Authors: Megan Mulry
“Would it forever be a
semblance
, do you think?”
“Hard to say. I mean, you don’t even need to know them to get the gist. You always hear the variations: the marriage breaks because it was falling apart to begin with—what I call the Petri Dish theory: the environment was right for infidelity, everybody parts ways, pulls it together, stays friends, that sort of thing. Then there’s the happy-enough marriage that is sabotaged by the idea of something better: the Greener Grass theory. That one usually leads to short-term hell for the abandoned party and serial relationship failure for the abandoner, since, as we all know, the grass is never—or hardly ever—greener. Finally, there’s the worst-case scenario, not even a theory, really; just a nightmare. One of you falls madly in love with someone else. This one has been my preoccupation recently.” She reached for her glass of wine. “Luckily, I write about relationships, right?” She raised her glass to Max with a merry tilt. “I can never get enough.”
“I, on the other hand, enjoy the occasional dinner-party conversation about it, but probably have some sort of irrational superstition about overanalysis when it comes to my own romantic life,” Max replied. “For me, love is like that quote about laws and sausages: I really don’t want to think too much about how it’s made; I just want to enjoy it.”
“Touché… it’s primarily a women’s game, the discussion and dissection of it at least.”
They paused to finish their meals and Max looked up to see Bronte smiling weakly at Etienne, almost wistful, as she spoke. “It was such an odd coincidence. I mean, what are the chances that I would be standing on a street corner in the middle of London and they would walk by?”
“It is funny, because you are really his only failure,” Etienne proceeded with his sexy Gallic accent.
Max tried not to strain too obviously to pick up the thread of Bronte’s conversation. He saw her blink away her confusion… and maybe a touch of anxiety.
As if she could feel Max’s concern across the narrow table, Bronte turned and gave him a sad, fragile smile. Epiphanies notwithstanding, she had no interest in dredging up miserable memories. She was just beginning to celebrate that her feelings for Mr. Texas had well and truly expired; that did not mean she now wished to dissect those feelings in the midst of a delightful dinner party.
“Failure?” she asked with a little chuckle as she reached for her water glass.
“Oh, you know how he is,” Etienne said, “all Texan ease and laid-back camaraderie for all and sundry. And then you come along and let him know you never want to see him or hear from him again and he was just, well, disoriented.”
Even though he hadn’t been able to follow all the details, Max suddenly realized that Bronte must have crossed paths with her ex-boyfriend earlier in the day. He was overcome by a quick, fierce need to protect her from anything upsetting. He was almost out of his chair to suggest how jet-lagged he and Bronte were from their recent trip when she began speaking again. He held his place.
Her words were brittle. “I suppose you might say I am old-fashioned and even prudish in a way, Etienne. I find it nigh on impossible to have pleasant, bubbly conversation with former lovers. No spite really, just a clean slate and all that.” She looked across the table and took strength from Max’s gaze. “And now that I am happily and permanently off the market, it is not a situation I will ever have to reconsider.” She raised her glass toward Max and took a fortifying sip of cool water.
Etienne laughed warmly and replied, “If that were the case in France, no one would be speaking to anyone!”
Everyone at the table laughed with both humor and a touch of relief.
Bronte looked at Max with intense gratitude.
Plain. Simple. Gratitude.
In that moment, she knew that her petty gesture, waving her engagement ring in that woman’s face, was just that: a gesture. An empty gesture. The ring itself was nothing. She kept staring at Max across the table as the others started to pick up the threads of new conversations. The real weight and heft of their relationship was what passed between them at moments like this: his look of gentle confidence, her radiant trust.
She would take those looks over any jewels.
***
Later that night, Bronte was in bed reading one of the notebooks that her mother had given her, trying to understand how her father’s written voice could be so bitterly hilarious while his real voice had been just bitter. She laughed at one particularly vicious line, and Max poked his head out of the walk-in closet to see what she was reading.
“Not as bad as you thought it would be?”
“I may be a bitch, but I am more than happy to admit when I am wrong… and I was. Definitely wrong. This is fucking hilarious.”
Max finished getting undressed and made his way into bed, looking preoccupied as he crossed the rough, wide-plank floorboards. Carelessly naked. Bronte stared at him as he adjusted his pillows, turned on his bedside lamp, took his book off the bedside table, cracked the spine, and began reading.
Then he looked up when he felt the pressure of her gaze on him. “What?”
“This is good.”
“What is good?”
“This.” She gestured with a vague sweep. “The two of us reading in bed, home at a decent hour, curled up. I’m digging it.”
He reached over and put his hand on the side of her hip, letting his caress float over her.
“Me too.”
Whatever real or imagined isolation or belligerence she had experienced in that little guest room at the Osbornes’ flat earlier had passed. The feel of his hand against her bare skin made her shiver and scoot down deeper into the consuming cloud of white linen sheets and the airy eiderdown duvet.
“I don’t think I’ve ever slept on sheets as utterly delicious, by the way. How can they be so damned soft when they look like such a wrinkled mess?”
He put his book on the bedside table, face down, his other hand never leaving her side. He turned back to face her and stretched his legs out along the length of the bed, testing the sheets as if he had never thought about it, then let one leg climb up hers.
“Mmmm. Utterly delicious.”
“Max… you are…”
His mouth came down onto hers and the weight of his body pressed her solidly—safely—into the cocoon of the feather bed. All she could do was release a half moan, half sob of pure delight. He pulled away from the kiss and let his hand wander across her lower abdomen, right at her bikini line. He ran a single finger just beneath the elastic of her underwear and ripples of pleasure pulsed through her and out to her fingertips.
“I am not going to get overly philosophical, Bron, but I have to circle back at least one more time to the potential baby situation.”
“No fair.”
“What do you mean, ‘no fair’?”
“I mean,” Bronte sighed with a glazed-over smile, “you know I will give you anything when you hold me like this. Babies. Capitulations. Empty promises.”
“All good. But stay with me for a minute longer. I think there was a particular point that I was trying to make that… that I failed at making. When I was asking or worrying or what have you about the idea of you being pregnant, I wasn’t saying anything about your independence or your rights, or anything along those lines. I meant it more that the paradigm has shifted for us. We are a unit. And not in that atrocious way that makes your skin crawl. In the most
delicious
way.” He shifted his body closer to hers. “Whatever it is, we can figure it out, as a unit. Do you see what I mean? Do you agree?” He needed to hear her say it, to know that those real or imagined beasts of insecurity or independence that had threatened to sabotage her trust in their relationship were well and truly slain.
“I like that… a unit… easier to swallow somehow than all that cleaving and honoring.” She squirmed under him and went to kiss his neck, right where his tendons strained invitingly, but he held her back.
“I mean it, Bron. If you are pregnant and feel really strongly about, well, not being—I mean, I’m trying to be open-minded here, but to be honest, I’d be devastated. But we will figure it out. Together, okay? Please promise me.”
“Okay, okay, I promise!” she replied without any attempt to conceal her rising lust, straining to kiss his neck again.
“You are an impossible harlot,” he said in a low growl.
She savored the taste of his skin on her lips.
“Mmmm. I am. And also,”—she taunted him with her tongue running slowly along her upper lip—“I can’t think about, much less talk about, unwan—I mean unexpected, imaginary babies… it’s just too implausible.”
He finally gave up, or gave in. He wasn’t sure which.
The following night, when Bronte looked out over the large drawing room at Dunlear Castle and saw the cast of characters, she wondered if she were in a dream, or a Noël Coward play. The castle was closed to the public for the weekend and the main rooms were once again open to the family.
Despite the vast grandeur of the space—soaring ceilings with extensive, intricate plaster moldings; miles of rich brocade curtains; Venetian glass chandeliers; acres of Aubusson carpets; priceless French fauteuils and bergères; massive, carved-stone fireplaces at either end—the ease with which these people slipped into the oversized sofas with a cocktail and a ready smile made it all seem, well, utterly normal. They had convened at the far end of the room and Bronte was enjoying the overview as she came in a little later than the others. The train out from London had been pleasant enough, but she’d collapsed for a brief nap and was just now making her way back to the land of the living.
Max had invited Willa and David to join them, and those two were talking animatedly with the duchess, who had made a surprise appearance after all. Apparently, the idea of her entire extended family under one roof, enjoying themselves and talking about her behind her back, was more than she could bear. She looked as frosty as ever, her spine like a steel rod as she pretended to be amused by Willa’s inside tidbit of gossip from the latest royal fiasco. But there seemed to be something less predatory about Sylvia this evening. Her eldest, Claire, was sitting nearby, laughing at Willa’s rendition of the idiotic chauffeur who had tattled to the press about his canoodling—unmarried to each other—passengers and his subsequent dismay at losing his position. Even the duchess cracked a small smile at that.
Claire had turned out to be a very pleasant surprise. Bronte had anticipated a carbon copy of the supercilious, arrogant mother-in-law-to-be. Instead, Claire was more like a very pale version of Devon, a very rigid, focused version, to be sure, but hardly the conniver that Max had painted. She
was
eager to gather as much information about Bronte as she could, asking myriad back-to-back questions, just as Devon had. Before retiring Friday night, Claire suggested they take an early walk together the following day.
The two of them met up at the kitchen door at eight o’clock the next morning and headed out onto the beautiful, sprawling grounds of Dunlear Castle. Claire started talking about her life in London, and her frustrating attempts at reining in her wild daughter, Lydia. Bronte tried to keep her facial expression bland at the mention of the little tart.
“I suspect, from your atypical silence and her version of things that I already received, that she was not particularly polite when she met you in New York.”
“She was fine.”
Claire laughed and caught Bronte’s right upper arm in a quick, affectionate hold, then just as quickly let go. “I shall assume that she was not
fine
as in a fine bottle of Château Margaux or fine Connolly leather.” Bronte smiled and Claire continued, “Let’s just say I have been more preoccupied with keeping my marriage together than with parenting for the past few years and it has not been an easy time for Lydia. I adore her, of course—how could I not? She’s mine after all—but she has been let alone for too long and my mother has begun to plant the seeds of righteous indignation that I have spent my entire adult life trying to shed.”
Bronte was beyond surprised at Claire’s intimate honesty. Their ten-year age difference had seemed vast when they’d first met last night. Claire’s innate formality and firm posture gave a rather grim, haughty first impression. But after they had spoken for a few minutes, Bronte realized that, unlike her brother Max, who projected casual ease while harboring a very concise and particular view of the world, Claire was quite the reverse. Her rigid posture was perfectly at odds with her obvious desire to embrace the new.
“I can tell you are probably taken aback by my openness. Max has always lumped me together with Mother in many ways. Our age difference was more or less cataclysmic in terms of fostering sibling affection between Max and me. I was living in London with Mother by the time he was learning to walk. And then Devon and Abby came in rapid succession and the dynamic was pretty much codified.”
Bronte’s look begged her to continue.
“Basically, Mother made it clear to me that my place was with her and the ‘others’ were, well,
the
others
. Father was periodically allowed into our private, special world on those wonderful occasions when he would come into London with us and take me to the ballet or the theater. I dreamed that we were a proper family, the three of us.”
Bronte looked sad and Claire tried to clarify again. “That sounds cruel, I know, but it wasn’t like that. I honestly did not resent Max or Dev or Abby… it was just, oh, it’s so hard to describe one’s perspective as a child. Well, actually, you of all people understand the simultaneous loneliness and suffocation of being an only child. That’s how it was for me. Mother never encouraged me to play with the little ones, as she called them. They were a pack unto themselves… always being rough and tumble with Father… and Mother always made me feel that she and I were cut from a separate cloth.”
Claire shook her head in a cheerful attempt to mentally clean the slate. “That all sounds utterly moribund. Of course, I could have been a more attentive big sister, but I was a vain, adolescent young girl with a doting mother, so I suppose I was just lazy.” Claire regarded Bronte. “When I look at you, I see this confident, tall, independent, brash woman who has captured Max’s heart. Maybe you don’t
relate
… you seem the type who wouldn’t be lazy when it came to expressing your own thoughts.”
Bronte gave a self-deprecating smile. “I’m not sure that’s an attribute I am proud of, but yes, it’s probably true. And, being an only child, it is chilling to hear stories of big, supposedly bubbly families that are populated with siblings whose childhood memories are, in fact, as cool and isolated as my own.”
They were crossing out of the kitchen gardens and walking down several beautifully worn limestone stairs into a formal parterre boxwood garden. Bronte looked around and wondered at the splendid, precise perfection of the design. She started to veer down one of the pretty lanes, then turned to Claire. “Do you want to get out and have a real walk for exercise, or do you want to amble?”
Claire tilted her head to the side, almost imperceptibly, just as Max did. She was fair, with pale blond hair, pale blue-gray eyes, and a very fine porcelain complexion. But the genes didn’t lie.
“Max does that exactly.”
“What does he do?” Claire asked, not aware she was doing anything.
“He tilts his head in exactly that tiny way when he is trying to memorize something or think of a reply. It’s just a tiny gesture, but you are all alike in different ways. I enjoy seeing that.”
The cool morning breeze was starting to warm, and the mild wind felt lush across Bronte’s face and neck. She turned her face to the sun and closed her eyes for a few seconds as they stood in that beautiful, peaceful place.
“Max is a lucky man. Don’t let him get all controlling on you. This garden is the perfect example. This is what the Heyworth men are all about. It’s beautiful and peaceful, but it is also immaculate and still. This garden was laid out in 1746 and it has not been altered since. Maintained, refined, perfected, but never changed. Just a thought.”
“It is probably for the best, since I am somewhat unpredictable and flighty and could use a good reining in.”
The two women continued their walk through the formal garden then out into the main park, returning two hours later, flushed and happy with the exercise and the promise of an unexpected burgeoning friendship.
Bronte got back after ten that morning and was surprised to see Max was still reading in their bedroom. He was in a comfortable armchair by the window, and when he looked up, Bronte’s heart gave a little leap.
“Aren’t you a bonny lass? All rosy and fresh,” he said. “Ready for a morning tumble?”
“You are just plain naughty. I am going to jump in the shower and then curl up with a book somewhere. By the way, your sister Claire is nothing like you described.”
Bronte was changing out of the T-shirt and shorts she had worn on her walk and stepping into the en suite bathroom as she spoke.
“You don’t even know each other,” she called from the large white, tiled room. “Not that I do either—know her, I mean—but I think you might become friends somehow.”
She turned the shower on and stepped into the torrential mid-twentieth-century waterworks: one shower head was directly above her, cascading down her back like a waterfall, and three side jets could be angled wherever she chose. The tiny, white-square tiling that lined the floor and walls of the entire room was immaculate, despite a half century of use.
She took a quick shower, dried off with one of the huge white Turkish towels that seemed to be in miraculous abundance, and then wrapped the bath sheet around her body and padded out to the bedroom. She picked up her train of thought as if she had never left off.
“She’s pretty intense, I guess, but she’s certainly not out to get anyone. I think she feels generally ill at ease. Your mother certainly hasn’t given her a wealth of tools for dealing with people. It sounds like the duchess kept her daughter close at hand for her own personal amusement. Pretty grim, actually.”
“Oh, Bron. Please. Spending endless months at a mansion in Mayfair, shopping, being taken to lovely suppers and parties and—”
“Look, she’s the first to admit she had a spoiled adolescence. Even she knows it was perverse, but she’s forty for chrissake. Give her a break.”
“I’m not going to argue with you. I’m happy that you two hit it off.”
He looked back down at the book he was reading and Bronte threw on her now-ironed beige linen pants and a loose smock shirt and sandals.
“I think I’d like to go read in the
library
.” Bronte tried to say it in a haughty British accent, but it came out sounding more like “
lie
-bree.” Max looked up from his book, put his index finger between the pages to hold his place, and got up out of the large leather armchair.
“I’d be delighted to take you there,” he said as he offered her his arm. She picked up her book and threaded her arm through his.
They spent much of that day in happy silence, reading in the upper gallery of the spectacular Elizabethan room. The wood paneling had mellowed to a gorgeous chestnut over the centuries. Throughout the day, Bronte found herself trying to process the magnitude of the wealth and splendor that surrounded her, often retreating instead into visions of Max in his
More
Cowbell
T-shirt in front of the Ferris wheel on Navy Pier. The idea of great-great-great-great-grandparents who had been painted by Holbein and van Dyck was almost instantaneously terrifying. The idea of that shy royal grandmother whose father and brother had been kings made Bronte weak. Much better to stretch her bare foot across the red velvet sofa that she shared with her perfectly normal fiancé and rub his leg instead.
The elegant smell of thousands of hand-tooled leather bindings surrounded them; the midsummer sun streamed in through the clerestory windows. Max smiled again as Bron’s foot made casual contact with his. He was happy to see her happy, but his mind was momentarily elsewhere. In his attempts to ignore his unresolved feelings for Bronte during their time apart, Max had stayed mind-numbingly busy. He had spent numerous extra hours at the office and nearly all of his free time putting together all the arrangements for a memorial in honor of his father. The final product of those efforts was to be set in a secluded part of the rolling forest to the south of the castle and was ready to be unveiled. The one-year anniversary of his father’s death was the next day, and he wanted to make sure everything was in order. He put his book down and reached into his pocket for his cell phone, scrolling through his emails to make sure everything was up and ready.
He had worked very closely with the head gardener and the consultant from the National Trust to make sure his idea was in line with the overall site plan at Dunlear. Then he had contacted a contemporary sculptor whose work he had long admired and commissioned him to create some version of the piece he had in mind.
Martin Ellsworth had graduated from Oxford several years ahead of Max, but his reputation had already been established within a few years of leaving university. He was trained as both an architect and a sculptor in the classical tradition, and his work ranged from large-scale abstract and figurative bronzes that were mildly reminiscent of Henry Moore to outdoor structures that were neither sculpture nor dwelling but evocative of both.
It was one of the latter that Max had commissioned. Something that would represent his father’s love of the outdoors, but also express his firm attachment to structure and order. Max had been able to meet with Ellsworth on several occasions to describe his father through anecdotes and memory.
He had also found and forwarded several of his father’s diaries, nothing personal, really, but a lot about the years he had spent at Dunlear and how the physical property and landscape had affected him so profoundly. Ellsworth had found those particularly endearing, and Max was certain the final piece would reflect both the artist’s vision and his father’s worldview. The unveiling would be tomorrow afternoon, and Max was very pleased that everyone would be there to see it. Abigail still hadn’t arrived, but she had finally called to say she would join them sometime later today.
Max responded to two relevant emails, ignored a couple from work, then glanced up at Bronte, who was blissfully immersed in
Wolf
Hall
. He smiled to himself and refocused his attention on his book. As much as he felt a fool to admit it, his heart beat faster when he looked at Bronte: sitting on a couch and reading a book with this woman was the equivalent of skydiving while drinking champagne with any other.