by Sara Forbes
Seb–style, he lets my comments linger in the air, somehow rebuking me with his silence. He's always had great command over silences. Maybe I should learn that little trick too. Maybe I'd get into less trouble then.
We continue walking down the hall. I'm stewing. I'd believed for a precious moment that I had it all, a dukedom, a family business with the potential to thrive, a beautiful, spirited, talented lady by my side.
Goddamn fairy tale.
Mother comes out of the kitchen and glides toward us. Tears gather behind her eyes that have been dry for the entire two months of Seb's absence. “I'm so glad you're back, my dear."
I take the opportunity and dash upstairs, extracting myself from the Seb Appreciation Society. Back in my empty bedroom, I set up watch by the window where I can see any cars coming or going. Every inch of my flesh is craving to go to her room, to beg her to stay and persuade her we'll work it out somehow, but who am I kidding? She's lost all interest in me now that I have no power. She made it abundantly clear.
Soon enough, half an hour later, a gray taxi rolls up to the guest entrance. I watch numbly as the driver puts Hayley's suitcase in the boot and Hayley gets in, huddled under her coat to avoid the drizzle. The whole sequence is dreamlike. I have to convince myself it's real. My heart's so leaden, I'm not sure it's even beating.
Down below, her little face is visible as a white blob through the drizzle–splattered back window of the taxi. I think she's looking right up at me, but from this distance, it's hard to tell.
I don't wave. I don't move a muscle. I don't even breathe. Whatever I'm feeling, I've never felt it before, and it's too overwhelming to put a name to it.
I spring up, my body taking over where my brain left off. She can't leave. I can't let her. Not like this. I bound down the corridor, down the stairs and out the main door before I stop to draw my next breath. My heart's pounding in my ears. The engine's running but the taxi hasn't left yet.
My hand stretches out as I bound across the gravel driveway towards the car. The driver gets the message, nodding. Slowing to a fast walk, I approach Hayley's door. Her face appears at the window, eyes wide in astonishment. Her window lowers half way and she peers at me over the glass.
“You can't leave,” I gasp.
She looks away, her forehead tensed up with some emotion I can't read.
“Come on out,” I coax.
She shakes her head. The window lowers another few inches, which gives me a little hope, but then she lets out a long sigh of utter resignation. “Alex, I need to get home. You need to work with your brother and sort things out here. We can…we can stay in touch.”
I know from the way she's saying it that this is bullshit. “Why? Why did you listen to him?” I growl.
“He sounds like he knows what he's doing.”
Her words knock the wind out of me. Speechless, I study her face for signs that this isn't what I think it is—a quality judgement on me. But her normally soft eyes are hard, her mouth a thin, determined line. She's folding her arms and cocking her head backwards in a gesture that's so Seb–like, it's clear he's just recruited himself a new disciple.
“So, that's it then?” I say, kicking the gravel under my shoe. “Not interested in someone who's only second–in–command?”
“Believe it or not, this isn't about your ego, Alex.”
“What then?” I yell. But I know it's the wrong answer. And I'll be damned if I can think of the correct one. I can't save this situation. She's determined to go.
Without another word, her window rolls up. My stomach clenches with regret and self–loathing.
When the taxi disappears into the sycamores surrounding our front gates, I drag myself back to my room, root out my wallet, pull out my British Airways black card and call the special services number.
It's the least I can do.
29
HAYLEY
THE TEARS I ALLOWED myself to shed in the taxi have dried up pretty quickly in the hustle and bustle that is the emigration procedure in Heathrow. Nothing soothes the tender feelings of a broken heart quite like squeezing along in a foul–smelling line and being barked at to remove your shoes, empty your pockets, and hold your arms up like you're surrendering to a firing squad. I guess I'll have plenty of time later to mope. My whole life, actually.
When I arrive at my gate, there's yet another document check. By this stage, I'm rendered docile—Heathrow has officially broken me. I fish my documents out of my purse for the fourth time.
The über–poised British Airways gate agent pauses after reading my name. I'm ready to throttle her if there's been any mistake, or problem, or if I'm one of those passengers they're going to politely ask to give up their places because it's an overbooked flight. Because I won't do it.
“Ms. Cochrane, you've received an upgrade.”
“Are you serious?” I blink a few times. “Uh, upgrade to—?”
“A first–class seat, madam.” Her smile is functional. “4A.”
“Wow.” A vision of one of those huge, comfy airline chairs that expands into a bed floats before my eyes. Not even Uncle Stig managed that on our trip over with his magic diplomatic passport, though he did try. “How?”
“I don't have that information, madam.” Her tone says, Move along please. Stop asking these questions and just count yourself lucky.
“Thank you.” I grab my suitcase handle and maneuver myself away to let the next traveler in.
It's not until I'm easing back in my massive, beige, faux–leather seat in 4A with a glass of champagne and a groan of relief that it strikes me. This was Alex.
Despite myself, a little smile overtakes my face. Then the guilt sets in. This satisfaction with the trappings of prestige is what got me into trouble in the first place. These easy conveniences of power that are susceptible to the whims of the upper class. I need to be strong and rise above the temptations of easy solutions if I'm going to be an authentic artist. I need to be independent. I should have refused the seat to make a point.
But as I sink into the pillow and stretch out my legs, I know I'm just going to go along with it because I probably can't change it anyway and it feels too damn good to be able to rest my head on a flight.
It's his last point. His last power display. Classy, playful, and utterly luxurious. Fine, he wins.
30
ALEX
SEPTEMBER HAS ARRIVED and the estate is turning shades of copper and gold. It's been a whole month since Hayley's departure. I haven't had the will to go to London and get laid, which is my usual cure for the blues. I haven't had the will to go anywhere and get laid. Even Ken thinks this is a long stretch and he tried to set me up with one of his female jockey types. I only went so as not to hurt his feelings. The date was polite, efficient and, ultimately, a dud.
After Hayley left, I draped dust covers over the paintings the way she showed me and they're still there. I check my phone for the hygrometer settings from the smart aircon and dehumidifier. It's part of my daily routine before I start work. Seb continues to resist the idea that selling them is something worth investigating. I think it's a matter of pride for him that the farm should be our main source of income. That's another thing he has in common with Mother. He only likes the outside of buildings, and gardens. He doesn't like being indoors much. He'd let this lot rot before he even realized it was wasting away.
I have to admit our daily grind is easier with Seb around. The man's a machine, pounding in overtime hours, like the maniac he is, to have things the way he wants them. He reports with ruthless efficiency to the tenants and expects the same from them. Despite their grumbling, they're visibly relieved that he's back, constantly scouring for new suppliers, new growth techniques, new markets. The paperwork backlogs have cleared. The desks and in–trays have been conquered. I'm doing my bit, drifting from task to task, taking orders from above.
Mother floats around the castle grounds with the hint of a smile on her face. She's taken to wearing brighter colors. And
I don't hear Ken or Letty complaining much either. Ken's evenings are no longer taken up with my mad schemes, so he's free to go back to his horses. Letty's often with him when she's not doing her music lessons. I'm back to flying again. It's amazing how everything drifts back to how it was before.
But I see the dangers, too, stuff I was blind to before. Seb is heading for a breakdown. He's torn between his desire to have control and the fact that he's getting no credit publicly for anything. The public and our group of friends have started to see me as someone who might actually have a serious opinion from time to time. I'm getting inquiries addressed to me about the farm that I have to hide from him. Sometimes I have to do copious research just so my answers don't sound dumb.
And there are moments when I sense Seb's sadness. I've caught him gazing at architectural projects online when he thinks no one is looking—restoration projects where they create beautiful new living spaces from old stone buildings. He's got something in mind for the dilapidated eighteenth century houses at the western section of our estate, or would, if it weren't for his crushing workload.
I indulge in acts of rebellion to let off steam. For example, today, I get to chauffeur His Royal Highness the Saudi Prince from Kent to Oxford. It's my first attempt to earn money by myself, on my own terms, doing something I actually understand—and I'm kind of excited about it.
Just as I'm about to jump in the Aston Martin to go to the airfield, Seb comes wandering up. He tilts his head back and to the left, a signal of disapproval he's not even aware of making. “The prince?”
I nod at my gear in the passenger seat and slide into the driver seat.
“I'm surprised you're doing it.”
“Are you?” I say sarcastically.
“Isn't chauffeuring a menial occupation for a duke?”
I give him a cheesy grin just to piss him off and slide on my aviator sunglasses. “Good enough for me.” I've decided to see where I can take this as a business and like it or not, I'll be transporting people far less salubrious than a crown prince. So fuck Seb.
I lean out the window in case my brother has any brilliant parting words of wisdom before I drive off. He just raises his forefinger to his forehead in a mock salute. That, I suppose, would be his brilliant word of wisdom.
“See you later.” I screech backward over the gravel stones, making sure to cover his shoes in dust.
31
ALEX
THE PRINCE AND I are flying at two thousand feet over rolling Oxford countryside. In Oxford, there's a pub called the Mason's Arms, which has its own helipad. They're letting me use it for a cut in the deal. A criminally generous cut—to ensure absolute discretion. But that's how it works. From there, there's a private car to pick up His Majesty.
“Are you excited about getting married?” I ask in Arabic as we sit at the window of the pub after a smooth landing, drinking tea. I've been practicing the fiendishly difficult language every day with a tutor. I'm bloody–minded enough to want to get it right this time.
“Oh yes. Raihana is beautiful. Raihana is my third wife.”
I give him an indulgent smile. I know better than to ask about the first two, or anything about that situation. Juggling several wives must be a complicated business and I don't envy him. I'm thinking of a remark to make about the weather when he pipes up again.
“Why are you single?” he asks.
I laugh. “I'm enjoying my freedom.”
“Will you wait for long?”
I shrug. There's no easy answer. Especially when my mind is so taken up with one person who seems impossibly far away in every sense.
The prince gazes at me. “My first wife, Malea, I married her when I was twenty.” The prince has switched to English. “The Council advised me to marry her to smooth my path to the throne. At one stage my father preferred me to become heir, but there was a hitch: I had three brothers senior to me.”
I whistle appreciatively.
He lets out a laugh. “Also five half–brothers, and four cousins, all with an equal claim to the throne.” He pauses. “You've heard the stories, no? It's been all over the news at home. One had to be bribed off to step aside. Another was declared insane, a third is in disgrace, charged with murdering the oil minister.”
The prince continues and the names and the methods for knocking them all off become a jumble of Arabic names to me. “Yes, my sudden rise upset many branches of the royal family, but for the time being”—he grins, showing a mouthful of perfect white teeth— “I am fifth in line.”
"Sounds complicated," I say.
The prince stirs his tea with a delicate silver spoon. "In our Bedouin system, the whole family gets together in a committee to decide the succession. There's too much at stake with fluctuating oil prices and the dangerous political muddle in the region. In the wrong hands, the entire kingdom could return to its desert roots."
“Monarchies are complicated,” I say, even though the British system is kindergarten compared to the Saud dynasty, not to mention virtually powerless.
“And your own duchy?” he asks.
“Everything goes to the firstborn, legitimate male, and there's only one wife to produce the offspring. As long as there's male issue at all, it's usually uncomplicated.”
He nods. “Yes, as in your case.”
“Well, I feel my brother got passed over, because on merit, the title should be his.”
The prince looks at me uncomprehendingly. “What is this merit you speak of?”
“He's cleverer, harder working …”
The prince throws back his head and laughs.
I wait politely.
“A man has been charged with murder,” he says, “another shut away in an asylum all in order that I gain two steps up in the line of succession. And you talk about guilt?” His beady, black eyes drill into me with conviction. “Every day of my life, I live with this guilt. But I cannot let that trip me up. I will not let bitter curses and threats stop me from doing what is right, striving for my place if I am needed.”
“Threats to kill you?”
He acknowledges with slowly lowered eyelids.
We leave the pub in silence and I'm chewing on this information as we walk towards the helicopter. The prince suddenly says, "So, my dear cousin, I am afraid I cannot even begin to understand how you can shy away from your advantageous birth circumstances and your responsibility.”
"I don't expect you to understand,” I say, as we reach the helicopter.
Because the truth is, I don't understand it either. And I haven't understood it since a certain person came into my life and showed me who I could be and that it involves so much more than an accident of birth, an antiquated title, or a cloak and coronet. It involves believing in myself. I am the rightful heir and I'm ready to prove it.
32
HAYLEY
I'M SITTING ON THE PORCH with Dad in our favorite spot to watch the sunset. A gentle breeze is blowing. Sitting at my workbench, I'm preparing canvases for two oil paintings. Dad's fixing fishing lines, which are strewn out over the coffee table in the cozy corner. I watch him fondly. He's been a great support this past month as I moped my way through the rest of the holidays before the semester. He never asked for explanations, which is just as well as I wasn't prepared to give any. Full days have gone by where I've hardly spoken a word to anyone except Mara.
Just as I've stuck in the last pin into the wooden frame, Dad, who's been watching me the whole time, says, “Maybe it's time you told me about Alex?”
I snap my box of pins shut. “There's not much to know.”
He leans in, hand on one knee. “Hayley, you don't call your father and tell him you're not coming home for two months or no reason. You don't wander around like you've left half your brain somewhere else. Maybe I've no right to know, but I sure am interested.”
I wriggle among the cushions, trying to find a comfortable position.
“Is he special?”
“Yes. He is.” I let out a long sigh.
“Or, was.”
Dad's waiting, so I continue. “I didn't like the situation … in the end. But before that it was great because we were a team, building something new. Making a difference. Until we weren't.”
“You sound so much like your mother just now.”
I flush with pleasure. “I do?”
“Yes.” Dad fiddles with his fishing line some more and after completing a new hook, he catches my gaze.
“She'd never have let this happen to her,” I say glumly. “She'd have made that gallery a huge success somehow.”
Dad winces. “Maybe it's time I stopped sugarcoating the folklore about your mother's side of the family.”
I look at him curiously.
“Yes, Hayley. As a single woman, your mother was controlled by her father and her brothers and she had no say in what happened in her life. There's just no way to gloss over some of the things Grandpa did in the name of his business—extortion and blackmail were only part of it. Your mother needed to get away from that, but Grandpa was reluctant to release her from the back–office work.”
“So, you married her and she became an independent artist and bought her own studio.” I finish the familiar tale for him.
Dad shakes his head slowly. “She had her own studio, alright, but I bought that for her with the money I'd saved up to start my own fish farm.”
“Oh. But she earned it back, right?”
“Not exactly.” His chin muscles bunch up with the grim reality of it. “She never earned a penny with her art.”
I get a fluttery feeling in my belly.
“No, that's not true. She sold it all.”
Dad winces. “That's where the truth might have been glossed over. Not to say her painting weren't good,” Dad continues. “They were. But when nobody wanted it commercially after showing it around for three years, well, she went a little mad and she ended up destroying it.” He laughs softly to himself as if caught in a memory. “She had some temper.”
