The dark and somber studio at the Oxford Historical Inquiry Society is filled with the heavy silence of a mass at Westminster. It feels more like a funeral than the reading of a late will.7Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡWlnuupc5ed
Mr. Rudolf Pembroke, our family solicitor since my grandfather's time, is a lean and grey man, his black robes and piercing eyes meant to invoke a sense of austerity and gravity, that, I don't doubt, has served him well in his forty years of practice.
He looks at us from beneath his thick, woolly eyebrows, and I have the sudden desire to be anywhere but here.
Though, perhaps, I feel like this because of the circumstances. After all, if we are all gathered in here, it's because my father has died.
Which is strange. Being in a place like this without him, I mean.
He had this habit of making me attend historical lectures when I was just a kid, visiting dusty old museums full of creaking leather armchairs and cobwebs, taking me along with him whenever he got summoned somewhere in the name of our duty to the crown.
'It is important you understand your responsibility,' he'd always say, taking me by the hand through galleries and rooms not so different from this one. 'Our inheritance is everything, Eleanor.'
I remember the first time I stepped in the grand marble halls of the Ashmolean Museum as if it was yesterday. The echo of my footsteps against the old tiles. My father, in his tweed blazer smelling faintly of pipe tobacco. Sometimes he stopped in front of a bust, and asked me what did I know about such-and-such emperor or monarch. And then, if I could find any trace of their story in the stone.
'History,' he used to go on, 'is a dialogue between the living and the dead. If you want to understand the present, my dear, you must know the past.'
As a child, I resented him. Not in the loud way of storybook heroines, I wasn't like that and I knew it. But quietly and persistently. Like water eroding stone, slowly shaping it to my needs.
I remember spending hours memorizing every ancestor's birth and death dates, only to refuse to say them aloud at the dinner table. Not because I didn't know them, but because I did, and I still wouldn't bend to him.
And my father, who taught me so much, knew it all too well.
The truth is I never stood a chance against the call in our veins. No matter how stubborn I was, places like this exerted a pull on me that I couldn't explain even to myself.
As I grew older, memorizing facts became reflex, a muscle memory that I couldn't unlearn even if I tried. It shaped me. It made me exactly as my father wanted me to be.
And now he is gone. He has joined the dead he loved so much, and the only thing I feel right now is the weight of our legacy and titles and duties, weighing on my shoulders.
Mr. Pembroke extends a formal greeting and I blink, coming back to the room I am sitting in, back to the others, and to this dreadful day.
The solicitor's perfectly groomed fingers reach out across the desktop to greet each of us and, in my hand, his grip is unpleasantly cold and clammy. He lingers there a moment longer than he should, his eyes inspecting mine. Then his gaze slides downwards towards my other hand, still entwined with Righley's and Mr. Pembroke scowls slightly.
I can tell by the way his jaw suddenly flexes how disappointed he is to see my father's ring - now our engagement vow - around Righley's finger instead of a potential husband's.
He goes from there to the leather bands on Righley's wrists, clearly visible under the sleeve of her tight white shirt, then up to the row of piercings in her ears, and to her short blond hair. Weighing her up. Vivisecting every detail.
"I have been informed, Lady Eleanor, that you and Miss Morgan have been living together for some time now."
My shoulders stiffen. He hasn't been informed. He was at my father's funeral and, for sure, Righley never left my side, that day. Even a blind man could have seen the truth behind that.
"We are engaged," I reply tersely, trying very hard not to sound resentful of his intrusion and watching Mr. Pembroke recoil at my words. "And we're getting married within the next year," I add, making it clear that none of his opinions are welcomed nor will change anything.
Mr. Pembroke nods, but his expression doesn't soften. "Congratulations," he says, his tone suggesting anything but joyous acknowledgement. Oh, how annoyed he must be, knowing that one of his best friends - and a client of his firm for several decades - has left his entire fortune and title to his only bisexual daughter!
After all, as my father's only living relative, it wasn't difficult to establish his legacy. Titles included.
Something I can't help but hate with all my heart.
I've tried so hard to be a daughter, a friend, and a competent archaeologist and anthropologist throughout all my life. And yet the only thing that matters to people like Pembroke is whom I bring to my bed.
Strangely enough, dad was never like that. He never asked me to marry a man. He never asked me to bring one home, to settle down and act as the Lady I was meant to be. For all the fights we had throughout our lives, none ever involved my sexual orientation. Or Righley, when she entered our life.
But that's not because he really cared about what - or who - I wanted. As long as I bore the Cavendish family crest on my skin and fulfilled my duties, it didn't matter whom I slept with, or whom I was going to marry.
In a kind of way, I was already married. Not to a person, but...
"Mrs. Beckett and Mrs. Aldridge," the solicitor's voice startles me again and my eyes drift to my friends, across the table. "I appreciate your attendance today. Traveling from Boston to London on such short notice must have been quite an ordeal."
Avery nods once. Her face is an indecipherable mask of seriousness, her body straight as if she was going to bow in front of her audience, before sitting down at the piano.
Tyler, on the contrary, keeps shifting in her own seat. Her almond-shaped eyes flick around the room every other minute, and I don't know if she is just uncomfortable or pissed off by Mr. Pembroke's patronizing tone.
Perhaps both. Or perhaps not.
Maybe she's just annoyed by all the formalities and the strict dress code.
Though, God, she looks incredible today. The scoop of the black top frames her collarbones perfectly, disappearing under the sharp lines of the blazer, giving her a feminine allure she rarely shows.
From where I sit, I can't see her long legs covered by tailored trousers and high-heeled shoes, but I don't need to.
They are perfect as well. As perfect as she is.
Damn girl! All that raw beauty, and she doesn't even care. If only she'd let me put a little makeup on her face, instead of just the eyeliner, she would have been devastating.
As if she can feel the weight of my stare, Tyler looks at me from across the table, one eyebrow arched, and I try to appear innocent. Next to her, Avery - in her equally stylish blue suit and white dress shirt unbuttoned to the third button - casts me a knowing look, clearly amused at having caught me staring at her wife - am I really staring at her right now? - and Tyler rolls her eyes as if to say, 'You two are the worst.'
But she's smiling anyway, and how I love having them around! It doesn't matter I feel like riding a roller-coaster. This silent exchange, this little tease feels like being at home again after a long day away.
It is home. Our usual, confusing one.
Jesus, what happened yesterday at the studio before we went to dinner, must never happen again. It was... a mess.
I am a mess.
I think, biting my lips. Did I really think no one would have noticed the way I missed Avery? Did I really think Tyler wouldn't have?
Who was I trying to fool, really?
Tyler would read me even if I had a bag on my head, even though I'd tried every way possible to bury my feelings and convince everyone, including myself, that whatever I felt for Avery is over.
It will never be over.
Not when it's clear to everyone that just five minutes in her presence is enough to make me forget my own name.
And yet, Tyler didn't ever mention anything. Not just to pretend everything was fine - because it wasn't and still isn't - but because she always searches ways to make things work between the three of us.
And maybe that's part of the problem too.
Tyler, being so attuned to me and Avery altogether, like we were some kind of jigsaw puzzle where every single piece was needed for the whole picture. And also her being one of the most important people in my entire life. Someone I care about. Deeply.
Righley reaches for my hand under the table. "Are you okay?" she asks gently.
"No, not really," I manage to answer, giving another quick look to the girls. Avery is now talking with Mr. Pembroke, exchanging the usual pleasantries, trying to include Tyler in their talk.
This whole affair is going to be a nightmare. And a cold shiver runs down my spine as catastrophic scenarios flash across my mind, once again.
My feelings for Avery are not the only thing I've been hiding. I haven't been entirely honest about this will's reading, either. But what else could I do?
Righley gives me a sidelong glance and I try to smile, hoping, for once, that I'm wrong. That my sixth sense is just failing me because I'm too tired and too emotionally exhausted, to be able to think clearly. That what my gut is trying to tell me won't happen.
But if there is one thing I'm good at, it's understanding what comes next. After all, isn't it my job? Reading history and piecing together events and people and moments?
And this moment, right now, smells of a storm waiting to break.
"Do you want a glass of water?" Righley asks me but I shake my head. She knows something is wrong, but I am still too stubborn to admit it aloud. Even to her.
So she just frees my hand and squeezes my thigh, instead, making her silent presence known to me.7Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡfDifMbE6DA
Unaware of our silent exchange, Mr. Pembroke has finally opened a portable black safe - the kind you might find in a spy movie - and is now displaying several items on the polished surface of his wooden table.
There are two sealed envelopes - one clearly containing the will, the other part of the bequest - and two boxes. The first and largest one is in mahogany, finely decorated with the Cavendish crest. The second is a small box covered in blue velvet, the kind typically used for wedding rings.7Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJTIla3bdTF
"Everything's going to be all right, El," Righley whispers, making my heart jump a little. Everyone calls me Els, except Righley. She used to tease me when we first met, telling me that she didn't believe I was bisexual. And that El fits me better because it stands for capital L. As in lesbian.
I tried to stand my ground, of course, but she didn't surrender. Instead, she kept calling me El, and I eventually got used to it. I also grew accustomed to her ways, her crazy enthusiasm for everything she likes, her stubbornness… and the fact that she's one of the few people I can't stand to see cry.
Righley is looking at me, now, with the same determination she had when she said 'Yes'.
With love. Commitment. And patience.
"What if it doesn't?" I whisper back, but Righley shakes her head and squeezes my thigh once again.
"It will. Have faith."
Right, faith. The last thing I feel right now, especially when Mr. Pembroke finally breaks the silence and clears his throat.7Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡNqoqgvgyMi
and then Add to home screen.