Chapter 19
Selena
If we’ve been hoping that the dramatic first few weeks of our marriage would ebb away, leaving behind calmer waters on which to build an actual future, we’ve been thwarted in grand style.
Obviously, I’m back at work properly, which means a couple of days a week in London—I spend one night a week at my house, which is currently the strongest tether I have to my sanity—and Ben is, bless him, doing his best to engage with the increase in duties that his new title affords him.
But it’s soon after we get back from our ski trip that he tells me Ivy’s stepmother has passed away.
Whatever my feelings towards Ivy, I’m horrified.
Her stepmum was apparently only in her late fifties.
She died of aspiration pneumonia: as the body dementia increasingly affected her swallow, she had more and more incidents where food and drink went down the wrong way, eventually causing an infection in her lungs from which she couldn’t recover.
How unspeakably tragic. And Ivy’s sisters aren’t even fifteen. Xavier certainly has his hands full, although it doesn’t surprise me that he’s stepping up. He may have royally screwed me over, but he’s clearly found a new focus for his well-developed sense of duty.
What I’m not expecting is the shitstorm Ben whips up one evening when he, Charlotte and I are having supper at home.
I haven’t seen much of his mother recently, to be honest. I suspect it’s a mixture of her wanting to make herself scarce while we get our feet under the table, which is awful, and the belief—deeply held in women like her—that taking time to grieve is both unhelpful and self-indulgent.
Best to get on with things. Keep busy. So she’s been out and about a lot, spending time with her human and equine friends.
‘A little bird told me you’re thinking of moving to Woodstock,’ he says to his mother over sea bass and sautéed veg.
‘That would be correct,’ she says, which surprises me. It’s the first I’ve heard of her moving to Woodstock.
‘I thought you planned to take the dower house?’ I say carefully. The dower house is on the grounds of the estate, a short walk from here, and is a beautifully symmetrical Georgian structure that predates the main house by almost a century. It’s mainly used to house visitors, apparently.
‘I assumed I would,’ she tells me, toying with her fork. ‘But it’s dreadfully lonely over there.’
‘But Charlotte, you should stay here if that’s the case,’ I say. ‘This has been your home for far longer than it’s been mine.’ I can’t say living with my mother-in-law is a core part of my life plan, but it would be inhumane to eject her so soon after her husband’s death.
She smiles at me. She’s been very sweet to me since the wedding. We’ve always had a good relationship—carefully honed at my end, obviously—but I think Xavier breaking off our engagement put the fear of God into her and she’s still thanking her lucky stars that Ben stepped in.
‘That won’t do at all, dear. It’s simply not how things are done.
Besides, all this socialising has made me realise how much merrier things would be if I was in town.
I’ll come back to ride every day, of course, but this way, I’ll be right in the middle of things. We have a little rectory in Woodstock.’
I cock my head. It’s not a bad call, all things considered. ‘Is it in good shape?’
‘Pretty good,’ Ben says. ‘The last tenants moved out in November, as luck would have it. We can spruce it up for you, Ma, if you’re serious about this.’
‘But how will you manage?’ I persist. Charlotte de Vere has had dozens of staff members at her beck and call for her entire married life. The thought of her living alone is staggering.
‘I thought I’d pinch Mrs Dale,’ Charlotte says in a tone that tells me it’s not a suggestion.
Mrs Dale is the family’s longstanding housekeeper, but she’s getting long in the tooth.
Not only will her loyalty lie with Charlotte, but looking after a single person in a townhouse should be a relief after the burden of running this place.
Besides, it gives me the chance to hire or promote someone who will be Team Selena.
‘Well, that’s settled, then,’ Ben says cheerfully. He takes a sip of his Chablis. ‘In which case, I’ve been thinking Xav, Ivy and the girls can have the dower house. Apparently, they’re keen to make a break from London now that Dawn’s passed away.’
At this, Charlotte and I are equally gobsmacked.
‘You’ll do nothing of the sort,’ she says shrilly. ‘You can’t have that little tart gallivanting around the estate like she owns the place.’
My thoughts exactly, Charlotte.
‘She’s not a tart,’ Ben insists, ‘and you’d better believe Xav’s going to marry her.
So if you want to know your grandchildren, Ma, I’d suggest a little more accommodation than you’re currently making.
Besides, I already told Xav he could have it, just as I suspect you’ve already offered Mrs Dale her new job, so let’s all stop pretending this is a consultation, shall we? ’
‘Wait a minute,’ I say before stopping. Even if Charlotte seems on the same page as me where Ivy is concerned, I don’t want to make a fuss in front of her.
I don’t want her thinking I’m getting too big for my boots, too soon, and I also don’t want Ben thinking I’m going to be an uptight pain in the arse about stuff.
Outside of the bedroom, I’m still trying to charm him, still trying to prove to him that he hasn’t signed himself up for a lifelong ball ache by stepping up to marry me.
But I’m pissed off.
First, I’m his wife. We should discuss this stuff together. This isn’t the nineteen hundreds. We’re a partnership, not a patriarchy.
Second—hello? Xavier almost succeeded in ruining my life a couple of short months ago.
Am I the only one who thinks it’s a bit unseemly that he and his new girlfriend should shack up right next door when I’m trying my best to adjust to a new reality and a new marriage that he gave me no choice but to acquiesce to?
And third, shouldn’t my fucking husband have enough fucking emotional intelligence to work this out for himself without my having to spell it out for him?
Jesus Christ.
‘Problem, sweetheart?’ Ben asks.
I sit back in my seat, deflated, as he and his mum turn to look at me with matching politely blank faces that are honestly creepy.
I’m supposed to be an insider here. I’ve been a promised member of the de Vere clan my whole life.
Fuck knows how Ivy will survive in this family if this is the way they close ranks on me.
My eyes have begun to sting as if I’m a little girl who’s been denied her needs as the old, familiar conflict begins to pull me apart inside.
I want him to know what I need.
And I don’t want to have to tell him, because that’s too scary.
I should advocate for myself. Set an early precedent. It’s important.
No. It’s too confronting. I don’t want to make a fuss or have Ben think badly of me.
In the end, I settle on a middle ground I know is lame even as I utter the words. ‘It’s a little close for comfort, don’t you think?’ I ask as evenly as I can manage. Under the table, my hands are shaking.
His lips purse as if he’s genuinely perplexed.
‘It’s practical, really. I want my brother around.
He has dependents to look after now, whether Ma likes it or not.
They’re a package deal. Apparently, Ivy’s sisters want to give boarding school a try, and nothing’s keeping them in London now, so it makes sense for them to move here.
’ He gives me a little wink. ‘Don’t overthink it. ’
Don’t overthink it.
Oh no, he didn’t.
What a male fucking thing to say: to instantly shoot down any concerns I may have without even giving me the space and security to voice them.
I overthink everything, and just because my husband appears not to think anything through at all, he doesn’t get to negate my way of processing the world around me—especially since I braved voicing my concerns over that lunch in Courchevel.
Fine use of time and courage that was.
Does he think I enjoy overthinking everything? Ruminating, obsessing, seeking out hidden meanings when there aren’t actually any, spiralling over the vaguest perceived slight and inventing endless nasty thoughts that another party may possibly be having about me?
No. I do not. It runs my life, and it ruins my life. It wrecks me. But the one thing I do know, Benedict, you dismissive arsehole, is that my weird, exhausting brain won’t be able to stop doing it just because you’ve suggested it.
Don’t overthink it.
Did my husband seriously just try to mansplain my mental fuckedupness to me in three words?