did it change for you?”
“Not long after we visited London. I was halfway there, I just couldn’t admit it.”
“And Mercy? Where does she fit in all this?”
There wasn’t a crowbar strong enough to pry the words from my throat. There were so many conversations I’d only have with her. And this . . . this was one of them.
“I’m pleased you came to visit.” I held her gaze. “But I won’t speak for Mercy. Her feelings are her own, and you will leave my wife alone until I say otherwise.”
Her eyes narrowed, a flicker of surprise in the bend of her eyebrows. “Noted,” she answered placidly. “I can’t fault your chivalry, at least.”
“It’s not about chivalry, Grandmother. She is my heart.”
That left her in stunned silence.
Behind me, my mother sniffed quietly, and when I turned, she was brushing a tear from her cheek. Rose stared down into her tea.
The door to the primary bedroom opened, and Mercy wandered down the hallway, her hair tamed in a knot on the top of her head, a midnight-blue silk robe wrapped around her body.
“Good morning, darling,” my mother said. “The robe looks wonderful.”
“Thank you. It’s beautiful.” Mercy smiled, her hands smoothing down the fabric. It moved like liquid, and I had to pull in a deep breath to fight the ever-present ache in my bones whenever she was near. “Everyone’s up so early.”
She and Rose shared a quick, meaningful glance, and my grandmother watched the entire exchange with shrewd eyes.
Finally, Mercy’s gaze found mine.
My heart thrummed at her nearness, as it always did, but I kept my face even.
What would she do if I reacted the way my body screamed for?
If I fell to my knees and set my forehead against her stomach, allowed her fingers to comb through my hair.
If I cupped her face and kissed her the way I wanted.
If I told her I loved her with our eyes wide open.
“Good morning,” I told her.
A delicious pink shade dusted her cheekbones, and her eyes darted over to the front window. “The driver’s here already?”