Page 101 of A Lady’s Guide to Subterfuge and Science

“I wrote her.”

“Did you now? And what, pray tell, inspired you to pick up your pen after twenty-three years of silence?”

“I wouldn’t have if—” Oliver stopped speaking, once again feeling very much like a little boy, though a much more helpless one.

“If?”

Oliver swallowed. “I would have never thought to write to her if I’d been happy here. I would have been content to believe that she’d simply chosen to leave us, that we were better off.”

He didn’t know if it was the truth, necessarily, but he liked to believe that there was a universe in which he could have been happy at Rosewood with his father, no matter how unrealistic it was to assume he was capable of forgetting his mother entirely.

“We are better off,” his father bit out. “And what, now you’ve written her, and she’s told you that this house is yours? Is that it?”

“Why could you not just—love me properly?” Oliver asked, ignoring the question. “What is wrong with you?”

William stared at Oliver, his mouth pressed shut.

“You convinced me that love wasn’t worth anything,” Oliver continued, desperate to expel every bit of hurt from his body. He hadn’t let himself feel it for so long and now—now it was all he felt. “I only recently realized that—”

His father scoffed. “Love? What do you know of love?”

“I’m in love, so one could argue I know plenty,” Oliver snapped. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

“And?”

“And I intend for the two of us to live at Rosewood.” He paused before clarifying. “Just the two of us.”

“Just the two of you?” William repeated, his voice barely concealing an undercurrent of disbelief.

“I cannot believe you’d have the nerve to sound surprised,” Oliver said. “Did you really think I’d spend my entire life living under your boot? That I wouldn’t find a way to escape you?”

“I did, in fact, think that.” William pressed his palms to the table and stood up. “You were always too much of a coward to stand up for yourself, Oliver. Even now, I see your fear. You’re not as fine an actor as you seem to believe.”

His father’s words stunned him into momentary silence. He thought back to his conversation with Comerford and how pointless it had been.

This, too, was a pointless conversation. Oliver was beginning to understand that just because someone could converse, it did not mean one should. Not everybody deserved the privilege of conversation.

“Get out,” Oliver said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You’ve enough money to find yourself another place to live.” Tears began to threaten, as sure a sign as any that he needed to end this, and soon. “We won’t be living together anymore. It’s time for Rosewood to change.”

“Theatrics,” his father spat, picking his glass up and taking a healthy gulp of brandy.

“Not at all. Would you rather I bring solicitors into this?”

“You haven’t a leg to stand on.”

“No,” Oliver agreed, “but I’m sure Mother could provide me with one.”

His father’s back straightened, the tension in the room suffocating and heavy. Despite it, something inside of Oliver released, the sensation painful and wonderful all at once.

“I highly suggest you begin making arrangements,” he said, turning to leave. “You have one day.”

With that, he exited the study, returning to the hallway where he slumped against the wall, his eyes brimming with tears. Twenty-three years of strife ended in an instant. How could anyone be expected to cope with such a thing?

Hughes materialized as if from thin air, handing him a pressed handkerchief.