Authors: Megan Mulry
“Bronte—”
“You know I’m right. The ring, the rushing around, everything in such a flurry. Where’s the fire, Max? What’s the point?”
The taxi started to slow as it approached the intimate, warm glow of the small restaurant. As the cab came to a complete stop, the driver sat perfectly still and looked straight ahead as if there were something of very particular interest on the glass of his windshield.
“Fuck it, Bron.” Max slapped both his hands on his knees and held them there. “I don’t care. You want me to walk in and tell my mother dinner’s off? You want me to go in and have dinner with her alone? You want to wear the ring? You don’t want to wear the ring?”
She looked out the window at the restaurant.
She was lost.
What was she doing there? Who were these people whose high opinions she sought though she’d never laid eyes on them?
And why?
Her heart started to pound so hard and so fast she thought she could actually see the movement through the fabric of her white shirt. She took a very deep breath and tried to collect her scattered thoughts and feelings.
“Everything is all mixed up, Max. I care what your mother thinks. I hate to admit it, but I care. And I’m nervous and I… fuck… I don’t want to have to factor in your feelings and I know that’s mean and selfish. But—”
“Bronte, I’m sorry, but we have to go in. I mean, you don’t have to go in—I didn’t mean it that way. But it’s quarter to eight and she’s sitting in there and, well, one way or the other, I need to go in there. Are you coming?”
The silence in the cab was popping and hissing in her ears. She wanted to pretend that it was another ultimatum, that he was just another man trying to manipulate her, but the truth was too obvious. She looked at him and her stomach heaved. The pain behind her eyes was a throbbing bruise trying to force its way out.
It was her own raw fear.
She whispered, barely audible, “Max, I am fucking terrified.”
The back of his hand barely touched her cheek, then his warm fingers were around the back of her neck, pulling her toward him. He whispered in her ear, “You’re with me now, Bron. You are going to get out of this taxi in those impossibly sexy high heels and you are going to walk into that restaurant and you are going to unseat the duchess. Now put your big-girl pants on and let’s get our asses in there.”
He kissed her on the cheek, very close to her lips, then let the tip of his tongue trace her bottom lip. “And please invest in some of that newfangled nonsmudge lipstick I’ve been reading about.”
He laced his fingers through hers, grabbed his briefcase from the floor of the cab, and stepped out onto the sidewalk, helping Bronte step out behind him. The warm summer night’s wind swept through their hair as Max leaned in to pay the cab driver. He kept one hand lightly around Bronte’s waist as he took the change, pocketed it, and picked up his briefcase again.
“It’s just dinner, Bron.”
“I know.”
“And Devon can’t wait to meet you.”
“I know.”
“So we’re good, right?”
“Yes.”
But her voice was small.
They walked down the steps into the golden, welcoming light of the intimate restaurant. Max could feel the shiver of anxiety coming through Bronte and did his best to hold her in check. She was exactly like the young foal he had jokingly compared her to, flipping her chestnut hair nervously over one shoulder, tightening her grip.
“Careful you don’t grind your purse into dust, Bron.”
She looked down at her own hand as if it belonged to someone else and realized she was holding the slim black clutch so hard that her fingernails were white and she was probably leaving permanent indentations in the patent leather.
There were only nine or ten small tables in the restaurant. Devon stood up so quickly he almost overturned his chair in his enthusiasm.
“You’re here!” He sounded as though his jovial excitement may actually offset Bronte’s rapidly solidifying dread. He was a little bit shorter than Max, maybe an inch or two over six feet, but while his older brother’s charm had a formal, chiseled quality, Devon’s looks, though equally engaging, were marked with an open, frivolous ease. His hair was thick and wavy like Max’s, but a lighter, sandy hue. His eyes were gray and sparkling, like Max’s.
Before Bronte had a chance to speak, Devon had wrapped her in a firm bear hug that seemed more suited to a college football tailgate than this excruciatingly difficult first family meeting. He gave her a brotherly pat on the back and whispered, “It’s all good.”
Max was air-kissing his mother without actually touching her as Devon began to sit back down in the seat he had been in when they arrived.
“No, darling, Bronte is sitting there.”
The duchess speaks.
Her voice was, well, beyond description. Bronte had never heard anything like it. It was deep, almost to the point of husky, but somehow retained a piercing accuracy. It was like Lauren Bacall with a knife to her throat.
Bronte stood perfectly still, her hands clasped in front of her, holding on to her Anya Hindmarch for dear life and suppressing a momentary giddy desire to kick up one heel, grab a corner of her skirt, and spin like a marionette.
But she didn’t.
Max stepped out from behind his mother’s chair. He took Bronte’s hand in his and formally (very formally) introduced, presented really, his mother to Bronte.
The formalities dispensed with, the four of them sat, adjusted napkins; Bronte straightened her silverware. Max sat opposite Bronte, thinking to himself that his mother had obviously set out to separate them, even here at the table.
Devon dove into the conversation.
“How was your first day in London, Bron? Lots to do? Business? Pleasure? What do you think of Max’s little Fulham fixer-upper?”
Bronte was taking a sip of her water and looked quickly at Max before turning her full attention to Devon. She swallowed.
“Full… yes… no… yes… lovely.” She smiled for the first time in what felt like hours.
“I know! I have a terrible habit of talking excitedly right over people. But I am excited to meet you. We all are, right, Mother?”
“Of course, dear,” Sylvia intoned. “Thrilled.”
Again with the voice.
Why hadn’t Max warned her about the voice? It was perfectly unassailable. Of course, she hadn’t just said “thrilled” in the most sarcastic, insulting tone imaginable—or had she? That was the villainy of it: the appearance of complete innocence forming an impenetrable shellac over pure malice.
Max watched as Bronte smiled genuinely and turned to his mother. “Likewise, Duchess, it is my pleasure to finally meet you.” As much as Max had assured her that was the proper form of address, it still rang false to her American ear. She kept having to stop herself from calling her something totally inappropriate, like “Your Highness.”
“Finally?” Sylvia said softly, turning to Max. “Has it been more than a week or two? I didn’t know.”
“Yes, Sylvia. It has been well over a year since Bronte and I first met.”
“I am so far removed from the
Sturm
und
Drang
of your comings and goings these days, Maxwell.” Of course her German accent would be perfect. “I must have forgotten you telling me about your new friend.” Thin smile.
Devon put his hand on Bronte’s forearm, willing her to devote the rest of the evening’s conversation to him.
Let
the
two
of
them
hash
this
out
, his confident touch seemed to say. “So tell me more about your day. The weather has been so unaccountably fabulous.”
Max watched as Devon kept Bronte wrapped in a lively discussion of their lunch at Bluebird and the happy coincidence of seeing their Aunt Claudia there. At the mention of her sister, Sylvia’s eye twitched, almost imperceptibly, but Max caught it and had a momentary vision of licking his finger and marking a point for his team on the imaginary scoreboard that was always near at hand when his mother was around.
“Yes, Mother. That’s right, we bumped into Claudia walking Amis on the King’s Road earlier this afternoon.” He spoke in muted tones, trying to keep their conversation separate from Devon and Bronte’s, to better delay any unnecessary fracas between the two women. “I’ve invited her and Uncle Bertrand to Dunlear for the weekend.”
“Charming. You will all have a splendid time.”
“We will. Won’t you be there?”
“Why would I be there, Maxwell?”
“Because it is the first anniversary of Father’s death and I had assumed you would want to be there to honor the occasion.”
Devon and Bronte had just come to a pause in their upbeat conversation at the words “Father’s death,” so the syllables fell like bricks into the middle of the dinner table.
The waiter arrived—right as Max finished the rest of the sentence—and handed a stiff linen-white card with the evening’s fixed menu printed in a beautiful pale-green script. After confirming that no one had any allergies and handing Max the wine list, the server headed back toward the well-lit kitchen at the rear of the subdued yellow dining room.
Devon tried to pick up the thread of their previous humor, but his attempt felt forced and vague. Bronte smiled weakly and tried to soldier on, describing her impressions of London and her reminiscences of her first backpacking visit many years before.
Max forged ahead with his mother, trying to maintain his patience as she spoke.
“Maxwell, dear, I am in possession of both a calendar and a memory, so, yes, I am well aware of the year that has passed since your father died. And no, I will not be going to Dunlear to participate in some sort of ritualized show of sentimental group affection.”
“As you wish, Mother. I had merely hoped it would be a time for us to be together as a family. I am pretty sure Claire and Lydia will be there, as well as Abigail if I can get her to return my calls anytime in a given thirty-day period. And Devon and Bronte.”
“Why would Bronte be there?”
At the mention of her name twice in rapid succession, Bronte could no longer feign jovial interest in Devon’s chatter. She put her hand briefly on Devon’s forearm to let him know she was turning her attention briefly away, and she stared meaningfully into Max’s eyes.
The various shades of gray, steel, slate, and blue that she had seen there in the past were gone. His eyes were so cold, nearly glacial. She almost didn’t recognize them, or him. He blinked, coming back to himself, smiled at Bronte, then turned to his mother.
“Because we are engaged to be married.”
A beat of silence.
The glass of water that had been on its way to the duchess’s lips was carefully put back. “Congratulations.”
“Is that all you have to say, Mother?”
“Is that not the appropriate response, Maxwell?”
“Entirely appropriate, Sylvia.”
“Very well.”
“Very well.”
The soup course arrived just then, and all four of them began eating simultaneously, with the focus and commitment usually reserved for open-heart surgery. The waiter pulled the cork out of the Pouilly-Fuissé that Max had ordered and poured a small amount into Max’s glass. Max tried it, nodded, and then the waiter filled all four glasses with a generous pour. Bronte wanted to guzzle the entire glass and wipe her mouth roughly with the back of her forearm.
But she refrained.
Now that the cat was out of the proverbial bag, Bronte just wanted to make it through the meal without collapsing face-first into her baked cod with summer vegetables. Had she been able to fully appreciate it, she suspected the food would be really superb. The pea soup had been a whipped, foamy, spring-green concoction, unlike anything the muddy, clumpy name had formerly conjured in her mind. The dollop of crème fraîche on top tasted like it had come from a dairy farm that morning. The cod, what she could remember of it, was also rich and succulent, with a gorgeous, honey-brown sauté. Dessert was a spectacular fruit something-or-other. Bronte thought she would be able to enjoy all of it, but while every initial bite hinted at greatness as it entered her mouth, each mouthful turned to wet cardboard as it slid down her throat. The verbal lacerations that passed for Sylvia’s dinner conversation were nearly enough to put Bronte right over the edge.
Bronte knew that this woman must have hosted state dinners for her husband and carried the weight of countless social engagements squarely on her shoulders; she was never at a loss to initiate a topic. But even Bronte could tell that the duchess’s patience was being tried by having to devote hours of her valuable time to an American
working
girl
.
“Please tell me about your family.”
Bronte answered in robotic compliance: father died… mother retired… then she reached for her wineglass with her left hand and saw the color drain from Sylvia’s perfectly preserved complexion.
“What a lovely ring.”
“Thank you.”
It took all the concentration Bronte had to continue the movement of bringing the wineglass to her lips and to actually take a sip of what might as well have been battery acid, then very carefully put the glass back in its place. Putting that glass back in its place, as the duchess’s eyes were inexorably glued to the canary diamond, was a slow-motion hell that Bronte would relive for the rest of her life.
“Max, you didn’t tell me you were going to the vault.”
“I didn’t think I needed to check with you before going, Mother.”
“Of course not.” Fake, tinkling, light laugh. “You are the duke and that vault is under your purview, as are all of your father’s rights and responsibilities. No need to be defensive.”
“I was hardly being defensive.”
“Of course you were. I was challenging your authority, after all.”
“Let’s not verbally assault one another on Bronte’s first visit, Sylvia. It’s so unattractive.”
“Maxwell, please don’t be dramatic for the benefit of your”—slight turn, hint of a sniff—“affianced bride. No one is assaulting anyone. And you know I dislike it when you call me ‘Sylvia.’”