Page 139 of Unwritten Rules

A wave of absolute despair washes over me when I let the day from Hell replay through my mind, trying to digest everything but knowing it’s going to take a while to sift through the mess.

“Sir?” Phillippe’s rough voice pierces the stillness of the night.

“Yes, Phillippe?”

“He’s conscious…”

Without waiting for him to finish, I jog past him, heading straight for Wetherby’s room. There’s quiet sobbing coming from within, making my stomach lurch uncomfortably.

Once I enter, everyone inside flies to their feet. Lesley and Johanna palm their faces, trying to cover their distress as Tatiana steps forward.

“Lord Hawthorne, he’s in and out of consciousness. I think…I think he’s waiting for you.”

One of the women chokes on a sob as Monique rises from her place beside the dying man.

“Let’s give these two some privacy.”

The staff file out, one after the other, glancing back at the prone figure of Wetherby in his bed, until only Tatiana and I remain.

“Stay. Please?”

She nods, moving as far away as she can, no doubt to give me privacy.

As I move to sit by his side, I spy the wardrobe and impulsively grab the box tied with a purple ribbon he’d mentioned.

Sinking into the seat, I note the ribbon is frayed at the edges, so remove it very delicately before dropping it onto the bed beside Wetherby. I pluck the lid from the box, my mouth falling open when I see the contents.

There’s a pocket-sized notebook, a handful of letters, newspaper clippings, and around a dozen photos.

I slip the photos from the box first, a sad smile dancing on my lips as I flick through them.

Mum and me playing in the orchard. My graduation from university. Wetherby shaking my hand at my first book release.

I inhale pointedly when I come across a photo that’s clearly a teenage Wetherby looking directly at the camera with his arm slung around my mum’s shoulder. She’s wearing her long dark hair in two braids on either side of her face and smiling brightly up at her companion.

The love between them is visible decades later, and my heart shatters for what could have been had both my parents fought for the life we all deserved.

Setting the photos on the bedside table, I pick up the newspaper clippings to find they’re all related to me. My literary pursuits, any mention of my name in articles pertaining to my two famous friends, and my appointment as a guest lecturer at Walden-Forbes.

Even while I’d been gone from Hawthorne House, Wetherby had watched over me from afar.

The knowledge is poignant, but comforting. I gently place the clippings with the photos before looking between the letters and the notebook, deciding to go with the letters first.

There are five, all in my mother’s script, all dated and in order.

Once I start to read, I can’t stop. I speed through them, one after the other, my feelings running an emotional gamut reading what Mum had gone through.

April 1990

My Dearest Nathan,

Today is my wedding day. And I’m still here, but now I’m alone.

Last night, I waited by our tree in the orchard, just like we planned. I waited until daylight chased away the shadows of the night, the dawn of my wedding day also heralding the realisation that you were not coming.

I wish things were different. I wish I could be yours in every way, and despite belonging to Xavier in name, I shall always belong to you in all the ways that truly matter.

Stay safe, my love.