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“It needs to be roomy and comfortable,” says Eli, aka Mother Hen.
Philistines. I plonk down my black card and return with the keys to a Jaguar Mark 2.
“What the hell is that?” Noah curls his lip in disgust.
“That, my friends, is the finest achievement in British engineering.”
“We have suitcases,” Eli complains. “Claudia brought along every pair of shoes in Mackenzie’s mother’s closet. How are we supposed to all fit in this contraption?”
I tsk. “I thought you’d have more respect for such an important piece of history. This is the car Inspector Morse drives around in.”
“Inspector Morse is a fictional character.”
“He’s also a grumpy old clever person, aka, practically your twin.”
“Well, I love it.” Claudia climbs into the passenger seat. She swipes my aviators from my pocket and slides them up her perfect nose. “Let’s ride.”
That’s my girl.
I climb behind the wheel and give Claudia’s knee a squeeze. I cast a futile glance back at the airport. I’d rather be anywhere than back in Old Blighty, but at least I have Claudia by my side.
It takes me a few minutes and one hair-raising turn the wrong way on a one-way street to reacquaint myself with left-hand drive, and then we’re stuck in London traffic. I blast the playlist I made for George, tapping the wheel and singing along. Claudia keeps looking over at me as I sing. She’s got that hunger in her eyes, that ‘pull this car over right now so I can fuck you on the hood’ look, and I’d love nothing more than to acquiesce. But we have an appointment to keep.
I’ve made a career out of living in the moment, not thinking beyond the pleasure of the here and now. But my hands grip the wheel too tight and my breathing is fast and shallow – I know what’s waiting for me at the end of this journey.
We head out into the countryside. Claudia leans out the window, her eyes wide as we pass through quaint villages, rolling hills, and the towering spires of ancient cathedrals. Every time we pass a castle wall she asks if that’s mine.
Finally, she points to a grand medieval fortress jutting from the top of a hill, surrounded by two levels of curtain walls and a huge fuck-off moat and asks if it’s mine. My throat dries as I say, “Yes. That’s Blackwich Castle.”
“Seriously?” Her eyes widen. She leans out the window to get a better look. “I was kidding. Gabe, this place is ridiculous.”
That we agree on.
As we drive along the avenue of oak trees, the pristine lawns open out around us into neat rows of parterres – flowers constrained into boxes, nature snipped and clipped and tidied away. A stone outer wall circles the hill, winding through terraced gardens and snow-dusted fields where thoroughbred horses meander. Signs next to the drive explain that the castle is off-limits, but direct visitors to the parking area where they can enjoy the gardens.
We pass under the portcullis. Even Noah Marlowe – who makes a habit of not being impressed by anything – gapes at the enormous medieval courtyard and high stone walls. Unlike the crumbling ruin we visited in Germany, this castle has been occupied by my ancestors for over five hundred years, and it’s immaculate. Not a stone out of place, ready to withstand a long siege.
It suits my father perfectly. The man believes he’s King Arthur, ready to save England from the barbarians.
I park the Jag beside a grotesque Victorian fountain of maenads dancing, with water splashing over their bare feet. As I pull up, a solemn figure emerges from the steward’s entrance and approaches us.
“Master Blackwich, it’s a pleasure to see you again.”
“You don’t have to lie to me, Harold.” I grin at our family butler. Harold doesn’t acknowledge my remark. If he ever had a funny bone in his body, working for my family for forty-five years has withered it away. He opens the car doors for Claudia and the guys.
Claudia nudges me. “You have a butler? He’s wearing a penguin suit and everything.”
“Oh yes. Harold’s family has served the Blackwiches for centuries.” It feels crass to talk about Harold while he’s standing right here, but he won’t answer questions about himself in front of my friends. It’s amazing how quickly I’ve stepped back into my role as master, lording it over others as if I’ve actually done something to deserve their respect.
Dylan is turning in his grave.
Harold snaps his fingers, and two valets appear from nowhere and whisk our bags away. We follow Harold beneath a second portcullis and into the vast inner courtyard.
“What the actual fuck?” Claudia’s neck must be getting a crick from the impossible angle she has it bent to gaze up at the turrets and buttresses. The sun sparkles off the stained glass of our family chapel, and a pair of peacocks strut across the paving. It’s actually kind of cool seeing this place through her eyes. It’s not quite enough to erase the shadows, but it helps.
“Where are the duke and duchess?” I ask Harold as we enter through the armory. Claudia’s eyes light up as she takes in the displays of swords and daggers collected from across the world that fill every square inch of wall space.
“Her Ladyship is expecting you in the drawing room for tea. His Lordship is attending some business and will return shortly.”
