Chapter One #2
I take a sip of orange juice and try to focus on what she’s telling me. The fountain pen exhibition. The Spring campaign. The media coverage. All the things I’m supposed to be helping coordinate.
‘This is all so sudden, but I just had to persuade Veil to move our campaign to Foxtown, and it’s all because of my friend Joy. When she told me about how successful their Valentine campaign was, I just knew we had to hold our launch here.’
The way her eyes sparkle as she talks about her family business makes her look decades younger.
‘Fountain pens and love letters, spring blooms and fresh beginnings. It all ties up, doesn’t it?’
Yes, it does...but it’s also exactly the opposite of what’s happened to my relationship, and so it takes more effort than usual to muster a smile that would match her enthusiasm. ‘It sounds beautiful.’
‘I think so too.’ She pauses, then adds, ‘And Foxtown is...special. You’ll see. They’ve done remarkable work with accessibility. The whole park is designed to be inclusive—ramps that blend into the cobblestones, Braille on all the plaques, ASL interpreters for events.’
The picture her words paint has my pain gradually fading, and I find myself impulsively signing, My mother would love this place.
Lady Hampton’s expression softens. ‘She’s Deaf too, isn’t she? I saw it in your application—your ASL certification.’
‘Yes. She’s a social worker. In South Africa right now.’
‘South Africa?’ Lady Hampton looks genuinely interested. ‘What kind of work?’
‘Community development. She’s been there for two years. Working with—’ How do I explain this? ‘She says she sees people with nothing who still have everything that matters. She writes me letters every Sunday. With a fountain pen.’
‘That’s beautiful,’ Lady Hampton signs. ‘And that’s why you know the value of words on paper. Of things that last.’
I nod, my throat too tight to sign properly.
‘Well then—’ she continues. ‘You’re perfect for this job. More than perfect.’
‘You’re so kind,’ I can’t help signing to her. ‘Thank you. So much.’
Lady Hampton only looks at me, but her face is just so expressive that I can practically hear what she’s saying without words.
Oh, Evianne.
And for some reason, it makes my eyes prick with tears.
‘I can feel your pain. And I want you to know that you don’t have to pretend to be strong. It’s okay not to be okay.’
I look down at my orange juice, blinking rapidly, trying to force the tears back.
Don’t cry.
Lady Hampton reaches across the aisle and squeezes my hand.
Just once.
Then she sits back and changes the subject, signing about the different fountain pens in the collection, about the history of the Hampton company, about how her late husband started collecting vintage pens on their honeymoon in Paris.
And I’m grateful, so grateful, that she’s giving me space to breathe while also...not leaving me alone with my thoughts. It’s almost uncanny, but sad at the same time, how a woman I’ve known for less than six hours understands me better than Joseph did in three years.
A part of me wants to think it’s because she’s just sensitive that way, but I think it’s time I stop fooling myself. I know we’re always supposed to see the good in other people, but we’re always supposed to be honest, too.
And the truth was...
Joseph never really knew me...because he never cared enough to pay attention to what I wanted.
Lady Hampton is now talking about her son, Veil, and what catches my attention is when she describes him as ‘complicated’.
‘How so?’
Her face turns pensive. ‘He was too young when his father died. But he had no choice.’ Her hands move more slowly now.
‘He had to grow up overnight. He had take on the title as duke and take over the company. Manage the estate. I did my best to help him, of course. But even when my husband was alive, my role was always in the background, never at the helm. And I suppose that’s how.
..he built walls around himself that I’m not sure anyone’s gotten through. ’
‘That must have been hard,’ I sign. ‘For both of you.’
‘It was.’ She meets my eyes. ‘But he’s stronger for it. Even if he’s also more...guarded.’
The way she signs ‘guarded’ makes me nervous.
‘I should warn you about something,’ Lady Hampton continues, and now her expression is almost apologetic. ‘My previous assistants...they all threw themselves at Veil within days. Every single one.’
Oh.
‘He’s learned to expect it,’ she continues. ‘Learned to be...cynical about women’s motives. Especially women who work for me.’ She squeezes my hand. ‘Please don’t take his coldness personally. He’s just protecting himself. He doesn’t trust easily.’
I nod slowly, processing this.
I understand, I sign to Lady Hampton. ‘And I promise—I’m here to work. Nothing else.’
‘I know.’
Lady Hampton smiles as she says this, and her smile...
It reminds me of the Mona Lisa’s for some reason, but I miss the chance to ask her about this with the pilot’s voice already coming over the speaker.
“We’ll be landing in Jackson Hole in approximately fifteen minutes. Please return to your seats and fasten your seatbelts.”
Fifteen minutes.
My stomach drops at the reminder, my heartbreak replaced by nervousness. In fifteen minutes, I’ll be starting a new job and living in a new place and working with new people. Everything is new. And thus, absolutely terrifying for someone like me.
You can do this, Evianne.
I buckle my seatbelt with shaking hands and try to focus on my breathing.
In for four counts. Hold for four counts. Out for four counts.
The landing is smooth—because of course it is, because apparently private jets don’t do anything roughly—and as we taxi toward the private terminal, I look out the window at the mountains.
They’re massive and overwhelming. Beautiful in that harsh, unforgiving way that makes you feel small.
I’ve never been to Wyoming before. Never been anywhere west of Pennsylvania, if I’m being honest. Joseph always said we should save money instead of traveling, that we’d have time for trips after we were married—
Stop thinking about him!
My hands clench into fists as the jet comes to a complete stop, and the flight attendant appears to open the door.
Lady Hampton is already standing, gathering her things with practiced efficiency, and I rise to my feet as well, relieved to have something to do. Right now, feeling nervous is a lot more preferable than wallowing in heartbreak and self-pity.
The Wyoming air hits me as soon as I step out of the jet—cold and crisp and so clean it almost hurts to breathe. It’s early evening, the sun just starting to set behind the mountains, painting everything gold and pink and purple.
There’s a car waiting at the bottom of the stairs, a sleek black SUV with a driver in a suit, and he’s opening the door for Lady Hampton, and I’m following her inside, and—
Buzz.
It’s another message from Joseph.
Landing in Seattle! Hope your flight was good. Miss you so much.
I stare at the message. I seriously can’t imagine what he’s thinking or feeling as he keeps up with all these lies. I’m so, so tempted to ask him outright—
‘Everything okay?’ Lady Hampton signs from across the car.
But instead I find myself shoving back in my pocket without responding to Joseph.
‘Yes,’ I sign.
She only nods. I know I haven’t convinced her at all, but she’s just so nice and wise that she chooses to give me space instead of making me admit that no, nothing is okay.
The drive takes maybe fifteen, twenty minutes? I’m not really paying attention to the time. I’m too busy staring out the window at the landscape—mountains and trees and open sky—trying not to think about how Joseph is probably laughing with Glenda right now, probably holding her hand, probably—
Seriously, Evianne, stop it!
The car slows, and I look up to see massive iron gates with “FOXTOWN” spelled out in elegant script.
Oh.
My heartbreak becomes a thing of the past as I find myself being suddenly transported in a completely different world.
A guard waves us through, and I literally can’t breathe. It’s like driving into a Jane Austen novel, and I’m just so tempted to pinch myself.
Cobblestone streets lit by actual gas lamps. Buildings that look like they were built two hundred years ago. People in period costume walking around like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
A woman in a Regency gown is walking a small dog.
A man in a top hat is reading a newspaper on a bench.
There’s a shop with a sign that says ‘Milliner’ in beautiful script.
‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ Lady Hampton signs.
‘It’s incredible,’ I sign back, and I mean it.
But I’m also noticing other things. The way the cobblestones are perfectly smooth—no gaps or uneven surfaces that would catch a wheelchair or walker.
The ramps that blend so seamlessly into the architecture you almost don’t notice them.
The way every shop window is at a height that accommodates everyone.
Mom would love this.
The thought comes unbidden, and my chest tightens.
I need to write her about this. She’ll want to know about Foxtown’s design, about how they’ve managed to create something so inclusive without sacrificing the period aesthetic.
We drive slowly through the main area—I catch glimpses of a lake with actual swans, a massive manor house, shops with bow windows full of gorgeous displays—and then we’re turning onto a quieter road, passing through more gates, and pulling up to...a house?
No, wait, not a house. But an estate?
Smaller than the massive manor we passed earlier, but still the kind of place that has a name. And history. The kind that makes you want to curtsy just looking at it.
‘The Foxes were so amazing with what they did here,’ Lady Hampton signs. ‘We gave them free reins to decorate the place as we were pressed with time, and the result is just...it feels like home.’