Chapter Thirty-Four
By the time the fairy lights really started to earn their keep, the reception was in full swing.
The long marquee glowed from the inside out, light spilling across the lawn like honey.
Glassware clinked, laughter rose and fell in waves, and somewhere near the dance floor, Luca Valentino was lying on the ground attempting to get a “cinematic” angle of the couple’s first dance while shouting things like, “Yes, passion! Yes, destiny!” at the two very embarrassed humans.
I stood near the entrance pretending I wasn’t running on sheer adrenaline and a dangerously low level of blood sugar.
Cleo zipped up beside me, cheeks flushed, hair frizzed in a way that said humidity and stress had formed a union. “Okay, band’s happy, cake is on standby, the kitchen is terrified but in a functioning way, and I just redirected a small child away from the swans. How are you doing?”
“Logistically or actually?” I asked.
“Don’t do that,” she groaned. “You know I can’t handle both.”
“Logistically, we’re good,” I said. “Actually…”
I let the word dissolve, because where exactly was I supposed to start?
The brooch. The affair. The secret love child?
Or the far more pressing issue that I had practically devoured Noah Langston last night like he was the last man left on earth?
Yeah. No. Not unpacking that.
Cleo nodded solemnly. “I nearly cried when the mains went out on time. Do you think that’s a sign I need more balance?”
“It’s a sign you’re good at your job.”
“Ugh, gross,” she said fondly, then darted off to fix something invisible.
Inside the marquee, Caroline and James glided across the dance floor, the string quartet replaced by that indie chart-topper band everyone pretended to have discovered early, now being paid an obscene amount of money to perform a very earnest Ed Sheeran cover.
Caroline’s gown shimmered every time she moved, the brooch catching the light like a little beacon of love and happiness. James stared at her like she was the only thing in his world.
I scanned the room automatically. Margaret gesturing at something Richard had said.
Emma at the bar pretending not to flirt with the bartender.
Sophie and Lucas in a shadowed corner, standing just a fraction too close for “just friends,” eyes sparking whenever they accidentally glanced at each other.
And then there was Noah.
He stood near one of the open sides of the marquee, half in shadow, half in the glow of the fairy lights. His jacket was unbuttoned now, his tie loosened, dark hair a little messier than it had been at the ceremony.
He was talking to one of the older guests, someone from the wine world, by the look of it, but there was a lightness around his eyes that hadn’t been there this morning.
Every so often, his gaze drifted out towards the vines, like he was checking they were still there.
My heart pinched.
As if summoned by the thought of his loss, someone cleared their throat beside me with delicate authority.
“Miss Sinclair.”
I turned.
Lady Beaumont stood there in a deep purple gown, her silver hair swept into its usual immaculate twist and held up with a diamond tiara. The diamonds at her ears glittered, but her face seemed older than it had yesterday, like the confessions had carved new lines into it.
“Lady Beaumont,” I said, straightening instinctively. “Is everything all right? Do you need—”
“I need a word,” she said brusquely. “With you. And with Noah.” Her face softened, just a fraction. “If you can spare a few moments from the evening.”
My stomach did a small, anxious somersault. Nothing good ever followed that tone.
“Of course,” I said. “I’ll go get him.”
Noah spotted us before I reached him. His conversation with the wine man wrapped up neatly, polite handshake, professional smile.
Then he crossed the grass towards us, broad-shouldered and steady, though his eyes flicked from me to Lady Beaumont with guarded curiosity.
“Everything okay?” he asked.
Lady Beaumont folded her hands together, almost demure. “Noah, dear, would you and Miss Sinclair accompany me inside for a minute?”
He went very still.
“Now?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said gently. “Now. It will not take long.”
Something in Noah’s expression closed off, that familiar armour sliding into place. He stood there for a moment, as if weighing whether he had the energy for another emotional landslide.
I managed what I hoped was a reassuring nod.
“We’ve got ten minutes before the dessert and ice sculpture reveal,” I said lightly. “We can be back before anyone notices.”
It was a complete lie. People always noticed. But he seemed to appreciate the attempt.
“All right,” he said.
Lady Beaumont led the way across the lawn, away from the music and the laughter and Luca shouting “Yes! Kiss her like you mean it!” at James.
We followed her back into the main house, the cool stillness of the corridor wrapping around us like a different world.
I recognised the direction we were heading.
Not to the morning room.
Not to the guest suites.
To the Library, the one that still smelled faintly of leather, old paper, and something undeniably Edward.
She paused at the door, smoothing her hand briefly over the brass handle, then opened it and stepped inside.
The room was lit by a single lamp. Shelves lined the walls, heavy with books and ledgers. A whiskey decanter sat on the sideboard, amber liquid catching the light. Somewhere beneath it all, I could feel the ghost of Edward Langston moving through the space.
Lady Beaumont turned to face us.
Her poise was still there, but the edges of it was worn. “I apologise for interrupting the festivities,” she began. “But I’m afraid I have delayed this conversation as long as I possibly can.”
Noah tensed. “If this is about earlier…”
“It is,” she said. “And more.”
She crossed to the old wooden desk, the surface cleared except for one small object resting near the blotter, a cream envelope, slightly yellowed with age, the edges worn.
She picked it up with careful fingers and turned back to us.
“I found this early this morning,” she said crisply, “in one of Edward’s old trunks.”
She held it out so we could see.
The ink was faded but still legible.
To Michael Langston.
Noah’s swallowed hard. “That’s… that’s my father.”
“Yes.” Her voice shook. “I found it sealed, tucked into the pages of a journal.”
“What does it say?” Noah asked, the question coarse with exhaustion.
“I did not open it,” she answered simply. “It was not addressed to me. And after everything I have already trespassed upon, I could not bring myself to violate one more boundary.”
She stepped closer, holding the envelope between us.
“I suspect it might contain… important information.” Her eyes filled. “I did not have the courage to face it myself. But you deserve whatever truth is inside this letter.”
She looked between the two of us.
“So,” she said, “I would like you to read it. Both of you. Because whether you admit it or not, Miss Sinclair has been the one supporting this house. And you have walked this road together.”
My throat tensed unexpectedly.
Noah stared at the envelope like it might burn him.
Then, slowly, he stepped forward and took the letter from her fingers, his hand shaking just enough for me to see.
“Would you like me to stay?” Lady Beaumont asked. “Or… shall I give you privacy?”
Noah stared at her for a long, weighted moment.
I watched his face, the struggle there, the hurt, the history, the fragments of boy and man trying to reconcile the woman who had once meant so much to his grandfather, and the one who had caused so much damage.
Finally, his shoulders lowered a fraction.
“Stay,” he said hoarsely. “You were part of his story too.”
Something in her expression flickered, surprise, gratitude, pain all at once. She nodded and moved to an armchair by a bookcase, sitting with her hands folded.
Noah turned to me.
“Do you want to…?” He didn’t finish the sentence.
“Yes.” I met his eyes. “I’ll stay.”
We moved to the desk together. He set the letter down on the worn surface, then slid his thumb under the sealed flap. The paper gave way and sounded far louder in the quiet room than it should have.
Inside was a folded sheet of thick paper.
He unfolded it slowly.
Edward’s handwriting unfurled across the page. Strong, looping, familiar from the cellar logs and vineyard notes we’d pored over.
Noah’s face paled.
He shook his head. Then, after another heartbeat, he cleared his throat and began to read aloud.
“Michael, my boy…”
His voice cracked on the first word.
He paused, finding his voice, then started again.
“Michael, my boy,
If you are reading this, it is because I did not manage to say everything I needed to in person.
That has always been my fault, I am afraid.
I can walk every acre of this land and tell you what the soil needs, but when it comes to talking about the past, my courage dries up faster than a leaf in a heatwave. ”
A tiny, broken laugh escaped Noah. I felt my own throat burning.
He continued.
“There are things I should have told you long ago. About where I came from. About the woman I loved before your mother.
You may hear things one day about a woman named Victoria. You may hear she was titled, that her family forced us apart, that I moved on and built another life. All of that is true.
What is also true is that I never stopped loving her. Not entirely. Some people leave fingerprints on your soul that time cannot remove.”
Lady Beaumont’s hand flew briefly to her mouth. Her eyes shone bright in the lamplight.
Noah’s voice roughened.
“I also suspect that she and I had a child. One that we were never allowed to acknowledge. If that is the case, and if you ever find proof of it, I want you to hear it from me. That child was never a mistake. They were stolen from me by circumstance. If they exist, they are as much my blood as you are, and I will not have them thought of as shameful.”
Thomas. I thought, heart twisting.
Noah shut his eyes for a second, then forced them open again.
“Now,” he read, the word shaky, “that brings me to the land.
I have signed the papers the solicitor put in front of me. The lawyers will tell you the legalities; you know how I am with forms, I would rather prune a thousand vines than deal with a single document. But I want you to know my thoughts on this, because law and heart do not always agree.”
He swallowed, and I saw his knuckles whiten around the page.
“I have left Langston Estate to you, Michael. Not because you are my son, but because you are the one who walked this land with me, who rose before dawn, who stayed in the frost and the rain and the long summers when the grapes were stubborn and the bills were worse. You and Noah are the ones who love this place as I do. In truth, the land chooses its caretaker long before any of us pretend we are doing the choosing.”
My chest ached. I could feel Noah’s pain and relief tangling together like vines.
“That said,” he read, voice hushed, “if ever it comes to light that I have another child, I ask that you honour them as part of this family. I ask that you give them something that says, ‘you belong to this story too’. An acknowledgement that bloodlines do not only run like straight lines down a page.”
I glanced at Lady Beaumont.
Tears slid silently down her cheeks.
“Finally,” Noah read, “this is what I most want you to remember: Land is not meant to be hoarded like treasure.
It is meant to be cared for. If the day ever comes when you no longer love this place, if it is only a weight on your shoulders, I would rather you let it go than let it rot under reluctant hands.
I trust you, my boy. I trust that you will make decisions that honour both this soil and whatever family we are lucky enough to have.
If I have failed you in not speaking sooner, I am sorry. Some memories are carried quietly for so long that silence begins to feel easier than truth.
With love,
Your father, Edward.”
When he finished, the room was utterly still.
Noah stared at the last line, his hands shaking almost imperceptibly. The letter trembled in his hands.
“I’ve been ripping myself apart,” he said, barely more than a whisper. “Thinking I’d taken something that wasn’t mine. And all this time…”
“All this time,” Lady Beaumont said gently, “he meant it for your father, and for you.”
She rose slowly, moving towards him as though approaching a wounded animal. Her hand hovered near his arm but didn’t quite touch it.
“He also meant,” she went on, “for Thomas, and now Sophie, to be seen. You asked this morning why he didn’t leave a will. It seems he did. In this letter. To his son. In his own way.”
Noah looked at her, eyes glazed with grief and something like relief.
I let out a breath I hadn’t realised I’d been holding.
“So,” I said slowly, “if this letter is treated as his wishes, the estate, legally, stays with Noah. But he can choose to honour something for Sophie.”
“Exactly,” Lady Beaumont said. “The law says one thing. Edward’s heart says another. You, Noah, are in the unique position of being able to honour both.”
He stared down at the letter again. Then, very carefully, he folded it and slipped it back into the envelope, as if putting away something sacred.
“I need to talk to Sophie,” he said at last.