Go figure.
She carries on as if my interruption is wholly insignificant.
She’s doing this on purpose, of course. It’s a particular brand of punishment for abandoning her all those years ago, and one I can admit to deserving.
I was a boy back then, one who felt the oppressive walls of this castle to be too stifling. It was a luxury to be able to abandon my responsibilities to this place for so long.
“Then we will be attending a dinner this weekend,” my mother trails off with a pointed look.
I finish off yet another glass of wine. “Dare I ask, with whom?”
Evelina purses her lips. “There are a group of ladies who meet?—”
“No. Absolutely not.”
“Dante.”
I put my glass down a little too harshly. “I will take on the responsibilities of the family. I already gave you my word. But I will not be attending tea parties with a bunch of desperate bachelorettes.”
“You are to be engaged before you return to America,” she counters with the authority of a matriarch.
“And Iwill,”I respond with the defiance of a wayward son, “but I shall do so on my own terms.”
“How, exactly, do you plan to do so?”
The silence stretches for a moment as we both seem to realize how heated our voices have become.
I clear my throat and settle back down. “First, I’m going to set up an office so that I can communicate with my men backhome.”
Her eyebrow twinges at the emphasis on the final word, but I don’t give her the chance to respond.
“Then I’m going to sleep for about eighteen hours before you have me relentlessly shadowing you for the rest of the week,” I go to stand. Evelina rises with me. “I will present to you a proposal for my…marital affairs by the weekend.”
“Dante.”
“Those are my priorities,” I don’t leave room for negotiation as I head toward the door.
“What of the girl?”
I hesitate a moment before I leave. “Do what you wish. She is to remain here until we are summoned back to Brooklyn. I’d appreciate your discretion.”
With that, I storm from the sun room and up the familiar staircase toward my chambers.
I perhaps should have asked if they are, in fact, still my chambers before coming up here. But as it turns out, I needn’t have bothered.
The rooms haven’t changed at all since I was last here.
The office is first—just to the left as I enter. It’s small and cozy, with heavy oak bookshelves lining the walls. Their contents are precisely arranged, rows of leather-bound volumes of history, law, and family records.
Nothing here has been touched except for being dusted, and somehow, that feels more unsettling than if everything had been packed away or moved.
I step deeper into the room, past the office, into the living room. The low, velvet armchairs are still arranged in their perfect symmetry around the fireplace.
The grate is cold now, but I can see it in my mind’s eye, blazing in the winter, as I sink into one of those chairs with a glass of whiskey. The cold penetrates these old walls something fierce. The fireplace is a welcome respite when it’s cold.
A large window overlooks the balcony and gardens below, but I walk past it, my feet carrying me toward the bedroom.
The door opens with a quiet groan, and I step in.
