Frank’s not claiming you, I tell myself. When that doesn’t work, I strip my father’s voice from those words and make an effort to believe it’s just casual affection. More effort than my pride would allow me to admit.
“Quit smoking three years ago,” I tell him, watching the ember glow between his knuckles as he kicks off the wall to tread the edges of the room. “So you’ll have to do the enjoying for the both of us.”
He turns back for a moment to stare, like he can see my fingers twitching in my trouser pockets, and smiles as though he thinks I’m being fucking precious. I’d tell him that I technically broke my own rule the other day, just to see Francesca blush, but that would give him ammo.
“Three years clean? Good man. I tried once; it lasted three days. I commend you, though. One word from Winifred and I’m ready to chew through a cigar. And you’re just over here all calm. Ha!”
“I disassociated throughout that conversation, to be honest.”
He exhales smoke through his nose and chokes, resuming his pacing. “Explains why you weren’t hanging off Thalia’s every word. Not impressed, eh?”
“Not exactly short on fascinating company,” I retort before my brain has a chance to catch up. Frank swivels so quickly thatI hear his joints protesting. Recognition creases his eyes, but he doesn’t say anything.
Somehow, that’s worse.
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say this is your attempt at converting me back to lung poisoning,” I add after an awkward beat.
He pulls a face. “Ach, you’re too young for a vice anyway. No arthritis, you’ve got a full head of hair and two working knees. Look at me; I’ve got sunspots, I creak when I walk, and I’m bald in four different places.”
I hum. “I’ll add all of those to my list of reasons to live, right beneath finding out how long Winifred’s forehead vein can pulse with colonial rage before it ruptures.”
Frank tips his head back and barks out a laugh that’s way too full-bodied for the simple dry comment I’ve made. Not the polite chuckle he gave Winifred, but the kind of unselfconscious joy that starts in the chest and bangs its way out. The sound startles some pigeons that have been nesting in the rafters, and I internally thank the universe for none of them having shat on me in the fifteen minutes I’ve been here.
“They don’t mention it in the papers,” he wheezes, stubbing the butt of his cigarette and laughing again. “All those headlines, and none have you pegged as having a sense of humour. Tragic omission, I’d say.”
The idea of any media outlet releasing information that portrays me as likeable almost makes me laugh. “They write what gets them paid. Miserable royals are easier to sell.”
“Christ, what would they do with the truth then? You’re miserableandfunny.”
He laughs at his own line, and for a heartbeat, I see her in him. Not in his smile, or even in the way he expresses his amusement. It’s all in the eyes, and I thinkthere it is. That’swhere Baskerville gets the little bit of Palatino that’s been giving me grief.
She inherited that lake-green mischief from him. One pair leaks an appetite for joy, rimmed by years of good tobacco. The other carries the ache of what grief nearly took, yet also the warmth of every good thing she planted after.
If I were feeling more poetic, I’d call it two fonts sharing a heartbeat; how she claims the duchess-heir typesetting from the Sheffolk lineage but steals the softness from the old man who just made himself laugh.
But I don’t call it that; I just name ittrouble, because my heart is beating each syllable until it’s branded on the inside of my chest.
“Miserable and funny. Two incompatible qualities in one person,” I let the acidic comment leak from behind my teeth. “My father would say that makes me a well-rounded disappointment.”
His mouth kicks up into a half-smile. “Last I checked, your father’s legacy ends at the gates of Sheffolk. Here, you stand on your own merit.” Once the cigarette is tossed into the metal container, he straightens his back with another creak and begins for the door. “And keep that wit, son. God knows this place will test your limits.”
The warning in his tone rings louder than the gratification I feel at being asked to separate myself from the name Atherbourne. It comes as a reflex when I ask, “Do you speak from experience?”
He stops. Pauses in the doorway long enough for me to picture a younger version of himself, coming to terms with what exactly he’s walked into.
“You don’t stay married to a Sheffolk woman for fifty years without learning how to see through tradition.” One wrinkledhand lifts to grip a jamb, and he squeezes like the wood speaks to him. “Redford is nothing but… old pain.”
“Seems manageable enough.”
“That’s what I once told myself. But things here are strange; you’ve gathered that much, haven’t you?”
I have, but apparently, the correct reaction, one that everyone seems to have, is to turn the other way. I’ve spent the last few hours mapping Francesca’s bruises in my head, yet here stands her grandfather mumbling like a toddler into his sleeve.Say it out loud.The unwillingness to name the unease reeks of negligence.
Is it cowardice to tiptoe around the elephant in the room or confidence that everything will work out just fine? Considering he’s married to Sylvaine, I assume it’s the latter.
“It’s certainly nothing like what I’ve ever experienced before,” is what I say instead.
“Good, I would hate to think this place is going soft.”
