Hours later, her presence lingers like a ghost in the room, that new lipstick quip hanging in the air, stupid and offensive, stirring something restless in me I can't shake. I dived back into the spreadsheets after she left, and now the late-afternoon sun has become burnished orange and dipped lower through the windows. It casts long shadows across my mahogany desk, and the estate feels quieter in these hours, the distant hum of the gardener’s tools fading as evening creeps in.
During the last month, I’ve found myself looking forward to dinner with the family—nothing too fancy, just us in the dining room. Maybe Frances's favorite grilled sea bream, crispy with breadcrumbs and herbs from the garden, or Freya’s favorite, roast chicken slathered in tomato ketchup. And Freya chattering about her day. That lovely simple peace we've had this past month, no tensions simmering. But now Carolyn's back, and her cold shadow is already stretching over the warmth of our evening. I’m already anticipating the inevitable exchange of barbed insults between my mother and her.
It sours my gut.
I realize now how much lighter the house felt without her; Freya's laughter more constant, Frances less on edge. It makes me consider now, that perhaps it's not best or most convenient to keep our arrangement going anymore. The thought's been lurking for months, but today it has taken center stage. I will watch her this evening and start making plans to cut our ties for good.
It’s quite shocking how different she was when we started dating—those early days in the Hamptons, her eyes would light up like two blue lamps when she spotted me at Polo matches in Meadowbrook, her laugh flowed like music. But more importantly, she loved Freya, or seemed to—baking cookies together in the kitchen, reading bedtime stories to her in her soft voice, making me think she'd be the perfect mother for my girl.
But a few months into our marriage she had become a stranger, cold and distant. Freya shrank away like a flower in a frost. Her cattiness, especially towards my mother, repulsed me. I left our marriage bed so often to sleep in the guest room that separate rooms, was the natural evolution. I rub my jaw, feeling the faint stubble, the weight of our situation pressing down like the humid air outside, thick and unrelenting.
I push the chair back and head to my mother's suite on the ground floor. The hallways towards her quarters are already lit by sconces that cast a warm glow. The staff move like shadows, and I can hear the distant clink of silverware from the kitchen preparing dinner. I knock on her door.
"Come in," she calls out.
I enter her room, and I am immediately enveloped in that familiar scent that associates with her— talcum powder from Chanel and the smell of fresh linens. She has used these rooms ever since my father passed away. Made it her own feminine haven of soft pastels. Even the four-poster bed is draped in lace, her vanity is an antique piece from Christie's. On it are silver-backed brushes and crystal perfume bottles catching the fading light from the garden-facing windows. She is sitting by the wide doors that face the windows, reading a book.
"Am I late for dinner?" she asks.
I smile, stepping closer, the carpet muffling my steps. "Have you ever been late in your life?"
She smiles back. “No. I’m always perfectly on time. Your father was always late, you know?”
“I know.”
She stands and walks towards her mirror. She touches her hair and fluffs it up a little, then meets my gaze in the mirror, her reflection thoughtful. "How's Carolyn settling in?"
"She seems okay. Have you seen her?"
"Briefly," she says, her tone cooling. "She was with that gardener, Josh." She sets the brush down gently on the vanity's marble top, the clink soft in the quiet room, and refocuses her attention on me, her expression sharp. "How long are you going to letthatcontinue on?"
I sigh, resting my hands on her shoulders, feeling the frail bones beneath the cashmere. "It won’t be long before she’s gone."
Her brows arch with disapproval. "Has she said something?"
"No. It’s my decision," I say. “But I haven’t spoken to her yet, so please don’t mention it.”
Her lips press into a thin line. “Of course, I won’t, but it’s about time you set her free.”
"Will you keep an eye on her for me?" I ask softly. "Especially when I'm at work. If there's anything strange, let me know."
"Strange? Like how?" she asks, turning to face me, her eyes avid with curiosity.
"You know, if you see anything… different about her," I reply evasively, that earlier unease in the study nagging at me—her nervousness, the diverted eyes, that alteration I can't name.
She nods. “Yes, I can do that.”
“Good. Now let's go for dinner.” I offer her my arm, and she slips her hand through the crook of my elbow. Together, we head over towards the hallway. As we reach it Freya clatters down the stairs. Curls bouncing, she takes the last three steps in a single bound, and with a big grin, kisses us both on the cheek. She smells of soap and chocolate biscuits.
She chatters to her grandmother as we walk to the dining room, where the table's already set. Silverware and glasses gleam under the chandelier. We sit down. I amd at the head, Frances by my side, and Freya on my left.
We settle in, but Carolyn is nowhere to be found, her chair empty. Carson nods at me.
“I have sent a message up to enquire if Mrs. Carolyn will be joining us. To my surprise, he sighs softly, a rare crack in his composure, then heads out.
Chapter Twelve
JULIET
