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And then, in a picture right beside it, one of Mr. Edwards holding the same little bundle in his arms and another of Giovanni holding the baby, and finally several of Ada with Mr. Edwards in the living room, in the garden. Older and older as he turned the pages. Bron might have sifted through for longer if something hadn’t fallen out of the book and into his lap. A brown envelope, the seal to which had already been broken, and a letter, dated this year, which read as follows:
My dearest son,
If you are reading this, my words are coming to you from beyond the grave. You always maintained my theatrical ways to be somewhat vexing, and this is my last chance of being so. I hope you’ll oblige me and that this letter causes as little pain to you as possible.
I won’t dwell upon the words we said to one another in the past, nor can I take back the horrendous things that left my own mouth when I learned about everything that happened. We all made so many mistakes. You must forgive the choices I made in writing you out of your inheritance, and furthermore the gravely mistaken encouragement I gave by forcing you and Toni into a marriage that didn’t bring either of you happiness. But it all felt right, at the time, to ensure mother’s and daughter’s futures were taken care of. You must understand that, like you, Toni was barely an adult herself, and there was a time I couldn’t trust in you to commit to your responsibilities as you ought.
When you left us all those years ago, it was such a difficult thing to live through. Suddenly, I lost my son—my most wonderfulboy—and just as suddenly I was a father again, to the beautiful girl you left behind.
It was my biggest fear that I would never see or hear from you again, and suddenly I had an infant on my hands, mere years after losing your mother, a grief I was still battling through. How could I cope, a father again and wifeless?
I wished so much for your return, and when I saw you on my doorstep, it was not only shock I felt, but utter disbelief. There are a number of things I should have said to you, back then, and even now. But that day haunts me still. You, approaching me and apologizing for all the wrong you had done … Son, it was I who should have asked for your forgiveness. I who should have been there for you, supported you, and understood your needs. I couldn’t understand your pain. I shouldn’t have criticized your mistakes—we are all guilty of them, and for our broken intimacy I take responsibility. I am your father, and it is my job to do right by you no matter what. And I failed in that. So as my parting words to you, I wish to impart the best advice I can, which I hope you’ll take in good faith.
The first thing I wish to say is that to be a grandfather is gift enough. To be more than a grandfather to our little Ada has been one of the most rewarding and invaluable gifts of my life. She is a gem, son, and I beg you give her the attention she deserves. Darcy, that little girl is in need of a friend, a companion, a father—not just another book to race through, and in boarding school she will crumble. She will not be sent there, that is my strictest demand. You know how much I love her, and my only wish now is that you share with her the truth of her parentage. She should not be kept in the dark.
Now I will not pretend that learning you were a gay man didn’t come as quite the shock—but I should not have reacted the way I did when Giovanni told me what he did, and the way it all happened. Perhaps if your dear mother had stayed with us longer, she might have realized sooner, provided the comfort that I couldn’t in the way only she knew how. And I have seen firsthand what the loss of your intimacy with Giovanni has done—to him, to us as a family, to you whenever he walks into the room.
Darcy, your right to love the one you love is more important than ever. I am sorry for my part in allowing you to grow up thinking you couldn’t be anyone but the person you were supposed to be. The loving man I know you are. The only thing you can do now is reconcile your differences, move forward as the best version of yourself, and be true to who you are. Giovanni has been there for me through these trying times, as a friend and as a shoulder to lean on; please put your differences aside. I am sure in time you can put things right.
Now—I can’t proclaim to having known how well engaging our dear Bron into the household would suit us. Not only has he brought the best out in Ada, but on you he has worked his magic. Bron is here for you as much as he is for Ada, and to you I hope he brings some aspect of yourself that I know you have struggled to share with the rest of us. And I must say that I, too, have worked some kind of matchmaking magic, because watching the signs of your growing closeness has made me sure of what had only been, till this point of writing, mere suspicions. (Clarence and I have found it very entertaining peeking at you two through the curtains. I finally understand Mrs. Hanson’s thrill for such twitching by the window.) From the moment of my interviewing him I knew he would suit us all. Bron has somehow brought you back to me, the boy you always were. Don’t keep yourself locked away for anybody’s sake. I am proud of you, no matter what. The best thing you can do in this world is to be kind and to love. I love you, my son. I will always look out for you, even from afar.
Your father
Bron gave himself a minute to digest the contents of the letter, then searched the inside of the envelope again, for it was full of yet more paper. Another letter? Before him lay what he understood to be an original copy of the last will and testament of Mr. Richard Edwards, which on inspection specified that Mr. Roger Branson, of Branson & Briggs, acting as executor of the will on behalf of the Testator, Mr. Richard Edwards of GreenwoodManor, in the county of Cambridgeshire, and witnessed by Ms. Mathilde Clarence of 5 Elderberry Place, and Theobald Hanson, of 2 Greenwood Way, detailed the leaving of all possessions and monies in the care of Ms. Antoinette Maria Vespa, as beneficiary, to be held in trust until Ada Cecilia Victoria Edwards should come of age, dated and signed.
“What?” Bron said aloud, despite understanding it perfectly well. It was here, clear as anything: Mr. Edwards had written his son out of his will. Darcy had been left with nothing. They were equals now. There was another document of similar likeness within the envelope, a second copy of a second will, but this one dated and signed more recently. He moved to scan the particulars, but then there was a noise, sudden movement at the door.
His first instinct was to climb behind the curtains and throw himself out the window. To hide under the sheets. There was no time for it. He quickly shut the album, flinging the sheets of paper into its pages, and threw everything back onto the shelf.
He heard the footsteps stop in their tracks.
“Ada,” Darcy said, an angry lilt to his voice. But then, something resembling kindness, melodic, a singing of his words. The door opened and shut behind him. “Is that you?” The ceiling light flickered on. Darcy stood in the doorframe, hovering between the inside and the outside, committing to neither. “You know you shouldn’t be in here, oh—” He staggered back when turning into the room. “Bron? What are you doing?”
He was standing at the edge of his bed, waiting to disappear. “N-nothing.”
Darcy searched his face for an answer. He reached out to him. “Bron?”
“I can explain.”
“Explain?” Darcy said, confused, but a harshness soon inflected his voice again. His words slurred. “Explain what? Are you okay? What is there to explain?”
Bron felt there to be a wildness about him, a fiendishness that made Bron back up into a corner when Darcy moved closer. Suddenly he stood as an entirely different person, his physiognomy altered: rolling eyes, a tense face. Bron could smell the acrid waft of alcohol, not so much on his breath but on his clothes, his hair, everywhere. Cigarette smoke clinging alongside it and clogging up the room. He was missing a button on his collar.
Words didn’t come to him, and the closer Darcy pressed, the farther Bron sank into the corner. Darcy extended his arms to either side of his face, fists to the walls. “Well?” he repeated, the smell of him pungent, reaching out to grip Bron’s shoulders, collapsing into him. Faces smacking together. Darcy kissed him, his lips, his cheeks, his eyelids, biting at his neck. He pulled at Bron’s hands, forced them into the gaps between the buttons of his shirt, ordered him to undo them. The heat coming off him, the alcohol-laden sweat, repelled Bron.
“I want you, Bron,” Darcy slurred. “God, I want you right now.”
Bron turned his face away, the roughness of Darcy’s stubble scraping against his cheeks. “You’re drunk.” He pushed the bigger man away, a feeble shove with his hands. There was a part of him that didn’t want Darcy to stop, but at the thrust he did so immediately, drawing away and wiping his mouth with his sleeve. His shirt undone, his chest heaving, the hair shaved down to stubble.
“You don’t want me anymore,” he said, grinding his teeth. Sniffed to survey the floor, searching for something in the dark. “Is that it?” His voice rose up the tonal scale as he repeated: “You don’t want me anymore.”
Bron relaxed his shoulders. Darcy’s gestures loosened.No, no,Bron wanted to say, because he did—he did want him. “Don’t say that.”
“Why not?” Darcy shouted, muffling tears. “Now that I’ve given in to you, I’m no longer of use? I can see it in your eyes, your fear.”
Darcy groaned and fell to his knees, his shoulders heaving little convulsions that grew more violent as he cried. Bron thought he was retching, the sounds coming from his throat. He was wailing now. Creating a moment between them they couldn’t take back, which for all the years to come would lay claim to them. Bron let him cry, keeping one eye on the door. He could leave now, and that would be the end of it. He could be the one with agency. Be the one to come back when he was ready. Or he could stay, hold up a mirror to this man, and force him to reveal everything to him.
“How could he do this to us?” Darcy said at last, his voice hoarse, broken. His breath staggered. “Not tell me anything. He was preparing me for this—see, don’t you see? I’m his prodigal fucking son. All this time I thought he wanted me close by, fearful of my leaving again, and yet he was preparing me. Warning me. I just never saw it.”
