He did. He held me all night.
I couldn’t stop shivering.
Suddenly everything seemed to have gone south. And there seemed to be no turning back.
But I was wrong. This wasn’t even close to what was yet to come. And even this should have alerted us to something! But it didn’t. We were complacent.
Complacency kills.
CHAPTER TEN
-1-
The Williams Estate is...a mansion.
No, really, an actual-factual mansion. More accurately, it’s a manor house, out in the country, a two-hour drive from Conall’s own home.
I used to call Conall’s place a mansion, but that was more for kicks. Conall’s place in Crawley Down has a huge lawn, large driveway, tons of rooms (for the six kids he wants, of course), and a stylish mock-Tudor style on the outside. But it’s not really a “mansion.” It’s just a huge property, worth a few million.
This place... Well, it was gargantuan. All heavy stone, as if it were built along with the castles in medieval times. A massive fountain in the center of the driveway. Manicured hedges and shrubs. Topiaries. The mansion had three—no, four—floors! It stretched for a hundred yards each way, easily. It was a frickin palace!
I suddenly understood that whole one percent controlling fifty percent of the wealth. It seemed like forty percent of it was wrapped up right here, on this estate!
Most of all, however, the place looked cold. Cold brick walls, veiled under a gray sky. But it was none of these things that gave it that chill.
It was as if the estate itself breathed coolness, and a lack of welcome.
“Welcome to my humble abode as a child,” Conall said from the driver’s seat.
A liveried man opened my door for me after we arrived, smiled. “Madame,” he said. He extended his gloved hand out for me and I got out the car. I’m so glad I dressed up! I was wearing a hat fit for a derby, and a simple one-piece dress. Stylish. Not overbearing. Conall hadn’t said anything about the way I should dress. In fact, he’d downright insisted I not go to any special efforts. “If they don’t like you for who you are, then fuck them,” he’d said.
He gets emotional on the subject of his father.
But I’d predicted it perfectly. I was glad I’d made the extra effort. No need to add fuel to an already flaming fire.
And that fire was burning me, I could feel it.
Conall wore a dark blue suit with a cravat.
Heck, when I visited my own dad I’d usually wear only shorts and a tank-top, maybe even a baseball cap.
This was clearly not the same kind of family.
Conall greeted the liveried man and asked him how he was doing. They seemed to get along well together, all smiles and warmth.
It was a different thing entirely inside.
Mr. and Mrs. Williams stood in the entrance, waiting for us. With stern faces, they shook our hands and guided us to a sitting room. (I guess you would call it a parlor? Yeesh.)
They’d dressed up equally pompously, only Edmond Williams had opted for the ugly gray of the elderly, and Mrs. Williams (I really must learn her first name) had opted for a champagne dress. No hat.
The parlor smelled of cherry tobacco. Everything in it was either brown or red. Red Victorian couches. Brown shelves, brown display cases, a brown table. Traditional. There were paintings of stately-looking people on the walls. More tradition.
Conall told me that the house has secret passageways in it, which is how he and his brother got to see so much of what they shouldn’t have when they were kids. I looked around the room trying to figure out where they might be. I couldn’t figure it out.
I felt sweat between my thighs.
Mr. and Mrs. Williams sat across from us, each in separate one-seat couches. Edmond had his right leg crossed over his left. Mrs. Williams held her hands on her lap. She stared almost directly between me and Conall most of the time, although I think she was staring at nothing. Her eyes were glazed and dull.
Just like her other son’s...
Conall and I sat on a two-seater.
A butler waited nearby and Edmond asked me what I’d like to drink. “Orange juice,” I said.
He looked at me as if I’d insulted his mother.
It was going to be a long day.
He ordered a whiskey, so did Conall. Mrs. Williams ordered tea, with rum.
Edmond didn’t bat an eyelid on that one...
“The Yen is strengthening,” Edmond said to Conall.
“It is indeed.”
“Your take on it?”
Conall babbled on about some financial stuff, keeping up appearances.
“You know the markets, Conall. You always have...”
Oh, boy...
Conall said nothing.
“How’s college, Leora?”
Shit!
I’d asked Conall what to say if this came up. He’d told me to play it cool, to say what I felt was appropriate. Edmond wasn’t my father, and shouldn’t pretend to be. And there was no reason for me to feel I should impress him. “And he’ll damn well learn to respect you as my future wife!” Conall had said.
It had been a tense drive over.
However, the desire not to impress such a formidable man is easier said than done. Edmond had these beady eyes which, when they locked in on you, felt like needles through your skin.
I gulped. “F—fine,” I managed.
The grizzled butler (“Horace”) brought our drinks in. He was the same liveried man who’d helped me out of the car earlier.
Glasses clanged and clinged for what seemed like minutes.
Then: “Just...fine?”
“Yes. Fine.”
“You know we pulled a lot of strings to get you into that school, don’t you, Leora?”
Dig number one.
“I do. And I appreciate it.”
Conall’s hand had tightened underneath mine, and from the corner of my eye I noticed him tensing. He wanted to jump in, I could tell. But I’d told him in the car to play it cool. I wanted to handle it myself.
I could see it was taking all his will to—how do the British put it?—be civil.
“And your suspension?” Edmond continued.
“Father.”
“No,” I said to Conall. “It’s fine.” I smiled at him, then looked back at Edmond. “What is it you’d like to know about it, Mr. Williams?”
“I’d merely like to know what the circumstances of it were.” He sipped his whiskey.
I’d prepared for this. “Mr. Williams, whereas I appreciate your efforts in having opened the opportunity for me to study at the University of England, my tuition is being paid for by my father, and the entrance exam results were produced by me. So, whereas I’m most grateful for your original intervention, my continuing progress at the school is really a matter of concern to my family only, and those fiscally involved in its continuation.”
Damn! Now don’t tell me reading Jane Austen novels ain’t good for you! I was impressed!
Conall was smiling. It was practically unnoticeable. But, oh yeah, he was smiling!
He lifted his hand from underneath mine, placed it over mine, and gave it a good squeeze.
Mr. Williams thought for a second, probably planning his comeback. I was ready for him. This was fun! It was like boxing...without gloves. Or...behind someone’s back, with little barbs!
And here I thought all those years at the Upper East Side dealing with snooty biatches at school had been a waste of time. They’d prepared me for war!
He was ready with his answer: “I think, Leora, you are a tad mistaken in that regard. Part of my influence in getting you accepted into that school was indeed fiscal. The Williams family has made many generous contributions to the University of England over the years and, as such, our recommendation of a student to its ranks often carries considerable weight. Your behavior there is a reflection of this family, whether you like it or not—”
“Father!”
“No.”
I shook Conall’s hand. “It’s OK. Let him finish.”
Edmond Williams smiled. I think I scored a point there. Maybe.
“Your behavior at the school is a reflection of this family—whether you like it or not. And, if this...wedding...will indeed go forward”—Conall’s grip tightened to deathly proportions!—“you will, technically, be a part of this family.” He paused, as if clearing a vile taste from his mouth. “So, your actions are indeed my concern. As is your behavior at the school.”
How many digs was that? Three? I lost count...
If he wanted pompous, he was gonna get pompous! “Mr. Williams, family or not, my actions are a reflection of myself. And I am proud of those actions. I am answerable only to me, at the end of the day. And I consider my actions, and the reason for those actions, to be of the ilk that liberated America from an oppressive British rule.” Take that dig, you bastard! “I don’t regret my actions, and would take them again if forced to.”
“Oh, that is absurd! A childish school fight compared the American War of Independence!”
“Yes.”
“You must be joking, surely. In other words, you believe violence to be the order of the day in a civilized institution such as the University of England?”
“No, Mr. Williams. I believe honor to be the order of the day. And Bettina had insulted mine repeatedly—as well as your son’s, and your family name!”
He swallowed.
Silence ensued.
Then, finally, looking away from me and down at his whiskey, “Well, I would appreciate it if you could exercise your...honor...in a less...dramatic...fashion, if possible, in the future.”
Huh? Did I actually win that one?
The butler came in. “Lunch is served.”
On our way to the dining room, Conall gave my hand a victorious shake and squeeze. I even think he wanted to jump in the air and tap his heels together.
The sense of victory would be short-lived.
-2-
Lunch was held in an equally foreboding room fit for a medieval castle. Or a dungeon. More paintings on the walls—large, stately paintings in a realistic style. There was some sort of vase way out back in the left corner. Perhaps it was seventeenth century china. Who knew—the thing was so far away I could barely tell that it was a vase at all. It certainly contained no flowers.
Not very space-efficient these old mansions, now are they?
The table could fit twenty people or so. Edmond Williams sat at the head. His wife sat next to him on one side, and I sat next to Conall on the other, furthest from Edmond. Perhaps Edmond thought I smelled. Or maybe he thought I was too lower class to be so close to him.
The lunch went by so slowly I almost ate my own brains out with a dull spoon. Hardly ten sentences were said throughout it. Conall tried to make some conversation with his father, but the answers were generally one or two words at most. When Conall asked his deathly-looking mother anything, she barely looked up, and then her husband would answer on her behalf.
Occasionally, Conall would slip his hand under the table and squeeze my knee. It was the most eventful moment of the entire afternoon. Edmond looked over at Conall disapprovingly. Conall left his hand there. Edmond then stared. Conall still left his hand there. Edmond cleared his throat. Conall squeezed my knee twice, and I swear I saw him smirk. Something told me he was enjoying this.
The food was magnificent, but I didn’t care. I just tried to eat slow enough to keep up with the mood (or to keep down with it) and yet not let my food get cold.
It got cold quickly.
Dessert. Sumptuous. A digestive drink of some sort at the end that put my chest on fire. Then more silence. Eventually, Edmond said to Conall, “Shall we go over into the den and finalize any last business before you head off?”
Conall said, “Of course.” He smiled, no doubt content that the day’s horror would soon be over.
And what would I do, sit and stare at the corpse which was his mother ahead of me while they spoke? I know it sounds mean, but it was the truth. She just looked down at her plate, her skin looking ever more pale in this large room’s dim light. Not even the chandelier above was on. All the light was “natural.” Only, the day was so gray that there was barely any light at all.
I thought of The Addams Family.
And Edward Scissorhands.
And Bram Stoker’s Dracula.
We all stood up (because that’s what you do in polite society) and then Edmond spoke again on his wife’s behalf. “Madeleine is not feeling her best this afternoon,” Edmond said to me. “She shall retire early. Please”—he gestured toward the parlor where we’d been earlier—“feel free to order anything else to drink from Horace should you require it. We shan’t be long.” He’d maintained a chilled smile as he’d said all of that.
Horace was suddenly next to me. His smile felt genuine.
Edmond and “Madeleine” disappeared from the room. I rolled my eyes up at Conall, only to break out laughing when I saw him doing the same thing! “You surviving?” he asked me.
“Barely.”
“It’ll be over soon. My father always wants to ‘talk business’ with me before I leave. It won’t be more than fifteen minutes, I promise.”
“Please, get me out of here. I feel like I’ve been dumped in a grave while still breathing.”
“Then you’re holding up better than I did as a child.”
He kissed me on the forehead, and it made my skin and insides all fuzzy and happy, like I’d been denied some fundamental vital supplement necessary for survival in the last two hours.
And then he was gone.
Horace stood tall and proper next to me, looking polite and friendly. He gestured me into the parlor. I was going nuts, all this formality, all this adherence to propriety!
He had his hand out and kept it there like a mime.
I couldn’t stand it anymore. I yanked his arm and looped it in mine! Horace smiled but kept his cool. He led me, my arm curled in his, into the parlor. When we arrived there, I punched him lightly on the shoulder. “You seem like a nice guy, Horace.”
“Why, thank you, Miss. Does Miss wish for anything further to drink?”
Fifteen minutes.
The “digestive” drink we’d had at lunch had gone to my head, so none of that. “Some tea?”
“Right away. Earl Grey?”
“Heck, why not?”
Horace left.
My ass hadn’t even touched the couch when I heard the shouting.
-3-
Edmond’s voice. And then Conall’s—big, heavy, angry bellows.
My ass never did hit that couch. My legs were shaking, and I ran out into the hall to listen.
The “den” was only a few gargantuan doors down. Behind it were some stone steps into an upper floor. The shouting continued. I heard my name. And then I heard, “BUT SHE IS JUST A CHILD, YOU FOOL!” Edmond’s voice.
Asshole!
I did what any mature woman would do in this situation: I moved a little closer. I pressed my ear to the door.
And I eavesdropped.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
-1-
I could hear their voices unbelievably clearly. I even heard someone taking a loud sip of whiskey. I guess with all the propriety of Old England, nobody thought people ever had loud sex, or even that they sometimes raised their voices, and so they never bothered to soundproof the rooms.
My ear was pressed hard against the cold wooden door. From here I could see the parlor doors further down the hallway, open. Horace would soon walk past me.
So what. Edmond Williams was talking about me now. Behind my back. My ear pressed against the door was nothing compared to what he was doing!
I was ready to bust this mahogany bitch down and go in there and swing one at him!
I listened...
-2-
“Are you finished?” Conall’s voice was ice cold, just as it had been with Francis last night.
“NO, BLOODY HELL, I’M NOT
FINISHED! YOU ARE A DISGRACE TO THE FAMILY!” I moved my ear from the door. Edmond Williams was shouting so loudly I didn’t need to have it so close. “I should have raised a hand to you as a child, perhaps then you would have turned out differently.”
“You didn’t need to. Your actions were hand enough.”
“Do not talk like that to me, young boy. I am still your father!”
“Which is why I am granting you the right of speaking to me behind closed doors, despite your vitriol.”
“I have a right to speak to you like this.”
“You also have only...fourteen minutes left. I promised my fiancée I’d be ready in fifteen minutes, and I won’t keep her waiting.”
“Your fiancée.” The word came out as an insult. “This is a travesty. The embarrassment will rock the British Press—”
“And your friends?”
A pause. I could only imagine the look on Edmond’s face. “Friends indeed. Friends who have supported us over the years. Friends who made it possible for you to get a privileged education at one of the finest institutions in the world! Without those friends we would not command even a third of the wealth we command today—the very same wealth that funded your education!”
“I’ve paid you those fees, plus interest. So I paid for my own education.” Oh, wow! I never knew that! “And I needed no favors to get into Oxford.”
“Your abhorrence to favors will come back and bite you one day, boy. The world runs on favors!”
“And nations get taken down repaying favors. I like to be in no one’s debt.”
“Nations? Please. Don’t be so dramatic!”
“It’s the truth. And it’s merely an example. If a nation could be taken down, so much more easily can a man.”
Silence for a second. “You are naïve, Conall. You always have been. Your insistence on honesty, on virtue—these are all dreams. This is not how the world runs! The world runs by people scratching each other’s backs. Sometimes your fingernails get dirty doing that.”
“There’s a difference between dirt—and caked blood!”
WTF!?
Deep South (Naive Mistakes #4) Page 8
