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It was a secret I kept from my mother, but not really. She knew. I knew she knew. We all knew. The Kingston way was to act like we all didn’t.
If you don’t speak it, then it doesn’t exist.
“Why have you always allowed him to do the hiring and firing?” I asked.
Shrugging, she said, “He runs a tight ship. Only room for one captain. It’s easier to pick your battles, and who we have working for us is not a battle I care to engage in.”
It often bothered me how much my mother allowed my father to take control, but at the same time, I admired her grace and ability to not fight and create tensions in the household. There was a wisdom in the way she handled my father. An acceptance that I tried to master, but often failed at.
She wasn’t a weak woman… nor particularly submissive. She was simply comfortable in a role she chose. It was as if they had a silent contract that bound them in life, society, and family.
Just not devotion. And whether or not they loved each other or ever had… well that wasn’t a question one asked in polite society.
My father was a son of a bitch who cheated on her constantly. But he never did it in public—only at the Oleander Manor—and never to embarrass her. And he didn’t treat my mother poorly. She was his most prized possession. His diamond. He put her on a pedestal and then enclosed her in glass, like a piece at a museum.
If Mama had ever questioned her lot in life, I’d never seen it. I’d had a happy childhood. She was always full of smiles. It was only as I’d gotten older that I realized she knew everything else going on while Dad was out of the house—which was a lot—recognized it for what it was and decided to leave it alone. That took strength, not weakness.
But he was still a son of a bitch.
“109 days is a long time,” she said as she stared straight out at our expansive estate. A large weeping willow tree dwarfed all else, and it was hard not to stare at anything but.
I nodded, grateful that she clearly knew enough that I didn’t have to walk on eggshells not to reveal Order secrets while saying my goodbyes.
“Did Father tell you it’s my turn? I got the invitation.”
“He didn’t need to. I know you’re of age, and I’ve been around this world long enough to know exactly what happens in the halls of the Oleander.”
She glanced at me, and my expression of shock must have been written all over my face. I’d suspected she had a vague idea of the goings on there, but the conviction she spoke with suggested more intimate knowledge.
She laughed softly. “Don’t be so surprised. Even though the wives aren’t part of the Order, we aren’t completely blind. Not to mention, I happen to be good friends with Mrs. Hawthorne. You don’t think I would have allowed you to go to the manor as a child if the housekeeper wasn’t a woman I trusted to look out for you and the other boys, now would you? Her Irish temper kept you boys in line, and I know she’ll still watch over you the same way.”
Remembering Mrs. H chasing us down the halls with threats of thrashings if we broke anything as we played tag made me smile.
“I have no doubt she’ll still keep a good eye on you while you stay there.”
I was far from a boy needing looking after, but knowing there would at least be a familiar face while residing in the manor did help ease my anxieties… because yes, 109 days was a long time to be away from everything I knew and loved.
“Has Father said anything to you about it?” I wanted to know how he felt about being so close to handing over the business. He was a workaholic, power-hungry, and not one to give anything unless it benefitted him. I couldn’t imagine him being too pleased about this tradition.
She took a sip of her lemonade, the ice clinking against the crystal the only sound for several minutes. “You don’t need to worry about what your father thinks now. You’re a grown man.”
In other words, he was pissed off. My mother never lied to me, but she wouldn’t be so honest to say exactly what I already knew.
“I’ve been working for him my entire adult life. I’m ready.”
“Yes, you are.”
“And you’re right, I don’t have to worry about his feelings, but it would be nice for him to communicate, or give fatherly advice, or even a sliver of praise at least once in my goddamn life.” My blood began to boil, and even sipping on the chilled lemonade couldn’t cool it down.
