Victoria blinked. "Horses?"
"Yes, she's always going on about proper bloodlines and training regimens. Very knowledgeable about quality breeding.And she understands the importance of good stock and careful cultivation."
"That's not… Archie, I wasn't talking about horses."
"No? Well, breeding's important for all sorts of things, isn't it? Plants, animals, people. The principles are the same. Careful selection, proper environment, attention to lineage." He stood up, looking immensely pleased with himself. "Venetia it is, then. Thanks, Vic. You're absolutely brilliant at this relationship stuff."
"Am I?" Victoria asked weakly, watching her brother head for the door with renewed purpose.
"Absolutely. Always know exactly what to say. Very wise about matters of the heart."
He left, presumably to call Venetia and discuss thoroughbred bloodlines, leaving Victoria staring after him in complete disbelief.
She'd been trying to nudge him toward Cathy. Sweet, competent Cathy, who'd been working her arse off to make the gardens perfect, who clearly had feelings for him, who was right there under his nose being brilliant and devoted and completely invisible to him. Instead, he'd decided to bring someone who wanted to discuss equestrian genetics.
She was officially rubbish at this.
If she couldn't even give her own brother decent relationship advice when the answer was staring him in the face, what hope did she have of navigating her own increasingly complicated feelings? She clearly had the romantic instincts of a particularly dense houseplant.
Her phone dinged to remind her about tomorrow's interview, as if she needed it. Richmond Brothers. Right. Everything she'dworked toward, everything that would put her life back on track, everything that made sense.
Everything that would take her away from Cornwall. Away from her family's chaos and her father's greenhouse wisdom and her mother's knowing looks. Away from fairy lights on terraces and shared rooms and the woman who made her forget why being perfect had ever seemed important.
Away from Sasha.
Victoria looked out the library window toward the terrace, where preparations continued in the golden afternoon light. Sasha was now helping Sophie arrange chairs, the two of them laughing about something while Ambrose supervised with theatrical authority. Even from here, she could see the way Sasha moved, confident and graceful, completely at ease with her family in a way that made Victoria's chest tighten with something dangerously close to longing.
She should be excited about the interview. This was her chance to rebuild everything that had fallen apart, to prove she wasn't washed up at thirty-one, to reclaim her place in the world that made sense. Banking made sense. Spreadsheets made sense. Performance targets and client portfolios and professional advancement, all of that made perfect, logical sense.
So why did the thought of leaving make her feel like she was abandoning something infinitely more precious than any job?
Maybe she was love dyslexic. Maybe she'd spent so long being perfect and controlled and successful that she'd completely lost the ability to recognize what she actually wanted when it was standing right in front of her, laughing in the afternoon sun and making her family smile.
Maybe she was as blind as Archie, only instead of missing the obvious choice right under her nose, she was running away from it as fast as her perfectly polished shoes could carry her.
Victoria picked up her laptop and headed upstairs to pack for London, trying very hard not to think too much.
After all, she'd just proven she was completely useless at understanding matters of the heart. Both her own and everyone else's.
But as she folded clothes into her overnight bag, Victoria couldn't shake the feeling that for the first time in her life, being useless at something might actually matter more than being perfect at everything else.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The beach path was mercifully cool in the early morning air, a sharp contrast to the increasing chaos back at the house. Sasha could hear the distant sounds of party preparation. Caterers arriving, staff bustling about, Ambrose’s mother issuing orders. Tonight was the start of the big house party, Ambrose would finally tell his grandmother the truth, and Monday…
Well, on Monday she'd probably be back in Manchester, wondering what the hell had just happened to her life.
"You're being very quiet," Ambrose observed, picking his way carefully down the rocky path. "Usually by now you've made at least three sarcastic observations about my footwear choices."
"Your trainers are fine," Sasha said absently. "Very sensible for beach walking."
"Christ, you are in a state. Since when do you approve of my fashion choices without mockery?"
They reached the sand, and Ambrose immediately began stripping off his shirt with the casual confidence of someonewho'd never doubted his place in the world. Sasha envied him that certainty, even as she kicked off her sandals and felt the cool sand between her toes.
"So," she said, settling onto the blanket he'd brought, "this is the weekend then. Operation Coming Out."
"Operation Coming Out." Ambrose grinned, but there was nervousness underneath it. "Though I have to say, I'm significantly less terrified than I was a week ago."
