“Yes, well, we can’t all excel at our jobs, can we?” She didn’t look up from her task.
James and I shared a look, and once he disappeared with our haul, I made to excuse myself. But before I could escape, my father walked in, and I no longer needed to.
William Argent had always been a handsome man, though his blond hair was now streaked with gray, as was his beard, clipped short and tidy. I had not been blessed with his height, which was towering, but we did have the same dark eyes and quiet smile. In terms of warmth, he was the polar opposite of my mother, and thank goodness for that. Who knew where I’d be if not for him? Likely the duplicate of my mother, just like she wanted.
Fortunately, I had also acquired his disposition.
He walked straight past my mother like she wasn’t there, kissing me on the cheek when he was close enough.
“How was it?” he asked.
“Sufficiently awful,” I answered.
“Do you ever do anything but complain?” The letters in Mother’s hands snicked against the wood as she stacked them, turning to lay her stony gaze on us.
Dad’s eyes narrowed. “Do you ever do anything but give everyone reason to?”
She rolled her eyes and turned for her office. “Don’t start, William.”
“You’re right—I shouldn’t start. I might never finish.”
Studiously, she ignored him, closing the grand mahogany doors of her office with a solid thump. The sound echoed like we were in the Alps and not a house in Manhattan.
He sighed, his eyes lingering on the office doors. “Hungry? Tillie made chicken salad.”
“With grapes?”
Dad smirked, offering his arm. “Is there any other kind?”
“Not as far as I’m concerned.” I slipped my hand into the crook of his elbow, and together, we escaped to the kitchen.
They said that opposites attract, and my parents hit opposite on the nose.
The attraction part was another story.
He’d told me the story in bits and pieces, and once, when I was old enough to see what was happening and protest his ritual mistreatment by my mother, he sat me down and told me the whole thing, which was really just one very simple point.
My mother had gotten pregnant, and her mother had forced them to marry.
Granted, Dad would have done it anyway. But their parents stood behind them disapprovingly as they walked down the aisle, threatening with trust funds rather than shotguns. Mom lost that first baby late term, something she never mentioned, and Dad only spoke of in the broadest of strokes. Those were their happiest years, which I had a feeling were still miserable. But as they tried for me, they were as together as they’d ever be. If they hadn’t been, Dad would have left.
When I was born, nothing else mattered. He stayed for me.
Never once did my mother tuck me in. Never did she push me in a swing or read books with me. Not once could I remember her playing with me or offering a compliment.
But my father did.
He braided my hair and sat on the floor, playing Barbies. We played checkers and cribbage, baked cookies and colored. He took me to the park and to ice skate at Rockefeller.
My father was the only reason I was who I was—to my mother’s lament, which was funny. As much as she’d abhorred my grandmother’s control and restraint and lack of warmth, she’d promptly turned around and did the exact same thing to me.
When I’d left for college, Dad would travel, coming home only when I was there. When I’d lived in Yorkshire, he would visit for months at a time. He owned flats all over the world and spent most of his time in Europe. I wondered sometimes if he dated or had girlfriends and secretly hoped he did.
If anyone deserved love, it was him.
But if I knew him at all, I knew he wouldn’t drag anyone into his mess. Wouldn’t ask someone he loved to play second fiddle to my mother.
As it was, he’d come home the same day I did, and I wondered if he could stand to spend even one night in this house with my mother alone. He had his own space, his own room and library on the other end of the house from her.
And in the middle was me.
Dad deposited me in a chair at the kitchen island before making his way to the refrigerator.
“Wanna tell me what really happened?” he asked from inside the fridge.
I sagged in my chair from the weight of it all. “She was horrid. The Bennets want to settle, and she won’t have it. No surprises there.”
“Not a single one. Who was there to represent them?”
My heart threw itself at my sternum. “Marcus.”
His name was forbidden and familiar on my tongue. Thankfully, Dad was busy making me a sandwich and didn’t see me flush.
“Well, at least it wasn’t Mrs. Bennet. Your mother might have set the room on fire.”
I chuckled. “Why don’t you ever call her by her first name?”
He shot a smile at me over his shoulder. “And summon the devil to take me? Her name is expressly forbidden in these walls, and so is her husband’s.”
“Remind me one day to ask you outside of these walls.”
“It’s been so long since I’ve uttered them, I don’t think I could say them for fear of being struck by lightning. Or your mother. I think she’d even manage it from another continent. Maybe have a hired man follow me around with instructions to break my nose on their mention.”
At that, I full-on laughed. “I wouldn’t put it past her.”
“Me neither. But you know…I always was a rebel,” he said with a mischievous smile, turning toward me to lean in, casting a dramatic glance over his shoulder. “Rosemary Bennet,” he whispered.
And we burst into laughter.
“So,” he started, going back to his task, “your mother will fight the fight even if it means dying on the hill?”
“Does she know any other way?”
“No. But if there’s one Bennet who can beat her, it’s Marcus.”
“I didn’t know you knew him,” I said, ignoring the jolt his name seemed to inspire, now that I knew how his lips tasted.
“I don’t, not really. But I’ve followed his career. He made quite a name for himself on Wall Street and moved on. Technically, Longbourne is his. He acquired it all, including the vitriol of your mother.”
“Lucky him.”
The kiss, my heart whispered.
The urge to tell my father what’d happened with Marcus tugged at me. But I glanced down the hall at Mother’s office and found resolve to keep it to myself. This wasn’t a safe place to talk about it.
I didn’t know if such a place existed.
But I wondered what Dad would say if I told him, imagined the relief I’d feel on telling him. He would understand. He would tell me to stay the hell away from Marcus for my self-preservation, but he would understand. I thought he’d even be able to commiserate—our family was well known for biffing our love lives and had been for generations.
Such was our curse.
If I’d ever thought I’d shake it, I’d learned my lesson today.
“Well,” Dad started, turning to me with a plate in hand, “I’m sorry you had to come back into this.”
“It’s only for a little while.”
“Only you would call a decade a little while,” he said on a laugh.