I haven’t seen Alice since Mom’s funeral—another casualty of Dad’s decision to send me abroad ‘for my education’ but really, I suspect, to spare himself the daily reminder of what he’d lost. It’s one of many severed connections from that period, relationships sacrificed on the altar of my father’s vision for my future. The thought of potentially seeing her tonight at the Weisters’ sends a flutter of nervous anticipation through my chest—will she remember me? Will she see the woman I’ve become and still find traces of the girl she once comforted?
I browse through the closet, fingers trailing across fabrics that still bear the faint scent of storage despite the housekeeper’s diligent care. A rainbow of designer dresses hangs in perfect chromatic order—some still with tags attached, purchased by Father’s assistant for events I plan to never attend. Each represents a version of Isabel Barlow that was expected to materialize at political functions, charity galas, and diplomatic dinners. The sight stirs a complicated mixture of resentment and nostalgia.
What does one wear to reunite with a childhood that feels simultaneously like yesterday and several lifetimes ago? I deliberate longer than necessary, the simple act of choosing an outfit becoming oddly weighted with significance. Finally, I select a classic black and white off-shoulder dress that balances sophistication with approachability. The bodice hugging my torso falls in an elegant A-line while the skirt reaches just below my knees—professional enough to satisfy Dad’s expectations, but with enough subtle allure to remind everyone that I’m no longer the shy child who left London all those years ago.
I pair it with stiletto heels that add three inches to my height and a subtle confidence to my posture. My mother’s pearl earrings—one of the few personal items I’ve carried across continents—provide the perfect finishing touch, their cool weight against my skin a comforting connection to her memory. I decide to leave my hair loose, the blonde waves falling past my shoulders in a deliberate contrast to the sleek ponytail I wore on the flight.
At the vanity that still holds my teenage collection of perfume bottles and hair accessories, I apply makeup with meticulous precision—a ritual of armor-building I perfected during my boarding school years. The familiar motions—foundation, powder, subtle contour—help steady my trembling hands. I haven’t seen the Duke in what feels like several lifetimes, and memories of his penetrating stare and subtle disapproval still have the power to reduce me to that insecure child who never quite measured up to aristocratic standards.
The mascara wand hovers inches from my eye as I confront the deeper source of my nervousness. Nathan. After all these years, will I see Nathan again? My childhood companion, my fellow conspirator, the boy who knew exactly when to speak and when silent presence was the greater gift. Once I was sent away from London, it seemed my entire past life had been erased like chalk from a blackboard—no invitations to return for holidays, no phone calls from the friends I’d left behind, no continuation of the life I’d known. The Weister household, which had been my second home, became as inaccessible as a foreign country without a visa as did my own home.
A slight whisper of sadness washes over me, and a tear threatens to cascade down my freshly applied makeup. The abandonment I felt after Mom’s death was somehow eclipsed by the second abandonment of being sent away—not just from a place, but from an entire network of relationships that had sustained me. I suck in a deep breath, the air filling my lungs with the resolve to maintain composure. I swallow the melancholy down, storing it away for another place and time, or perhaps forever. The Barlow women don’t indulge in public displays of emotion; this, if nothing else, was drilled into me from childhood.
“Isabel?” Dad’s voice calls up the stairs. “The car is waiting.”
“Coming!” I reply, applying a final swipe of neutral lipstick before stepping back to assess the complete picture. The woman in the mirror looks poised, polished, prepared—revealing nothing of the emotional tumult beneath the serene surface. Perfect.
During the drive to the Weister estate, I watch familiar landscapes pass by—London’s urban sprawl gradually giving way to the manicured hedgerows and gated estates of the aristocratic countryside. Dad reviews talking points for the evening on his tablet, occasionally glancing up to share some tidbit about the Duke’s latest charitable foundation or political alliance. I make appropriate noises of interest while my mind wanders freely through the corridors of memory.
With each mile that brings us closer to the manor, fragments of childhood resurface with increasing vividness. The massive oak tree where Nathan taught me to climb, despite my initial terror of heights. The hidden alcove in the library where we would read adventure stories aloud to each other, alternating chapters and doing ridiculous voices for different characters. The kitchen gardens where we once spent an entire afternoon creating an elaborate ‘potion’ from herbs and vegetables, convinced it would grant us magical powers (it granted us nothing but a stern lecture from his dad instead).
These are the memories that sustained me during those first isolated months at boarding school, when homesickness felt like a physical illness and letters from home were inexistent. These are the fragments of joy I would replay during particularly dark nights in college, when the pressure of perfection and the absence of genuine connection threatened to overwhelm me. Even now, in my professional life, I occasionally find myself channeling Nathan’s unflinching honesty or his quiet courage when facing particularly intimidating opposing counsel.
As our car passes through the imposing wrought-iron gates bearing the Weister family crest—a rearing horse beneath crossed swords—my stomach performs a nervous flip. The driveway stretches before us, a white ribbon cutting through immaculately tended grounds that look precisely as I remember them, as though frozen in time while I’ve been changing and growing elsewhere.
“You’re quiet,” Dad observes, finally setting aside his tablet. “Nervous about seeing everyone again?”
“Just tired from the flight,” I deflect automatically, unwilling to expose the raw vulnerability of genuine anticipation.
“You know, Gabriel has been asking about you regularly over the years,” he offers, surprising me. “He always seemed quite invested in your progress.”
This revelation catches me off guard. “Really? I never heard anything…”
Dad has the grace to look slightly uncomfortable. “We thought a clean break would be best for you. After your mother… Well, too many reminders seemed cruel.”
The explanation feels incomplete, insufficient to justify more than fifteen years of severed connections, but before I can press further, the car rounds the final curve of the driveway, and Weister Manor rises before us in all its Tudor glory—timber-framed upper stories, leaded glass windows glowing with warm light, chimneys stretching toward the darkening sky like exclamation points punctuating the end of a long sentence.
My pulse quickens as we approach the entrance, where the Butler—impossibly, the same man who served when I was a child—stands at attention, his posture as rigid as I remember. As we exit the car, the massive oak doors swing open, and the Dukes of Weister emerge to greet us, perfectly choreographed as though our arrival is a scene in a well-rehearsed play.
The Duke approaches with measured steps, and I feel myself regressing to childhood—fighting the absurd urge to hide behind Dad’s legs or simply turn and run back down the driveway. Gabriel Weister has always had that effect on me—his regal bearing and penetrating gaze making me feel perpetually inadequate, measured against some aristocratic standard I could never quite grasp.
“Lucas, welcome.” The Duke shakes Dad’s hand with practiced cordiality, his grip firm and brief.
“Gabriel.” My father beams, political charm in full force. “Look who I brought with me tonight!”
“Good evening,” I greet him, stepping forward with a poise that belies my internal trembling. The Duke hasn’t changed significantly—perhaps more silver at his temples, a few more lines around his eyes, but his expression remains as I’ve always remembered it: serious, assessing, making you feel perpetually on the edge of a precipice, awaiting judgment on whether you’ll be permitted to step back to safety or pushed into the abyss. As a child, I imagined him as the male version of the Queen of Hearts from Alice in Wonderland, always one minor infraction away from bellowing “Off with her head!”
To my astonishment, he briefly embraces me—a gesture so unexpected that I momentarily freeze before awkwardly returning it. He steps back, allowing the Duchess to approach, her arms already outstretched.
“Our little Izzy,” she exclaims, taking both my hands in hers. “Honey, you’re gorgeous.” Her perfume—the same jasmine scent she’s worn for as long as I can remember—envelops me in a cloud of unexpected nostalgia.
“Thank you,” I murmur, feeling a blush warm my cheeks at her effusive greeting. “I adore your dress.” The emerald silk perfectly complements her auburn hair, which shows remarkably few strands of gray despite the passing years.
“Nathan is back home too,” she announces, still holding my hands as though afraid I might flee if released. Her eyes study me with maternal interest that feels both invasive and oddly comforting.
“I had to force him,” the Duke adds with what passes for humor in his repertoire—a slight upturn of lips that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “He’ll be joining us soon, but let’s have a seat inside, shall we?”
This casual revelation sends an electric current racing along my spine. Nathan is here. The abstract possibility has suddenly crystallized into imminent reality, and my body responds with surprising intensity.
