Page 21 of Beyond the Hedge Maze

In unison they scoffed, but it was his father who spoke. “Of course not. We’re selling the estate. That old dump will bring us a fortune.”

Oliver’s vision tunneled.

Patricia’s foot tapped impatiently over her crossed legs. “Really, Oliver, I know you have a silly attachment to the place, but who wants to keep up the maintenance on it? Such a waste of time and money. In three years, you’ll have your trust, and you can buy your own property wherever you want. Go travel or keep playing with your paints.” She waved her hand dismissively in his direction, like painting was a silly hobby he took up when he was bored.

The immediate rush of anger was blinding, his breaths short and uneven. He stood abruptly, tugging at his tie until it was hanging loose around his neck. “I have to get out of here.”

“Oliver, sit down. The service is about to start.” His mother’s nails were digging into the soft flesh of his wrist, and he ripped it out of her grasp. The vicar, a man named Eugene, who Oliver had known most of his life, stood behind his grandfather’s closed casket—a request his grandfather had made when planning his own arrangements. There was a concerned look on the clergyman’s face that Oliver ignored as he floundered to his feet.

Running wasn’t an option. Abandoning his last minutes with his grandfather wasn’t an option, either. But that didn’t mean he had to stay in that fucking pew. As the funeral mourners looked on at the small scene he was causing, Oliver made a beeline across the church to Rose and Cillian, who immediately created space between them as soon they saw him coming their way.

He slumped down, and Cillian tenderly finished removing his tie as Oliver worked to control his breathing. “There you go, lad, you didn’t need this anyways. Ben won’t mind.”

At the mention of his grandfather, Oliver teared up again. There were moments when he finally felt like he was holding it together, like he was standing tall, strong in the face of his grief. But he was merely a straw house, rocking precariously against the slightest of breezes.

With twin hands resting on his shoulders from the pew behind, his surrogate parents at his side, he was able to function again. His mind whirled as the service started, trying to focus on the eulogy being given.

“Benjamin Catesby, the Earl of Chapman, was above all else, an earnest man. Preceded in death by his lovely wife, Anne, Benjamin lived a quiet life, beloved by his family and the community. On most days, you could find him in the village, socializing with friends. At home, he enjoyed putzing around in the vegetable garden, reading in his study, or happily laboring over the miniature model village he had been building for nearly fifty years. He leaves behind a legacy of philanthropy and joy, and will be sincerely missed.”

***

He said his goodbyes to Rose and Cillian after the burial, promising that he’d be returning to their house as soon as the will was read. There were a handful of people coming together to celebrate his grandfather’s life, and to send Rachel and Isaac back to Oxford with love and well wishes. They both had wanted to stay, but their own family was flying in for graduation, and Oliver wouldn’t allow them to miss one second of it.

Oliver knew that his grandfather’s will couldn’t be read without him present, so he took his time, shoving his hands in his pockets as he walked to the appointment. Outside of the church, away from the hordes of well-intentioned people, Oliver could appreciate how beautiful the day was. The June sun was shining high in the sky, and a gentle breeze had snuck under the collar of his jacket, cooling him down.

In less time than he had wanted, he found himself standing outside of a small brick building off the high street in the village. The front door had the name Barnaby Stillwell, Family Law sketched onto the frosted glass. He knew Mr. Stillwell in passing—he and his grandfather had been friends—and Oliver remembered seeing him in the back of the church during the service. He must have just arrived himself.

Oliver closed his eyes and slowly counted to ten. No matter what happened inside that office, the estate would take months to finally settle. It could take even longer to find a buyer for Chapman. Nothing would be settled today. There would be time to regroup, to make a plan.

Raised voices met Oliver as soon as the door swung open. His parents were talking on top of each other in harsh tones as Mr. Stillwell sat silently behind his desk. At the sight of Oliver, he perked up, his grey eyes shining behind at least an inch thick layer of glass. “Ah, young Mister Oliver! Thank you for joining us. If everyone would please take a seat, we can begin.”

Oliver reckoned that Mr. Stillwell hadn’t changed a day in the seventeen years since he had lived at Chapman. He hadn’t aged, but to Oliver’s memory, he certainly had never been younger, either. The only thing that ever changed was the colorful bowtie he wore, today a dull blue, which Oliver thought accurately fit the mood.

Across the desk from Mr. Stillwell sat two brown leather monstrosities that if one squinted, could be mistaken for chairs, with a matching couch off to the side. Oliver dutifully accepted his fate, taking a seat on the couch separated from the fray, and was momentarily relieved that he could bounce his knee at will without being scolded like a child.

Mr. Stillwell peered as best as he could through coke-bottle glasses around his parents to try and keep Oliver involved. Oliver wasn’t sure what there was to discuss—his presence was ceremonial, at best. There was an order of operations to estates like theirs. There is an Earl, the Earl has a son, the Earl dies, and the son becomes the new Earl. It’s clear cut and dry. It’s how the business had been run for hundreds of years, and how it would continue to run for the next hundred years. It didn’t matter that Oliver had thought of Chapman House as his home; it didn’t technically belong to him.

He let his head fall to his hands, elbows digging into his knees. He wanted to be back at Rose’s, wanted to be surrounded by the people he knew without a shadow of a doubt loved him in the wake of his universe falling apart. He wasn’t ready to accept that in mere minutes, in addition to losing his grandfather, he was also going to lose his home.

“Let’s get started, shall we?” Mr. Stillwell’s voice was far too chipper for Oliver’s taste. There were various pieces of paper strewn about the desk, and Mr. Stillwell swept them up into a neat pile, tapping them three times against the wood. “I, Benjamin Oliver Catesby, current Earl of Chapman, in sound body and mind, hereby bequeath all property, land, and assets to my grandson, Oliver Edgar Catesby.”

Chapter 10

Oliver

Two Years Ago

Commotion erupted all around him, but all Oliver heard was static—an unbearable buzzing that rang throughout his ears and reverberated behind his eyes.

He watched his parents stand as though removed from his body. His mother paced the room, her high heels clacking against the hardwood, creating the only sound able to penetrate the buzzing. His father was hunched over the desk, ripping the paperwork from Mr. Stillwell’s grasp as the man looked at the scene in front of him with feigned disinterest. Clearly this wasn’t the first time a fight had broken out over a will reading in his tenure.

There had to be more, right? This had to be some joke, some punchline that he wasn’t grasping. The grief had made him delusional. Maybe this was all a dream. His mind’s way of protecting itself.

“I’m sorry, what?” His voice came out a broken whisper, but the entire room quieted and turned to look at him.

Mr. Stillwell’s smile was kind and patient as he answered Oliver. “I believe Lord Catesby’s final words were quite clear.”

His father descended upon him, and Oliver jolted, his spine ramrod straight and pressed against the back of the leather couch. “I don’t know how you coerced him, but that estate is my birthright, and I will not take this lying down.” He spat over his shoulder. “Stillwell, I expect you’ll be contacting a barrister on our behalf.”