By the time we were both dressed, I had remembered where we were, that outside his bedroom door were his parents and the castle that was his birthright. I found myself grabbing his hand as we left his suite of rooms and entered the hallway, concerned that I might actually get lost in the place. When I attempted to turn to the right, towards the grand central staircase, Dylan pulled my hand to the left. “This way—we have to go down a rear staircase over here.”
“Why?”
“Second Sunday of every month the main house is open to the public.”
“Like a museum?”
“Indeed.”
“But not the whole house?”
“Certainly not,” he explained as we wound down the narrow back staircase. “All the big estates began doing it during the Second World War. Now it’s a public service, so people can get a bit of history, some proper English heritage. The visitors book weeks in advance. They come to see my grandfather’s collection of cars—some are from before the turn of the century. They can see the central part of the house and the east wing.” I must have looked in want of a compass, because Dylan clarified and pointed. “That’s west, where we came from and where my parents, Emily, and I have personal apartments. That way”—he pointed in the opposite direction—“is east, where there are more guest apartments, a ballroom, billiards, a second larger library with a map room, among other rooms.”
“Otherwise, does Hale Shipping support your family and the house?” I asked, and he nodded.
“Income from HS, other assets that my grandfather accrued, and income from the remaining tenants. We own parts of the village as well. Thankfully there are customs about not raising rents and such. Otherwise I’m sure my father would bleed the lovely people dry.”
“You own parts of the village? Like the shops?”
Dylan nodded again. “It’s not uncommon. My grandfather sold some land, but for the most part the tenancy is still intact. Some families have been with us for six generations or more.” God, six generations? I had no idea what my family had been up to six generations ago. It seemed impossible in this day and age that anyone did.
“But I thought you said being the Duke of Abingdon was just a title, that it didn’t involve much work?” I recalled our first conversation in London, the night Dylan and I had embarked on our relationship. He’d made it sound as though being a duke was no more than pomp and circumstance.
“We have an estate manager who takes care of it all, and with the right staff, the right organization, the place basically runs itself, or should. Ideally my father would know when to chime in and when to leave it be, but that’s not really his strong suit. In fact, Mrs. Barnes has told me some details about how my father seems to be running things that give me concern. We employ over two hundred people at various times of the year, nearly sixty year-round—there are a lot of people’s livelihoods at stake, and it’s an expensive enterprise.”
“Two hundred?!” I asked, imagining the music shop my father had run with a friend when I was young, which had employed a mere four people. I suddenly realized why it was such an enormous responsibility being the duke, and why Dylan must find it so offensive if it was being done poorly.
We landed in a vast warm green kitchen with a lovely large wooden table and huge windows looking out onto a small garden. Mrs. Barnes was at the stove, hovering over a pot of water. Dylan came up behind her and touched her shoulder.
“Good morning, Mrs. Barnes. What can I do to help?”
“Oh,” she started and smiled. “Good morning. You’re such a dear. Rosemary?” She was practically singing, and Dylan nodded and ducked out the back door. I looked puzzled for a moment—shouldn’t he be going to a cabinet or a refrigerator? But he quickly returned with a sprig of rosemary and handed it to Mrs. Barnes, who thanked him distractedly while she removed perfectly poached eggs from the pot. Dylan pointed to the door he’d just come through and simply said “Cook’s garden” by way of explanation. Because of course—why wouldn’t there be an entire perfectly located garden devoted to the cook’s needs?
Dylan poured us coffees, and we sat at the big table and began munching on freshly baked bread with butter and jam. He leaned in to kiss my cheek, which I thought was sweet until I realized it was just a ploy to land a dollop of raspberry jam on my nose.
“Dylan!” I scolded while giggling, wiping the jam from my nose and then promptly licking it off my finger. I stuck my tongue out at him, and just as he was laughing back at me, his father entered the room. Dylan stiffened, any trace of playfulness and humor disappearing.
“Good morning, Father.”
Mrs. Barnes put plates of poached eggs and rosemary potatoes in front of us, but before he could pick up his fork, Geoffrey said, “Thank you, Mrs. Barnes, but Dylan will be joining me in my office. He’ll breakfast later. Lydia, my dear,” he said looking at me now, “why don’t you eat and wait for him in the small library when you’re through?”
I began to nod, but Dylan stopped me. “Baby, go wherever you’d like. I’ll find you, and I won’t be long.” There was a concrete-like hardness in his voice. The tension between father and son was so hot and so hard. And I was right smack in the middle of it.
As soon as Dylan left the room, the whole place felt bigger. Without him, I felt like a tourist myself, in the walls of a giant forbidding museum. With him, it felt like it could be a home.
I ate my delicious eggs, drank my coffee, and contemplated the total oddity of walking around a castle that had tourists milling about but where I’d had crazy kinky sex the night before. In London we had just found that sacred personal bubble where we could be us, and it had become so important so quickly, our defense against the flashbulbs and blog posts. But being at Humboldt expanded my understanding of that bubble, stretched its parameters. I could see more fully now who Dylan was, could get a hint of what he was contending with. This place was part of him, and he’d wanted me to see it, for better or worse. The worse was that it was harder to get a handle on where I fit in this sphere, with its archaic rules and estate managers. And there was the possibility that Dylan’s life here in this grand mansion was more real than the world we’d built back in London.
I was grateful when Mrs. Barnes called me out of my thoughts. “Miss Bell, my dear,” she started.
“Please, please call me Lydia, Mrs. Barnes.” She smiled at that. “I can tell how much Dylan loves you.” As soon as I said that, I realized Dylan had probably never said any such thing to her, that the level of impropriety of such a thing was probably vast, but oh well. Date an American, and you’re going to some frank talk about love and emotions.
Mrs. Barnes stilled for a moment, and if I wasn’t mistaken, her eyes were even a bit misty. “Excuse me if I made you uncomfortable.” I tried to put her at ease. “But it would feel strange to me for someone so close to Dylan not to call me by my first name. But then again, I’ve been working on Lloyd for months, and he still insists on ‘Miss Bell,’ so I’ll understand if you must.”
“Nah,” she said, her northern accent rich and earthy. “Let’s have it be ‘Lydia’ and ‘Christine’ between us women, shall we?”
“Christine,” I affirmed, smiling. “So you’ve been with this family for a long time.”
She looked at me like she knew exactly where I was headed. “I’ve known Master Dylan his whole life, my dear.”
I looked into my coffee and wished I could know what this woman knew about him.
“I’ve never seen him this happy,” she said, and I looked up to her face, eyes wide. “Are you close with your family, Lydia?”
“I don’t really have any,” I said. “I never knew my mother, and my father died earlier this year.” Suddenly grief filled my chest. Falling in love with Dylan and moving out of New York had dulled the ache of loss, but when it returned, it was like a flash flood. I gulped and tried to regain a little control. “But I was very close with my father. He was my best friend, really.”
Mrs. Barnes put her hand over my own and prompted me to look into her warm maternal gaze. “I’m sorry you lost him—that is cruel, isn’t it, love? But it is wonderful that you had each other.”
I nodded, and she looked contemplative, hesitant, before she continued. “Dylan is blessed that his parents are still alive, for many reasons, but they’ve led a different kind of family life.” I nodded again, trying to convey that I understood, that she didn’t have to say more if she didn’t want to. “Dylan will make an excellent duke someday, but I know it’s not all he could do with his life. That’s his cross to bear. Be gentle with him, dear. It’s not all it’s cracked up to be,” she said, gesturing towards the high ceilings and towards the door that led to the rest of the grand estate.
“He’s a marvelous architect,” I said, “and he loves it so much.”
“He is, and he does,” she agreed. “I wish he could see that his life doesn’t have to be either-or. His lordship expects Dylan to take over Hale Shipping, as I’m sure you know, but—” She stopped short. “I’m sure you know the gardens are open to the public today.”
I was wondering what the hell her sudden shift in topic was about when I heard movement behind me. I turned and saw that Charlotte had entered the room. Coiffed perfectly, not a hair out of place, in a wrinkleless cashmere turtleneck sweater and a knee-length wool skirt. She looked elegant country through and through, like something off the pages of Horse and Hound. Sure enough the dogs came bounding in after her, running up to Christine, who scolded them for begging before giving them each a scrap of meat from a bowl on the counter.
“You spoil them,” said Charlotte coolly.
“Good morning, Your Grace,” I said. Each time I spoke that title I felt like I was playing make-believe at some weird Jane Austen theme park, but I also hoped like hell she’d say something along the lines of Oh, please, we’re practically family! Call me Charlotte!
“Good morning, Lydia. You slept well, I hope.” No such luck.
“I did, thank you.” All of a sudden I was cringing at the possibility that she’d heard us the night before.
“Do you happen to know where I might find my son?”
“Um, Dylan and your husband went to his office.”
“Yes, well,” Charlotte said, looking at me, “do enjoy your morning, my dear, but I advise you to steer clear of the gardens. They’re swamped with busybodies this morning,” she said with slight disgust. “It’s a necessary evil, I’m afraid, but such a nuisance. Which reminds me. Mrs. Barnes,” she said with irritation, “do remember to tell Bexley to clean up the lawns tomorrow—after these horrid days, there are always rose petals about and divots in the paths. You’d think they could show a little respect since we’re letting them into our home. Honestly.”
And with that she turned and left, with the dogs in tow.
* * *
Christine left shortly after Charlotte, and I found myself wandering the massive house alone. I knew I wanted to steer clear of the tourists—every once in a while I saw groups of heads bobbing outside a window I passed. I walked down long hallways lined with enormous oil paintings in frames as thick as my legs. I thought I was headed towards the main hallway, but after another twenty minutes, I had to concede that I was definitely lost.
My new goal was to find Dylan’s room again, maybe find my sneakers and explore some part of the outside not populated by a group of strangers. But after turning down yet another unfamiliar hallway, I heard voices emerge from an open door. I knew those voices, and I slowed.
“Tristan says you haven’t returned his calls. Or taken his meetings.” Geoffrey’s voice was stern and cold.
“Is your little lackey feeling ignored, Father? Whatever he needs from me, I’m sure it can wait.”
“You know very well that Tristan needs you to sign off on the deals.”
“You’ve never required this of me before. Why must you drag me into it now? You know very well I don’t have time. As it stands I’ve already put off the Olympic committee twice in the name of coming to your rescue at Hale Shipping. Even I can’t put them off a third time,” said Dylan.
“I must say I’m rather surprised and disappointed that after ten years we are still having this discussion. I’d rather hoped you would have worked that out of your system by now. Let me remind you, Son, you have real obligations. This company is your legacy. I won’t have you betraying everything your grandfather worked for.” His father’s voice was so tense, so rigid, he almost sounded panicked.
Dylan snorted disdainfully. “Grandfather would be thrilled, I’m sure, to learn that you summon his ‘hard work’ so effortlessly in the name of your own schemes when you showed nothing but blatant disinterest and contempt right up until his death. ”
“Careful, Son,” Geoffrey said menacingly, and Dylan was silent. “I’ve been patient with your dalliance with architecture for quite a while, but being a Hale means something. It’s time to get on board.”
“Well, that little dalliance wasn’t so horrible when it got you your first invitation from Her Majesty since Grandfather died, your first invitation as duke. The only reason I’m working with you and Hale Shipping at all is because of Grandfather and my promises to him. For him, I’ll do this. But would it have killed you to take more than a criminal interest in the company your father built from the ground up?”
I heard some rustling and movement and then a searing Geoffrey. “Look at yourself, so smug about what happened two years ago, but you have no idea what’s at stake. Maybe I should just…” It was as though I could hear Geoffrey’s face turning red, steam coming out of his ears. “Get your act together, Son. Look around you. You think your little architecture firm is going to support this place? You’d throw your family’s history away that easily? Think of your beloved Mrs. Barnes, Son.”
It almost sounded like Geoffrey was threatening Christine, and Dylan was silent. I knew I shouldn’t be listening, but I couldn’t pull myself away, and at this point I was more terrified that if I moved they’d hear me.
“Father, don’t you—” Dylan started, and I could hear the groan of frustration in his words. “If you’re ready to leave Hale Shipping, then leave. I’ll stay on the board, but I don’t need to run the place, for Christ’s sake.”
A long moment of silence passed, and then Geoffrey continued. “This isn’t a joke, Son. Do you understand that? It goes beyond you. You’ll sit as president of the company whether you like it or not. If you care about this place at all, you’ll fulfill all your expectations. And since we’re on the topic of our legacy—”
“No. I’m not talking about this,” said Dylan firmly, cutting his father off.
“And not with that American—”
“She’s not…No, you know what? I’m not getting into this with you. I said no. You won’t be dictating my personal life. I won’t become an instrument of torture and repression to an innocent child.”
“You’d see another ducal line—” Geoffrey’s voice was hot, angry, and my shoulders stiffened with tension.
“Haven’t there been enough sacrificial lambs?” Dylan was truly yelling. They both were. I wasn’t sure I’d ever heard a real all-out fight between anyone before. Not one that wasn’t at a bar, anyway. And I found myself shaking slightly. It was so unnerving. Dylan finally broke the silence. “Fine. I’ll call Tristan tonight and give him whatever he needs. I’m taking Lydia home now, sir.”
“This conversation isn’t over,” said Geoffrey, and I could hear Dylan humph loudly, his voice much closer to the door. “And don’t forget about our meeting with the board Wednesday.”
I heard more movement, and I quickly ducked behind a statue by the door. I stood there for a moment, holding my breath, eyes closed, trying to process everything I’d just heard. I couldn’t imagine fighting with my father the way Dylan had just fought with his, with the threats, the accusations, the complete absence of love. No wonder Dylan was so ambivalent about this place. On one hand, he clearly loved this house, clearly felt so connected to it and to what his grandfather had done to keep it; on the other hand, when he talked to his father, he sounded adamant that he wouldn’t have children, that he was happy to let the whole thing end. I was so still, could hear my own breathing, and I tried not to feel sad for him, for everything he was willing to sacrifice just to contain this part of this life.
“Lydia, my dear.” My eyes flashed open and I was looking straight into the eyes of Geoffrey, who was wiping sweat away from his forehead with a cloth handkerchief.
“Sir, I was—” I began, terrified for a moment, but he put up his hand to stop me from speaking.
“Don’t fret. Why don’t you come into my office.”
I gulped. Surely this was a terrible idea. I tentatively followed him, wondering what the hell I’d just gotten myself into. My palms were sweaty in an instant.
“Perhaps you overheard my discussion with my son?” he began, sitting at his desk, looking not at me but at the papers covering it.
Oh fuck.
“No, I was just passing by.” But Geoffrey shook his head.
“It’s good that you heard, my dear, because perhaps you understand the situation a bit better now?”
“Excuse me?” I hoped my voice didn’t sound as harsh out loud as it did in my head.
“My son has obligations, Miss Bell, obligations that require his attention, but more importantly require the assistance and participation of a woman who understands her role in this life.” I started to speak, but he raised his hand to stop me again, and he continued. “Come now, I think we both know that you’ve served your purpose. My wife and I are grateful that you’ve gotten our son to emerge from his selfish hole, but my son is in his thirties, and he needs to think of his place now.”
“With all due respect, Your Grace, I would think that how he lives his life and who is in it is entirely up to him.” I could feel the fury building in my chest.
Geoffrey just chuckled, which turned my fury into fire.
“I admire your passion, my dear, but it’s very revealing. Do you know how my wife spent her day this past Thursday?” What? I looked at him, confused. “Of course you don’t. She fulfilled one of her many duties as the lady of his household and stood in for the queen during rehearsals for next month’s Christmas festivities. And subsequently she met with the wife of France’s prime minister and entertained her and her children for the evening. Are you prepared for those kinds of duties? Do you know the first thing about the protocols involved in participating in international social affairs?”
I looked at him, stunned. He wasn’t being fair. He knew, if not by instinct then by the look on my face, that I had no idea how to handle any of that. And I didn’t even know if that’s where Dylan and I were headed. He and I hadn’t talked about forever, and his father was already warning me off.
“I hardly think that—” I began, but Geoffrey stood up, getting impatient with me.
He shook his head and said, “I thought not.” My blood was boiling. I had that dangerous mix of brain-muddling anxiety and self-righteous certainty that meant I was about to lose it.
“You see, Lydia, Dylan is part of a great British tradition. And he must play his part. He will realize that soon enough. He’ll remember who he is, and it’s probably best for you to allow him to do that. You’ve been in London how long, Miss Bell?”
“A couple of months,” I said coldly, telling my politeness instinct to buzz off so I could tell this asshole what I thought of him.
“Is there a sum that might make it easier for you to get your feet on the ground and establish yourself a bit more? To cope with the loss of Dylan’s attentions?”
Holy shit. He was trying to pay me off. And it put me firmly over the edge.
“Excuse me, Your Grace, but you’ve seriously misjudged me if you think for one minute I love Dylan because of his money. You’ve misjudged me even more if you think I would ever take yours. And you’ve seriously misjudged your own son if you truly believe he would ever fall for anyone trying to use him. With all due respect, sir, and frankly I suspect you’re due very little, I am going to be with your son. One of these days I am going to agree to live with your son. And who knows where we’ll end up. But if we ever break up, I can assure you it will never be because of money—money he has, money he doesn’t have, and certainly not any money you give me.”
For a moment he was taken aback, nervous even, but then that steely demeanor returned. “Well done, my dear.” Ugh, he was happy I wasn’t taking the money. Fire. Pure fire in my belly.
I felt the words coming before I could stop them. “One day you’re going to wake up and realize what an incredible man your son is, and for your sake I hope it’s not too late. In the meantime, you can take your money and, as we Americans like to say, shove it up your ass. It seems to mean more to you than it ever would to me.”
I gulped, not believing I’d just said that. “And Geoffrey? This conversation,” I said, waving my hand between us, “is over.”