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“My agent wants this one.”
“Yes, but what do you want, Adelaide?”
A ping sounded from somewhere in the back of the café.
“Oh. That’ll be your soup.” She patted the table. “Give me a minute.”
I nodded, but her words were whirring around my brain until the ones on the screen in front of me blurred.
“What do you want, Adelaide?”
What did I want?
I clearly didn’t want to write this book, did I? At least not right now. Inspiration was a funny old thing, and in six months’ time, it might strike for this book.
But I didn’t want to write it today.
I saved the document and closed it down to open a new one.
Maggie set a bowl of hot tomato soup and a plate of crusty buttered bread on the table next to me and peered over at my page. “Starting something new?”
“Maybe. You’re right—I was writing something I didn’t want to write at the moment, and that means I’m not writing anything at all.” I pushed the laptop back so I could bring the food closer to me. “This smells divine, Maggie.”
She smiled. “Thank you. I’ll pass it on. Can I get you anything else?”
“No, I’m fine, thank you.”
“Enjoy.” Maggie turned, but she swiftly paused and looked back at me. “Adelaide, are you busy tomorrow night?”
I hesitated. “I am not.”
“Do you know of The Pheasant Arms?”
“Isn’t that the pub on the square?”
“Yes. We have a cross-stitching club that meet there three times a week and our next meeting is tomorrow at seven p.m.” She tilted her head to the side. “Just four of us, and Millie is around your age, if I’ve got you pegged correctly. Late twenties?”
I nodded.
“Come down, if you feel like it. No pressure, but if you’re going to be here all summer, you might like some friends.” Maggie’s green eyes sparkled with kindness, and her smile was the epitome of genuine friendliness when she leaned in and whispered, “Especially if you’re living with Elizabeth.” She finished with a wink and swept off towards the door and the young woman who stepped inside. “Yes, my love, how can I help you?”
I smiled after her and turned my attention back to my food.
Maybe she was right.
Maybe some friends—and a real break from the manor—was what I needed.
CHAPTER SIX – ADELAIDE
“Oh, Mother, do give it a rest.”
I quietly closed the door behind me and paused in the hallway.
“Alexander, I just think—”
“I know what you think. You’ve been quite forward in telling me exactly what you think about everything for the few several days, whether I have asked for your opinion or not. I’m trying desperately hard not to be rude to you, but I’m only going to ask you one more time to please give me a break.”
“This village is a part of you and your legacy. You simply cannot allow them to put a café in the old park!”
“I cannot waltz into the council building and demand they do as I wish. I’m a duke—not a fifteenth century king. I have absolutely no power over what the council does, and nor do I wish to have it. My voice is not worth more than anyone else’s in Whitborough or the surrounding areas.”
“But it can help us, Alexander. They aren’t listening to it—you said you’d write a letter, and we haven’t seen it yet.”
“I do not show you everything I do, Mother.”
“You’ve done it?”
“Yes. I wrote to them after we discussed it and requested that they give it a serious thought before they greenlight any sales. Councillor Basil Doherty called me after and thanked me for my letter, assured me they’d take my thoughts into consideration, and wished me well.”
“That’s all? And you allowed him to get away with that?”
Uh-oh. This was getting heated.
Was there any possible way I could sneak up to my room and pretend like I was never here?
Or would I have to come up with something else?
“There was nothing to get away with. He was perfectly polite and respectful, and it was the answer I was expecting.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake! It was what you were expecting, so you just accepted it?”
Yep. I was never getting away with this, so I took a step back and quietly opened the door just enough that I could shut it loudly behind me. They weren’t terribly far away—the living room, perhaps, or the kitchen at a push.
“Mother, I—”
“What do you think your father would have done? Would he have accepted it? Would he have rolled over as you are or would he have done anything?”
Silence.
“Your father would—”
“I am not Dad!”
I froze. I’d never heard such a harshness in Alex’s voice before, and there was a deep bitterness that echoed through the doorways and hit me hard.
I clutched tightly to the paper bag from the café.
“I love Dad. Everything he did was incredible. He was a great duke and respected by everyone, but I am not him. I’m not going to do it his way. I’m going to do it my way.” The hardness never left his tone, and when there was a moment of silence that lasted longer than the previous one, I took my moment.
