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Summary: Despite being born with a silver spoon in his mouth, from a very young age, Ernest Sinclaire has experienced life's most painful thorns. However, this hasn't stopped him from enjoying the roses along the way. Before the story takes another leap in time, this chapter lets us peek a little into his past and show how the story happened from his point of view.
Characters: Ernest Sinclaire; Lydia Sinclaire; Matthew Sinclaire; Vincent Foredale; Beatrice Foredale; The mentioned characters belong to Pixelberry. No copyright infringement intended. Other original OC’S are mentioned.
Word Count: +/- 15 600 (parte I and II)
Warnings: Mentions of death and grief.
Notes: 💖 English is not my first language. Please excuse me for any typos /or grammatical errors. There was no beta reader this time. 💖 This is my submission for @choicesficwriterscreations.
Coming to the surface of the cold water, Ernest could barely breathe. He didn't understand what had just happened. He felt like the waters had swallowed him. Brushing away his sopping wet curls out of his eyes, he saw two small faces hidden under the jetty, laughing uncontrollably. Who were those girls, and what were they doing there?
However, there was no time to waste on inquiries. His Shakespeare's sonnets were floating away. He couldn't lose that book. It was one of the few he had left from his mother.
‘One last surprise before you go to sleep.’ Lydia Sinclaire smiled, making the gift appear as if by magic.
The boy unwrapped it. ‘Shakespeare’s Sonnets’ Ernest read the title. He knew the name. They had already talked about him at school. Ernest immediately opened the book. He loved reading. “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? /Thou art more lovely and more temperate: “Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, /And summer’s lease hath all too short a date;” Are you sure it’s written in English, Mama?”
“There is nothing more English than Shakespeare.” Lydia laughed. “You're becoming a big boy. Soon, you'll understand them with your mind.” She kissed her boy's head. “And one day, you will understand it with your heart.”
“When?”
“When you fall in love.”
“You're the only woman I love... And I like Mrs. Lewis too, I guess. And a bit of Nanny Sarah.”
“I'm flattered, but one day you'll change your mind. And it will be wonderful.” Mrs. Sinclaire caressed her boy’s curls.
Suddenly, there were several people around him, asking if he was okay and wanting to help him. However, Ernest only thought about his book.
∭
Ernest delicately turned another page in the book. The heat from the fireplace was accelerating the process, revealing the damage. He was upset but somewhat relieved. A damaged book was better than a destroyed one.
Mrs. Lewis would certainly tell him something like that when he got home. He admired her resilience. No matter how great the darkness, she always found the stars to move forward with.
Her husband had been in a coma for about a month after the accident, but unfortunately, he succumbed to his injuries and died.
She had also lost the love of her life. They met at Ledford Park. There they fell in love and got married. The Sinclaire were their wedding godparents.
Unlike his father, she didn't let grief consume her. Constance fought her sadness by loving everyone around her. He was aware that if it weren't for her love and dedication, he would have been sent back to boarding school the next day.
He heard the library door opening softly. Turning his head, he saw one of the girls of the lake walking towards him. She froze for a moment when she looked into his eyes, probably out of embarrassment.
The young Sinclaire looked at her for a while with curiosity. He soon noticed the Foredale features. So that was the famous Beatrice. The way his father had talked about her, Ernest had assumed she was older, but she was just a child.
‘Are you Beatrice, right?’ he asked.
The girl nodded. An intense blush coloured her cheeks. She tried to apologize for what happened as best she could.
He tried to maintain a straight face but couldn’t avoid a little smile. It was hard to stay upset after such a cute apology. They shook hands as sign of peace.
It was the girl's turn to look at him inquisitively. “What are you doing in Edgewater, by the way? Don’t you have your own home?” she asked bluntly.
Ernest raised his eyebrow. He couldn't deny that it was a pertinent question. “Yes, but Edgewater’s Lake used to be a quiet place to read.”
That's when the Foredale girl saw the soaked book. The girl apologized repeatedly and even offered to buy him a new one.
If it had been any other child, Ernest wouldn't have bothered to explain his reasons. However, he knew she would understand.
While listening to his story, some tears threatened to come out of her eyes, but she held them back. The tears made the colours of her eyes stand out — a chocolate brown streaked with green, as if it were an immense, dense forest.
‘I miss her so much that it hurts in my chest. Does this get easier over time?’ Beatrice asked upon learning his loss story.
No child should have to face those feelings. At first, he considered lying to her. Then, his book gave him an idea. “Look at the pages of the book. They’re wet. I’m drying them with the heat of the fire. After drying, these pages will be wrinkled. While some of them will be impossible to read, others will still be readable. The book is marked forever, but it is still in one piece. The same happens with us, I think. After such a thing happened, we are marked, but we survive.” It was the most honest response he could give her.
At some point, Ernest noticed her eyes turned up, fixed on something. Her lips twitched in amusement.
“Did you find anything funny?”
“Your hair. You seem to have a disheveled sheep on your head,” she responded directly and without any trace of shame.
Ernest did not expect such a response at all. He frowned. That girl has got a lot to learn in order to survive in her father’s world, the young Sinclaire thought.
Quick, witty, and frank tongues were not appreciated in high society.
After their philosophical moment, he expected her to leave him alone, but she didn’t. She remained seated there, silent. Ernest would have preferred to be alone to mourn his book, but he didn't have the courage to send her away. After all, she was in her house, and he was the intruder. As Ernest turned the pages to dry, he caught her reading the sonnets.
“Do you like poetry?” he asked her to make small talk.
“I like it when the verses rhyme, but this is weird.”
He chuckled. “You’re too young to understand it.”
“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? / Thou art more lovely and more temperate:” Beatrice read aloud.
“Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, /And summer’s lease hath all too short a date;” he completed, by heart.
“Can you understand it?”
The question caught him off guard. It reminded him of his mother's words on the night she had given him the book. “Not everything, I must confess. But I like to read them, anyway.”
The girl was about to question him again, but fortunately, a knock on the door interrupted her. A girl peered inside. It was her partner in crime. She was waiting for her.
“I’ve to go. Sorry again for everything.” She said with a playful smile. He offered a hand to help her get up. “See you around," she said, running to the door.
That girl was going to be a problem, he thought. Fortunately, she wouldn’t be his problem. Good luck to the Earl.
∭ - Fisrt Year in Cambridge
Although spring was just a couple of days away, it was an overcast day, and a cold draft hung between the walls.
Ernest left the library to clear his head. He had been studying for hours. The first term exams didn't go as well as he had hoped, so he was making an extra effort. He had worked very hard to be there.
Cambridge University was his dream, and after Eton, Ernest thought it would be a smooth transition.
His problem wasn't studying. He even enjoyed it. However, it was proving difficult to reconcile all parts of his world.
He hadn't spoken to Minera in days. He missed her, but he also didn't want to distract her during exams season. For now, he would have to make do with the memories of the holidays to comfort him.
Ernest spotted two figures in the shadows conversing in low tone.
Ernest was about to turn around; however, upon recognizing Tristan Richards' voice, he stopped there.
They had crossed paths a few times already. Fortunately, since Ernest was in his first year, it was rare, and when it did happen, he chose to pretend he didn't see him. Not out of fear, but to protect his nerves.
Tristan had became everything Ernest had been taught not to be: arrogant, pompous, a bull, and rude. His lack of respect for others, often masked as good manners, irritated him deeply.
Another thing he couldn't stand was Tristan's behaviour towards girls. Based on what he'd seen of it in Cambridge, the situation with the math teacher wasn't just some silly teenage revenge. Tristan spoke and acted as if all the girls belonged to him. All disguised with bright smiles and sweet talk.
Despite his rake's past, Ernest always observed in his father an exemplary behaviour with all the women he dealt with. Mrs. Lewis, his secretary, the housemaids, the wives of his friends... even with Beatrice. He never raised his voice to them, never condescending, but always chivalrous, sincerely praising whenever he could.
Tristan raised his voice, allowing Ernest to hear the last few words, “I want the assignment in my hands within a week, without a second of delay! Make sure you do a good job!” He walked away, but the young man who stayed behind seemed about to pass out.
“Are you okay? Do you want me to call someone?” Ernest asked.
“I am…fine.” He answered in a trembling voice.
“I heard him threaten you. Are you doing the assignments for him?”
“No…of…course…not. That would be against the rules…Please, don’t tell a soul. He pays me…I need that money to pay my fees. It's a last effort... I'm months away from finishing my degree.” The young man was distressed.
“Don’t you have to do one yourself too?”
“I do, but…I can do this. I just will need some more caffeine. Please, keep the secret.” The young man disappeared into the hallways.
Fortunately, Ernest couldn't say he understood his colleague's distress. However, he couldn't remain indifferent to the situation. Tristan was exploiting him, and Ernest couldn't allow him to continue abusing his colleague.
Tristan needed a lesson, but first, Ernest had to safeguard his colleague's future. He made a call. “Father…I'm sorry to bother you…Yes…Yes…I'm fine…I need your help to help someone else…What would be the possibility of you sponsoring a colleague of mine?
The oral presentation of the assignment was public, and Ernest wanted to see Tristan's downfall from the front row.
Part of him knew it was wrong to humiliate him. It was playing into Tristan's own game. However, he chose to disregard moral honour this time.
Ernest instructed the fellow student to give Tristan his own assignment, but with subtle scientific errors, though noticeable to the professors.
Tristan began the presentation full of enthusiasm and confidence. However, as he advanced the slides, the professors' brows furrowed more and more.
Some in the auditorium were also noticing the errors in the calculations and data.
Eventually, Tristan noticed some mistakes in the slide he was presenting. He became furious. “There's a mistake here. This isn't my assignment!”
“I'm glad you finally noticed it, Mr. Richards. You're absolutely right. It's not yours. It belongs to your colleague, Mr. Norris, who gave a brilliant presentation earlier this afternoon.” One of the teachers stood up, “Not only did you plagiarize your colleague, but you couldn't even disguise your incompetence. You made unacceptable mistakes. Please leave our presence. But be aware that this will have serious consequences.”
All eyes were on him. Tristan had a desperate look and was red with anger. He rushed out of the room.
Unconsciously, Ernest smiled with satisfaction.
∭
There are moments when we feel our lives are about to change. Ernest had one of those intuitions when he saw Mr. Carter invading the party, yelling at the Foredale’s butler.
The Earl approached them. The man told him something that made Vincent lose his colours. He motioned Ernest to come closer.
Ernest could clearly hear the words coming from the man's mouth, but it was as if he were speaking an alien language. When he finally processed what he was hearing, his body froze. That couldn't be true.
“I've already called the firefighters before coming here.” Mr. Carter said.
The Earl's guests were in an uproar hearing what was going on.
Ernest ran out the door. Other acquaintances who were at the party were preparing to do the same. Some to flee, some to watch the horror in the first hand…surely a couple of them with good intentions.
“It's safer to stay here.” Vincent stopped them. “I know you have good intentions, but we don't know the gravity of the situation. It can be dangerous. Ernest and I are going there. Those who can, please leave by the other road. The fire could spread in our direction. Those who must stay, please follow the instructions of my staff. Gather my children and other children together and get them to the emergency room.”
Ernest was trying to start the car, but he was too nervous to do it. Just as he was about to leave on foot, Vincent grabbed him by the coat. “Let's go in the jeep.” The Earl said.
Vincent took every shortcut he knew, trampling through some wild bushes along the way.
It wasn't long before they started seeing black smoke staining the colours of the late afternoon sky.
“How many people are at home?” Vincent asked.
“Mrs. Lewis gave all the employees the night off. She didn't want to come in to rest,” Ernest's voice trembled. “I hope she's okay… My father is going to kill me!”
They could hear the fire truck sirens in the distance.
“Ernest, whatever is happening is not your fault!” The Earl reassured him. “Even if something very bad happens... it's just walls and old things. You are the greatest treasure in his life.”
The path they took led them to the back of the mansion. The fire was already engulfing the orchard.
It looked like hell on earth. The smoke was as black as a starless night. The red flames were devouring everything in their path. The windows were shattering like bombs. Ernest felt every crackle of the flames as if it were in his own body.
He tried to enter the house, but the firefighters stopped him.
“There's someone in there! You must save her!” Ernest screamed.
“Where she could be?” A firefight asked.
“Never mind, I am going there!” Despite the firefighters' orders and Vincent’s efforts to restrain Ernest from doing something foolish, he went inside. The front of the house was still mostly intact, but there was smoke everywhere. Ernest heard a bang and a scream. Following the sound, he soon found Mrs. Lewis coming from the servants' quarters. She had almost made it to the entrance hall alone, but a picture fell on her head, dazing her. Ernest took her in his arms.
More fire trucks and some ambulances had arrived in the meantime. Mrs. Lewis could barely breathe. The paramedics tried to put the oxygen mask on her. She took it off and, almost fainting, she uttered, “Your father... he... is at home.”
“That’s impossible!” Ernest refused to believe the scenario she was presenting.
“He came home to see you… he’s better.” Mrs. Lewis passed out.
Ernest was running inside again, but someone grabbed him, holding him back. The firefighters rushed into the manor.
The minutes that followed seemed like hours. Ernest's heart was pounding wildly, yet it felt frozen with terror. That couldn't happen again. Another loss, and he would lose his mind.
When he saw the firefighters come out the door, Ernest almost jumped on them. Somehow, his father seemed fine. Ernest tried to touch him.
A firefighter grabbed his hand. “I am so sorry… It’s too late.”
∭
The pathologist's assistant approached them. “He's ready, but we need someone to officially identify the body.”
“I will,” Vincent said.
“Are you related?”
“I’m his best friend,”
“It should preferably be someone from the family.” The pathologist's assistant objected.
“I am his son.” Ernest stepped forward.
“Are you sure, Ernest?” Vincent asked him.
“I am. It's the last thing I can do for him.”
Ernest followed the pathologist's assistant into the room. “When you're ready, I'll take the sheet off.”
Ernest was afraid of what he would find under the white sheet. “Did he suffer?” Ernest asked, his voice trembling.
“I don’t believe so. The smoke inhalation... took him before the fire could touch him.” The doctor explained gently.
“You may take it off, please.” For a few seconds, Ernest's heart imagined it wasn't him. Part of him still hoped it was all a mistake. A case of mistaken identity, like happens in films. Although he hadn't been able to see him well when firefighters pulled him out of the manor, Ernest could swear he had heard him groan in pain.
The pathologist's assistant removed the sheet. Ernest looked closely. There were some singed hairs. His father also had some burns on his face and hands.
Ernest lightly touched his hand. He knew it would be cold, but Ernest had never felt anything like it. “Why do you leave me alone?” He murmured. “This is my father. Can I take him home?”
∭
Those days were lived in a parallel reality. Ernest felt like he was trapped in a nightmare from which he couldn't wake up.
The days seemed endless. The nights weren't long enough. People spoke to him, but he didn't understand what they were saying. He made decisions he didn't remember. He was standing, but he couldn't feel his body. Not even his heart beating.
Beatrice's hug made Ernest feel like emerging from dark waters. For the first time in days, he could breathe.
∭
Part of him regretted getting involved in the matter. What had happened at Ascot was a matter between her, Luke, and the Earl.
However, his brotherly instinct couldn't help but try to help. Maybe he had exaggerated in his sermon, but Ernest couldn't remain undaunted and calm watching her dig her grave by her own hands before ‘Crème de la crème’ of English society.
She had avoided him since that day. Ernest accepted the tantrum. Not long ago, he was a moody teenager too. In fact, lately, he was feeling more like a lost child. Another loss, more shards to pick up, and many decisions to make… Ernest felt very confused most of the time.
That day, Ernest left home early to spend the day in Moorfield, wandering around the streets of the small town, trying to clear his head.
Back home, Mrs. Lewis informed him Beatrice was there doing research work for her father. Surprised, he couldn’t miss the chance to find out what the Earl was drafting… and clearing the air with Beatrice.
He wouldn't admit it, but he missed talking to her. Now he understood why Edmund complained about missing his siblings at Eton.
Ernest found her hidden among piles of books with Sunny snoring at her feet, curled up in a dusty sheet.
For a few seconds, his heart stopped. The books and files she was handling were hundreds of years old. They had not survived the fire to perish from neglect. He was relieved that she was wearing gloves.
“May I help you?” His voice echoed in the library, awakening her from the trance of her readings. She could barely articulate a coherent sentence, but the colour of her cheeks betrayed her feelings.
After breaking the ice, the conversation between them flowed as always.
He was very curious when she mentioned his ancestor, Alfred of Wessex. Alfred wasn’t exactly a figure who starred in the history books.
Therefore, he did not hesitate to show her one of the house's treasures —'The Chronicles of Alfred of Wessex.' He took her to his makeshift study and opened the huge safe. While he was looking for the book, Ernest noticed that the portrait inside the safe had not gone unnoticed. Thinking he would not catch her, she stood on tiptoe to peek inside.
“It was found in a chest a few weeks ago. Even Mrs. Lewis thought it no longer existed.” He smiled.
Ernest hadn't believed it when Mrs. Lewis told him they had discovered it in a trunk. Mathew Sinclaire, unable to deal with the grief, had ordered all images of Lydia Sinclaire to be removed from his sight. As he grew older, Ernest feared he would begin to lose the memory of his mother's features.
Despite the many drawings he made of her face, Ernest was aware they were shadows compared to her. The young man could not hold back his tears when he saw the portrait.
When the works on Ledford Park were completed, Ernest was planning to put that portrait in a prominent place, not to mourn them, but to remember the happy days they lived together.
“I wasn't looking at it with the intention of...” Beatrice tried to excuse herself. Ernest loved to see the fearless Beatrice embarrassed.
“It’s okay, I know you weren’t. Here they are, the oldest chronicles of this family, ‘The Chronicles of Alfred of Wessex’. Take them as long as you need. Do you mind if I stay here for a while? It's not to watch you. I trust you to be alone with anything here. I have some important documents to read, and this is the quietest place in the house at the moment.”
The pile of documents was endless, but he couldn't concentrate. Ernest was more curious than ever about the Earl’s new story.
Beatrice's grumblings about the book only increased his curiosity.
“Don't be so hard on him. It was an old friend of his who wrote part of the chronicles. It was a turbulent period, and Alfred didn't have time to write a sequential narrative. Is the Earl working on a novel about Richard of Caen?” Ernest threw the bait, trying to find out more.
“Not exactly. It's about his firstborn daughter, Aurelia of Kent, our ancestress.”
As Beatrice explained her father's ideas, Ernest had an epiphany. “Maybe she is the mysterious woman.”
As he summarized what he knew for her. In the middle of the conversation about their ancestors, he ended up blurting out his full name, something avoided as much as possible. “I am not joking. My full name is Ernest Mathew Alfred William.”
Even without asking direct questions, that girl had the power to poke holes in his wall of discretion. No wonder she wanted to be a journalist.
“For a moment I thought you were going to say Fitzwilliam …” Beatrice teased.
“That was my mother's wish, but my father did not agree. Mrs Lewis says that the first time she saw them argue was because of my name. They only reached a consensus after I was born.”
Returning to the investigation, their joint efforts to connect the dots led them to a remarkable discovery.
“That’s the connection! They were…lovers.” After the excitement of her conclusion, Beatrice was quiet for a few seconds. Ernest noticed her cheeks blushing.
Excited about such revelations as well, Ernest showed her in the book Alfred's poem dedicated to his impossible love. Ernest read it, translating the verses into modern English at the same time.
It could not be considered an erotic text, but the elements were there. Ernest felt somehow embarrassed while reading it to her.
Suddenly, they were arguing again. Quarrels between them seemed to start out of nowhere, like a summer storm. It wasn't the first time something like this had happened, especially since Beatrice became a teenager. A civilized conversation could suddenly turn into an argument. She was more stubborn than ever. The tiredness and worries swirling around in his head diminished his patience.
“Sometimes you are impossible, Sinclaire!” She groaned.
“Why? Because I do contradict you?”
“Trust me, you are the least of my problems.”
“You are an expert at getting yourself into trouble.” He pointed out.
“Are you still talking about Ascot, Sinclaire?”
“Are you still sulking at me because of Ascot, Beatrice?”
“I know I am wrong, okay? I messed things up , including with you.” Beatrice admitted.
Ernest didn't expect her to give in. So, that way, he decided to admit his share of the guilt. “I know you get mad when I scold you. Perhaps I was a little harsh at Ascot. Nevertheless, I will not apologize to you for what I did and what I said. Although deep down, as you said, it's none of my business, I would do it all over again if I had to, because I am your friend.”
“Did I get promoted to your friend? How kind of you, Mr. Sinclaire!” There was still some bitterness in her voice.
Was it possible that girl had a remark for everything? It was as annoying as it was admirable. “Don’t mock me! I am being honest with you.”
“I am not. The truth is, I am glad to hear that. I thought I was never going to pass the ‘little brat’ category.”
How could Beatrice assume he thought so little of her? He needed to clarify things. “You are more than a friend, Beatrice. The Foredale’s are like family to me. Families support and take care of each other. I don't have many relatives, but I have everything I need just a fence jump away.”
“I can’t imagine you jumping a fence.” Beatrice laughed.
“You have no idea what my little self was capable of. Mrs. Lewis was a victim at my hands.”
“I always thought you came out of your mother's womb in a tie and waistcoat.”
It wasn't the first time she'd said that to him. Little did she know there was a photograph of him as a baby wearing a full suit. He could not remain indifferent to such a response and burst out laughing for the first time in a long time. Beatrice followed him. They just couldn't stop laughing.
Ernest felt enormous relief in his body and mind. For a few minutes, he completely forgot all his qualms.
After the laughing session, they went back to Alfred and Aurelia. According to Beatrice, Vincent had still only defined the general lines of the plot. Ernest couldn’t resist making a few suggestions.
“First kiss on the first night?”
“Of course not, Sinclaire! Papa is the king of the ‘slow burn.' The first kiss never takes place before page one hundred and one. I am picturing it on a summer night, under the stars, by the lake.”
“Or in the ring of stones, in the middle of our forest. That piece of land has always belonged to my family. It’s secluded but very beautiful.”
“Are you speaking from experience?” She smiled mischievously.
“I am trying to be helpful.” Ernest was almost certain that a light shade of pink had appeared on his cheeks. Beatrice was an expert at guessing his sins.
He was in fact speaking from personal experience. Ernest had waited months to take Minerva there. He prepared a picnic, studied the stars, and picked out the softest blankets. Ernest was convinced that he had prepared the most romantic of encounters under the shooting stars. As it turned out, they couldn’t see any shooting stars. But there were fireworks all night.
“All right then, keep your secrets, Casanova.”
He knew she didn't intend to offend in any way; however, he didn't like the association. For Ernest, love was something too serious to joke about. “I don’t aspire to be a Casanova, a Romeo, or a Heathcliff… Actually, I think some of these called ‘romantic heroes’ have distorted the concept of love.”
“So, what does love mean to you, Sinclaire? And to be clear, I am asking about romantic love.”
And there was one of her difficult questions again. And once again, he couldn't run away. So, he chose the honest path. “Love cannot be impulsive, fickle, or lust -driven, nor does it need to be tragic or complicated to be true. In fact, love is simple and natural. It's feeling happy next to someone while putting the other's happiness first. Love does not ignore problems and differences. Love builds bridges and clears paths to face them. He could see in her eyes that something was restless in her mind. It was dying to come out, but his lips were afraid to let it go. He would probably regret prolonging the conversation, but Ernest was worried about what he was seeing in her eyes. “What do you want to ask, Beatrice?”
“I … well … How about intimacy… I mean… love has a physical side.”
Ernest found the question strange. She was too smart to be ignorant about the matter. And, knowing the Earl, Ernest was sure he wouldn't have neglected that part of her education. It was obvious her feelings for Luke were deep. It wasn't just a whim or an infatuation. Beatrice was seriously in love with Luke. Maybe that was why she needed those answers.
“You are not naïve, Bea; you know intimacy can include physical acts of love —kisses, hugs, tender touches, snuggles… Is sex a manifestation of intimacy? Yes. Is it the main one ? No, far from that. It’s like cake frosting. It looks good. It can taste good, but if the cake underneath it isn't good; it's a deception, with consequences more serious than a stomach.”
“How am I supposed to live the rest of my life with that image in my mind, Sinclaire?”
“It was you who asked for my opinion.” He imitated her cockiness.
“Indeed. It was very enlightening.”
On any other occasion, his decorum would have demanded that he graciously change the topic of conversation. It wasn't in his nature to intrude on others' privacy, but Ernest could see that she was still uneasy.
“Have you ever felt pressured into any kind of intimacy that made you feel uncomfortable?” He asked worriedly. Ernest didn't imagine Luke capable of such a thing. However, unfortunately, evil could be hidden behind anyone who surrounded her.
“No, never. Luke is the kindest, gentlest soul I have ever met. He is incapable of hurting anyone, not even an ant. We...We have discussed those matters. We share the same ideas about it.”
If the problem wasn't between them, then it must be someone outside. Ernest had a hunch.
“Bea, I can imagine how much they brag about it. I have been dealing with smug rich girls and boys all my life. If I recall, I am one of them.” From the expression on her face, he knew he got her problem right. “In addition to the fact that half of what they say is untrue or exaggerated, this is not something that should be motivated by what others think, even if it is our partner. It deeply affects our bodies and our emotions. The heart is always eager to please and to feel pleasure. I have learned that we can't always trust it. We must always ask ourselves if we will be happy or at peace with the consequences of what we do. And above all, we must never do anything that we are not comfortable with. If our body give us signals that it's not good for us, it's because it isn’t. If we insist, we will hurt ourselves and probably the ones we love.”
“Have you ever felt that?”
His propriety did not permit him to tell more details, nor did he wish to burden her with his ghosts. “I usually refrain from giving opinions on subjects I am not familiar .” Ernest gently took her hand in his. “Please, promise you will take care of yourself.”
“Thank you, Sinclaire. You are annoyingly wise.” She smiled.
“I am taking it as a ‘I will follow your advice’.”
After the break for Beatrice's existential crisis, they returned to their ancestors, getting lost in the plot with new ideas and hypotheses for what may have happened between Aurelia and Alfred.
Only when Mrs. Lewis in her nightdress and disheveled hair, found them in the library did Ernest realize how late it was — the sun was about to rise.
He had to get her home as quickly as possible. To his exasperation, Beatrice insisted on walking home. Despite not agreeing with the option, Ernest went along with her.
As they walked out the door, the early morning breeze embraced them. Beatrice's thin dress was no match for the cool waft, letting it run over her body without mercy. He put his jacket over her shoulders. God forbid that something happens to Beatrice along the way. The Earl would have no pity or mercy on him. Nor would he forgive himself.
“I'm glad we are friends again, Sinclaire. Someone has to be brave enough to lecture me.” Beatrice said when they arrived.
“The Dowager Countess does that job very well. Besides, I don't have the presumption to consider that I have any authority to do such a thing. I am just a concerned friend with more life experience. Have a good day, Beatrice.”
“Have a nice day, Sinclaire. Thank you again. For everything.” Ernest stayed there until she closed the kitchen door behind her.
He hoped no one had seen him taking Beatrice home in the early hours of the morning. Ernest preferred not to even think about what could be invented about it.
On the way to Ledford Park, worries came back to haunt his mind. Was he choosing the right path? Would it be worth such a sacrifice?
On that afternoon, he went to Edgewater. Vincent had invited him to do some fencing.
The Earl repeatedly expressed thanks for his help with the research and for bringing Beatrice home safe and sound. He had loved the ideas they had outlined.
“I have done no more than my duty as a friend and gentleman.” Ernest answered.
"You're one of the few people I blindly trust Beatrice care. Talking about it, have you told her about your departure?"
“I haven't told anyone yet, except those who strictly had to know.”
“She would rather know from you. In case you haven't noticed, she sees you like a big brother.”
“I'll do it in the next few days, I promise.”
When Earl left, Ernest stayed a little longer, practicing some moves. Fencing was a great way for him to relieve his heavy feelings. It was relaxing him. He was so engrossed in his dance with the rapier that Ernest only noticed Beatrice's presence when he heard her voice mumbling about her singing lessons. Since he was still wearing his helmet, she mistook him for her fencing teacher.
He wanted to say something, but Ernest couldn't articulate any sentence.
“You are right, Mr. Jones; I can talk and fight at the same time.” She put herself in position. “En garde! Prêts? Allez!” Beatrice lunged at him, putting all the frustrations into every engagement.
She rambled about various topics. Beatrice clearly needed to get some things off her chest that afternoon, and he didn't have the heart to interrupt.
“Speaking of people who are getting on my nerves...There is a person close to me who will move abroad next autumn. We are friends...at least he says we are, and I feel the same. However, during all summer he hasn't had the heart to say a word to me about it. Can you believe it?”
How would she have found out? Distracted by this question, he gave her room to hit him.
Distracted, Ernest stopped, and Beatrice hit him. “Touché!” she laughed.
There was no point in continuing to hide. He took off his helmet. Beatrice was speechless for a moment.
“How did you find out? I have tried to keep my plans secret.”
“Before you insinuate anything, I didn't hear behind the door. Luke and I were under the bridge when you were telling Bart about it.”
“Oh! Well, I guess it's officially no longer a secret.” Ernest signed and explained his reasons.
“I can understand that. I just don't understand why you didn't tell me. I am your friend, Sinclaire! Talking about friends, have you told Edmund about it?”
She was indignant, and rightly so. Ernest played with the clasps on his helmet, looking for the answers hidden under his rational level. Ernest didn't feel right not telling her the whole truth. “No. I didn't tell you, or your brother, or others because... because I feel I’m at sea.”
She seemed taken aback by his frankness. “I don’t see it that way. I see, and I think everybody sees, you are trying your best to solve these problems. Your plans for the house are incredible. Unless you are thinking of becoming a mason's apprentice, I don't think they need you around. Besides, I have seen Mrs. Lewis dealing with workers. They won't dare to change even a millimeter of your project.”
“There's also the fear of the unknown, of course. I will be on the other side of the world, far away from everything I have ever known, for a long time. As you might have noticed, I'm anything but adventurous.” Her words were comforting. However, he had opened the door to fears and could not stop them.
“I wouldn’t say that. I think ‘very cautious’ is the right definition. It's a bit of an exasperating trait sometimes, I won't deny it. Nevertheless, your cautious instincts have gotten you well this far. You just have to learn to ignore them from time to time.”
“Are you sure you are my friend?” He tried to look offended, but a suppressed smile betrayed him. “Your view of things usually turns mine upside down, showing me a world I would never see. Maybe it helps me gather my thoughts. Thank you, Beatrice.”
“Now would be the appropriate time to say that above anything else, you will miss all of us terribly.” She teased him.
“I'm taking that out of the equation. Otherwise, I don't think I could go.”
Mr. Jones arrived, interrupting their conversation.
“Don't think you're getting rid of me that easily, Sinclaire!” She pointed the rapier at him.
Watching her petite figure trying to threaten him was a comical sight. “I have lived enough to know when a girl has a rapier pointed at us, she is to be taken seriously.”
∭
At E.P.W (Edgewater Polo Weekend)
After the defeat, Ernest wanted to go home alone on foot. He needed to calm down before arriving home and helping with the preparations for dinner.
again, despite the warning he had given him at Ascot.
Ernest quickened his pace to catch Tristan. Tristan stopped when he saw Ernest walking towards him, flashing a mocking smile on his face.
“We need to talk, Tristan.”
“I suppose you're going to invite me to the victors' dinner. You can't imagine how funny it was to see you lose and know that you're still going to pay for my dinner.”
“Don't you dare set foot in my house!”
“Your pride is hurt, so I'm not going to take this one personally. You're the one who loses out. Anyway... That's two defeats in one day. Poor Ernest,” Tristan scorned. “I only regret not having the opportunity to spend more time with the ladies of Edgewater. They are all so agreeable.”
“Stay away from them!”
“Especially the bastard one, right?” Tristan smirked. “Women gravitate towards me; I can’t help it. You love playing the knight in shining armor. It was cute when you were a teenager, but now it's pathetic...”
“Leave her alone. She's just a child. I'm warning you, Tristan...stay away from her...and all of them!” Ernest was losing his patience.
Duke Richards laughed cynically. “A child, you say? She's a young lady. There's fire and opportunism in her blood. She'll fall. And I'll make sure to seize the opportunity.”
Ernest was about to punch him when Felicity approached them. “Your Grace, shall we see each other later at dinner?”
“Unfortunately, no. I have an unavoidable appointment. I'm having dinner with my cousin, Charles.”
“The prince?” Felicity asked, dazzled.
“Of course. Who else could be? Now if you excuse me.” He walked away.
Felicity was going to turn her attention to Ernest; however, he wasn't in the mood for civilities. “I must go. See you later, Felicity.” Before leaving, he thought he should add, “As a friend, I beg you: please don't be dazzled by the wrapping paper and the ribbon on the box. There are many rotten things in his kingdom.”
∭
Ernest threw himself onto the bed, tired, overwhelmed, and frustrated. How was he supposed to move an entire life to the other side of the world? He had made a few lists. However, the more he tried to organise himself, the more confused he became.
He could simply put his clothes in a couple of suitcases and buy everything there. He might as well send all his stuff there. However, he didn't want to risk losing anything on the trip. On the other hand, he also knew he would need some references from home.
Ernest had the temptation to take his mother's book with him but thought it was better to leave it in the Ledford Park safety. It wouldn't survive another accident. The very thought made him shiver. He randomly opened a page and came face-to-face with Sonnet 116.
“Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken.”
These old words made the young man wonder if he would ever fall in love again. Minerva had been his first crush, passion, love, and girlfriend. With her, everything was so passionate. She starred in all his first times.
Every now and then, he still questioned if he'd made the right decision, if he should have fought harder for her and their relationship. However, he couldn’t say if such thoughts were remnants of love or loneliness playing a monologue in his head. Too many emotions had invaded his heart lately.
He was a romantic guy and unashamed of it. In the few years he'd lived with both his parents, he'd seen so much love between them that he couldn't help but dream of something like that for himself.
He already knew he wanted a family one day. Small steps filling Ledford Park with life. Would he have to wait many more years? Who would she be? Would he meet her in the USA?
Nevertheless, Ernest also knew that the size of the loss was proportional to the size of the love. And that scared him. He had resisted until then, but he feared what might happen if life dealt him another blow. Looking at himself in the mirror, he saw in his mind images of his father, lost, sunk in grief. Crossing the bridge of pain was a path back, and Ernest felt his foot touch the first plank several times.
He jumped out of bed, trying to shake off such thoughts. In doing so, he dropped a frame onto the floor. It was a photo from his graduation day at Cambridge.Surrounded by people who loved him and were proud of him, it was one of his happiest days in recent times.
There was also a funny story behind it. Although there weren't many (just the Foredale, Mrs Lewis and Bart), the photographer had difficulty getting everyone in the photo due to the height differences. The photographer tried different combinations; however, someone always ended up cut out the pic. Fortunately, Bart had the idea of holding Beatrice in his arms, lifting her off the ground a few inches, solving the framing problem, just in time to avoid a riot in the line to take photos at that place.
On that day, Beatrice had placed on his cape a red rose, the Sinclaire colour, decorated with a ribbon in her mother's Scottish pattern. It was a simple gesture, but it touched him so much that he had the rose preserved in wax. It has been in his desk ever since. It was better to stay where it was. It could get damaged on the trip.
After hours of reflection, Ernest finally came up with his art kit, a Manchester United scarf, a photo of him, Bart, and Edmund at Eton, a pen that had belonged to his father, and a painting with dried flowers from the Ledford Park gardens.
Rummaging through the drawers, he found a hat and a pair of woollen gloves that Beatrice had given him last winter. They weren't the most elegant set, but Ernest puts them in his bag anyway. Boston was very cold. Certainly, no piece of clothing would be too much.
∭
No one dares to call it a farewell. It's a dinner at his London townhouse, like so many others.
The seats at the massive table are not all occupied; however, the people who matter most to him are there. No one dares to mention the subject, even though it imposes itself on the room like a giant elephant.
Dinner lingered between drawn-out conversations, as if this could slow down the inexorable march of time.
Anyone who passes by on the street and sees the host escorting guests to the door would assume that it was an ordinary evening: bidding farewell, shaking hands with gentlemen, kissing hands with ladies… the whole ritual of good English politeness.
When the young girl's turn arrives, the host stands with her hand in his, undecided on how to say goodbye.
The young girl comes forward and kisses his cheek. If the passerby had been closer, he could have heard the girl whisper in his ear, ‘Who am I going to vex now?’
A lot had happened between that first impression and that moment of goodbye. He would miss everyone so much. However, he would miss that ray of sunshine dearly.
Much would certainly change in the coming years. Ernest would love to freeze that moment in time. The wheel of life that had denied him a little sister made up for it with such unexpected friendship.
Summary: Despite being born with a silver spoon in his mouth, from a very young age, Ernest Sinclaire has experienced life's most painful thorns. However, this hasn't stopped him from enjoying the roses along the way. Before the story takes another leap in time, this chapter lets us peek a little into his past and show how the story happened from his point of view.
Characters: Ernest Sinclaire; Lydia Sinclaire; Matthew Sinclaire; Vincent Foredale; Beatrice Foredale; The mentioned characters belong to Pixelberry. No copyright infringement intended. Other original OC’S are mentioned.
Word Count: +/- 15 600 (parte I and II)
Warnings: Mentions of death and grief.
Notes: 💖 English is not my first language. Please excuse me for any typos /or grammatical errors. There was no beta reader this time. 💖 This is my submission for @choicesficwriterscreations.
“Do you know what day it is, Mamma?”
Lydia Sinclaire, lounging in an armchair, trying to deflate her feet, was woken up by her boy. He was questioning her with that cute expectant look. “No, mo luran (my pretty boy). What day is it?” She caressed his curls.
“It’s our Sweet Day!” The boy declared with his eyes shining.
“We are not going anywhere today. You are still recovering, Ernie.” And honestly, she wasn't in the mood to move either. The bump was still discreet, but the symptoms not so much.
“I’m not sick anymore! I’m much better today!” The boy insisted. “Achoo!” A sneeze escaped, bringing some snot out of the nose.
“Better, you say...come here. Let’s clean that cute nose.”
“I can do it myself! I’m not a baby anymore!”
“You will always be my baby, whether you like it or not. Now sniffle!”
He did as she said. “But I want custard pies!” Ernest begged from beneath the tissue.
“Let's ask Mr. Elliot to make some for us.”
“No, Mamma. I want those from the Tea House. The ones that come from baby Jesus's land!”
Lydia burst out laughing. “Belem pastries?”
“Yes! Why are you laughing?”
“They are not from that Belem, Ernest. They are named after a village called ‘Belem’ in Portugal, but that doesn't matter now.”
“Do you want me to go buy some, Mrs. Sinclaire?” The nanny, who had arrived in the meantime looking for Ernest, asked.
“Yes, please, Sarah. This pastry talk has whetted my appetite.” Lydia felt the baby kick her belly. “I think hers as well. She has our sweet tooth, mo luran,” Lydia noticed Ernest was looking very interestedly at her belly. “Ernest?”
“You have not explained it to me yet."
“What?”
“How the baby gets here.” He gently touched the bump.
“I thought your father had explained it to you.”
“We read a book together, but I don’t consider it a satisfactory explanation.”
Lydia sighed. “I’ll then. What would men be without mothers?” She caressed his face. “Sarah, besides the pastries, bring me something with chocolate as well. A lot of it. This will be a long talk.”
"No, Mama, she doesn't know! Only you know how to choose the most delicious!” Ernest was threatening to throw a tantrum. He was a sweet boy most of the time. However, despite being the moon about baby, since he got the news, every now and then a tantrum moment popped up. Lydia didn't want this to become a bad habit, but she wasn't in the mood to get upset with her son about it.
“Lucky for you, I know I'm the best cake judge in the world!” Lydia squeezed her son's cheek. “Thank you anyway, Sarah. I'll go there myself. Maybe a short walk will help my feet.”
“Are you sure, Mrs Sinclaire? A thunder is approaching. It’ll start to rain anytime soon.”
“I’m pregnant, not invalid. Nor made of sugar. Tell Mr Lewis I will be ready in ten minutes, please.”
“Can I go with you, Mama?”
“No. You stay at home, Mr Sinclaire! You will prepare the tea for us with Sarah’s help. I will be back before you miss me.” She kissed Ernest’s head.
William Shakespeare himself would not have written such a perfect tragedy. Lydia Sinclaire, a woman in the prime of life, living at the pinnacle of happiness, dies in a car accident.
Like in all great tragedies, it all happened on a day with unpleasant weather: hot, humid, and a thunder threatening to break out at any moment. Only a mother with a mission would dare to put a foot outside the house.
It is then that when the improbable takes advantage of a distraction that what everyone does not want to think or fear (because fear is believing that it will become real) happens—unexpectedly, disastrously, relentlessly.
In the instant of a flash of lightning, one life was taken, another remained, not yet known for how long, but it would not be long.
The past, the present, the future... all had disappeared with her.
Maybe it sounds exaggeratedly bleak for some, but what many didn't know yet, it was that Mrs Sinclaire was expecting a baby, the princess the whole family had wished upon a star.
“Mrs. Sinclaire dies in tragic road accident. The family's driver, Mr. Lewis, is in a coma.”
It was in all the media. The less is known about a subject, the more is written about it. The days of waiting for the release of the body thickened the plot even more.
Many theories arose about what happened, some more scandalous, others with a conspiratorial tone. The most imaginative minds even put attempted abduction by aliens on the table.
However, to the Sinclaires' dismay, not even their countless money could get them the truth.
Their desperation for answers attracted the attention of some vultures, who tried to pretend to have witnessed what happened or even to have information about it from the other world. A psychic claimed on television that Lydia wanted to get in touch with her husband and son. What exactly happened, no one will ever know.
∭
Funerals are, by their nature, disconcerting occasions.
What should be a moment of remembrance for those who have passed away often turns into a moment of undesired protagonism for those who remain in the land of the living. However, it is almost never for the best reasons.
On this funeral, all eyes are on a man and a little boy. Both lost the woman they loved. The most intense and beautiful love any of them had ever known.
Mathew Sinclaire was broken, crying and wailing incessantly. He could barely stay on his feet. The Earl of Edgewater had to drag him with every step so he wouldn't fall.
If Mr Sinclaire's not so stoic behaviour surprised who was attending the ceremony, little Sinclaire's conduct caused much more impact.
Surrounded by the tender care of the governess and nanny, Ernest sat quietly in the church pew. Although never letting go of the governess's hand, Ernest received everyone's condolences with an unexpected serenity, even accepting kisses from strangers, something he would never normally tolerate. Nothing made his serious posture waver.
When some of Lydia's relatives arrived at the church, Mr. Sinclaire became angry, hurling insults. His friends held him back to prevent a fight, but it wasn't long before sadness overcame anger. Matthew didn't have the strength to argue.
Facing such desolation, the vicar shortened the burial rites. Lydia and the baby were going to rest there until the new crypt was ready, so it wasn't worth prolonging that family and friends' suffering. None of his words were going to have any real effect at that moment.
Ernest watched this final act unconscious of the meaning of what was going on. The boy refused to throw the small bunch of flowers he was carrying in his hand into the grave. "No! They're Mama's favourites! I'll put them in a vase at home!"
Contrary to the social expectations, there was no memorial after the funeral.
Only the closest ones returned home, which came down to the father, the son, the Ledford Park staff, and the Earl of Edgewater.
Before anyone could attempt to address him, Matthew Sinclaire disappeared into his office, followed by his best friend.
Ernest tried to follow his father, but he almost got hit in the face with the door.
Mrs. Lewis took the boy into the kitchen. Ernest would remember for the rest of his life what he ate at that time, as he was never able to eat them again in his life: flapjacks (which he was never able to eat again) and chocolate milk.
While he was eating, Ernest began to process what had happened. For a moment, he felt everything around him spin. Suddenly, the boy felt an enormous emptiness that grew and became deeper, threatening to swallow him. He couldn't figure out what he was feeling, and that scared him even more.
Still shocked by the emotions of the day, neither the nanny nor the governess noticed Ernest slipping out of the kitchen.
He ran to his father's office as if his life depended on it. Finding the doors locked, Ernest desperately knocked and shook the door handle. For the first time in days, Ernest felt tears well up in his eyes.
The Earl opened the door for him, and Ernest ran to his father, who was standing in front of Lydia's portrait. The boy clung to his father's legs, unable to hold back his tears any longer. Mama…" He sobbed.
“Papa! Mama...the baby… They will come back?” Confused by his pain, Ernest had assumed that the vicar's words about the comeback referred to the days ahead.
Mr Sinclaire seemed to ignore his son's presence.
“Matthew, your son needs you now…” Earl's words also remained in his memory. “He’s suffering too.”
“They're dead, don't you understand? Dead! They're not coming back! Never again! And it's all your fault!” Matthew screamed wildly.
Ernest fell to the floor in fright.
“Matthew! Did you hear what you said? Apologise to your son, now!” The Earl was outraged seeing his friend's attitude.
At that very moment, Mrs Lewis walked into the office livid. Years later, when recounting the incident, the Earl admitted that he thought she was going to slap her boss. “Blame whoever...whatever you want...but don’t dare to blame him ever again!” She was a mixture of fury and tears. The governess took the boy in her arms. Despite the cruelty that he had just been a victim of, Ernest tried to stretch out his arms to his father, but Mrs Lewis walked away with him.
There was the sound of things smashing in the office. She hid his head in her neck so Ernest would not see the fury in his father's eyes again.
“I didn't want Mama and the baby to die, Constance. I just wanted my sweet day with her." He cried uncontrollably.
“This is not your fault, my little angel.” She kissed his head, letting her own tears mix with his. “Your father is just out of his mind. He loves you very much; despite he can’t show it now. We’ll meet them again one day. Even if they don't come back as quickly as we would like, things will get better soon. I promise.”
On the next morning. Ernest had woken up with a loud, distressed cry. He got out of bed, running towards the hair-raising sound. The commotion was at his father's bureau. Mrs Lewis, the butler, and a couple of maids stood around him. No one had noticed his arrival.
Peering between the silhouettes, Ernest saw the carpet and the desk covered in vomit. A very intense smell came from there.
“He's alive, but he's very drunk.” Ernest heard the butler say.
“Let's try to get him on the couch. Miss Scott, please call the doctor. Even if it's just a big drunken binge, he needs to see a doctor.” Mrs Lewis asked one of the maids.
She ran past and didn't see him. Ernest approached the door. Mrs Lewis and the butler were trying to lift his father. Mr Sinclaire’s desk was covered in vomit.
As they moved his body, Matthew opened his eyes briefly and murmured his wife's name.
Underneath a piece of paper, he saw his father's cell phone peeking out. His mother used to tell him he was too young to use it, but his father had taught him how to make calls in case of an emergency. Ernest took it away stealthily. This seemed like an emergency. But whom would he call?
The boy began searching through his contacts. After pressing the button several times, he found the contact "Vincent Foredale". Ernest considered the Earl a calm and intelligent adult. Maybe he knew how to help.
He pressed the call button. The Earl answered almost immediately.
“Good morning, sir. I’m sorry for calling so early...”
“Ernest? What happened? Where is your father?”
“I think he's not feeling well… They're going to call a doctor... Do you think he's going to die too?” The boy was very distressed.
Vincent couldn't hold back his tears. “Everything will be okay, Ernest. I'm coming.”
∭
Such a tragedy would leave an ugly scar on any family. But for Matthew Sinclaire, it always remained a painful open wound.
As soon as the hangover allowed, he gave orders to remove every trace of Lydia from his sight. From the imposing family portrait at the entrance to the mansion to the simple pair of earrings, everything had to disappear from the light of day.
Mr Sinclaire imposed new rules: father and son should travel in separate cars, Ernest was not allowed to travel in other people's cars, and a full-time mechanic was hired to ensure the vehicles were always in top condition.
∭
The prospect of going to boarding school is usually not exciting for teenagers. But to this boy going through puberty, the idea of going to Eton seemed almost idyllic. Any place would be better than his home these past few years.
Mrs. Lewis helped him put on his uniform. She tried her best but couldn't hold back a few tears.
“Why don't you come with me?” Ernest asked.
“This is a unique moment between father and son. Besides, if I were... I don't think I could leave you there.” Mrs. Lewis wiped away her tears. “I can't believe my little angel is becoming a man.”
“I will call you every day.” Ernest promised. Leaving Mrs. Lewis was the hardest thing for him. Obviously, there wasn't a day that Ernest didn't think of his mother. However, the love that Mrs. Lewis had given him had kept the darkness away from his heart.
“I hope you don’t.” She smiled. “That means you are studying and having fun.” Mrs Lewis couldn't help but pinch his cheek. She wouldn't see him for months, and probably the next time she saw him, Ernest wouldn’t have that little baby face anymore. A few pimples were starting to appear under the fallen curls on his forehead. “Your mother would be very proud of you.” She said, adjusting his clothes.
At that moment, his father arrived in the bedroom. Matthew smiled when he saw his son in his uniform. “Are you ready, Ernest?” For the first time in years, his father seemed excited about something concerning him.
Contrary to his rule, they travelled from home to Eton that day in the same car. Matthew offered him a series of recommendations and advice along the way.
Ernest was so excited to have this moment with his father that he barely heard what he was saying.
Arriving there, the 13 years old boy could not help but feel small in the face of what surrounded him: the imposing dark brick buildings, the impeccably manicured gardens, the monumental 15th-century chapel... The students in their black tailcoats and vests, formal trousers, and extremely starched white collars completed the scenario. Now he was there, it didn't seem like such a good idea after all.
A few teachers stopped to greet them. Some had been his father's teachers; others were former colleagues who had become teachers.
Such familiarity seemed comforting at first but frightening at another. Ernest realized all his steps would be carefully watched, and every mistake readily reported to Ledford Park.
Some of his father's old classmates were there with their sons too. They weren’t missing the opportunity to show off their heirs. In the words of all parents, their children would become politicians, ambassadors, generals, CEOs!
Matthew responded to them in kind, praising his son's intellectual capabilities. Ernest realized that his father had great things in mind for him. Failure was not an option.
As the tradition dictates., father and son took several photos to immortalize the moment. In one of those photos, Ernest felt his father affectionately squeeze his hand.
Then, along with the other new students, Ernest went to sign the school's registration book.
“Make your best signature. First impressions are very important," Mr. Sinclaire advised.
The housemaster came to welcome them.
“Mr. Webster, this is my son, Ernest.” Matthew introduced him.
“Nice to meet you, Ernest. Welcome to Eton. I will be your housemaster. First the father, now the son. Maybe this is a sign I should consider retirement.” Mr. Webster smiled.
“Please, don’t. These boys need you. Is Mrs. Webster still the Dame?” Matthew asked.
“Yes, she is. Should I warn her about the new Sinclaire in the house?” The housemaster smiled.
“There is no need for that. He inherited his mother's serenity.” It was one of the few times since Lydia 's death, Ernest heard his father mention her.
“That's good, but I'm sure he won't be immune to mischief proper of his age, especially in the company of the other students.” The housemaster smiled playfully.
While they were still talking, Ernest saw a boy arriving. He was carrying an absurd number of suitcases.
“Hurry up, Bartholomew! We're already way too late.” The woman, who appeared to be his mother, urged him; however, she didn't help her son carry any of the suitcases. “Thank God, they'll get you in shape here, one way or another.” She grumbled.
Ernest wasn't used to his father's pampering lately, but the boy's mother's attitude was everything but motherly.
The said woman interrupted their conversation with the housemaster, leaving her son behind. “Mr. Webster, how nice to see you again!”
While trying to drag the suitcases, the boy ended up falling to the ground. Everyone who was there laughed at him.
Ernest ran to his side, helping him to his feet. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
“The damage was more to dignity than to the body.” The boy laughed nervously.
“I am Ernest. Nice to meet you!” Ernest reached out to shake his hand..
“Bartholomew August Chambers. The only son of the respectable industrialist and his virtuous wife, Mr. and Mrs. Chambers. But you can just call me Bart. My sister is the one who inherited the family snobbery. I come here to be worthy of inheriting my father's chair.” The young man mocked the situation for being too formal. “Don't you have any fancy surnames like everybody here?”
“Sinclaire. I don't know if that counts as fancy. Ernest responded with a certain embarrassment.
“Oh, it does. I've heard of you. No noble title, but old money. It's better my mother doesn't know about it; otherwise, she’ll force us to be friends.”
“Would that be so bad?”
From that day on, Ernest gained a friend for life.
The master led the two boys to Wellington House.
As they were arriving, a luxury car stopped in front of the house. The driver got out and opened the passenger door. The master hurried to greet him. Ernest caught a glimpse of a boy, who appeared to be one of the older students, despite he not wearing the uniform like everybody else.
On the other side of the car, another young man got out and began giving orders to the driver in a noticeable French accent.
“Your Grace, welcome back home!” Mr. Webster flattered the young man. “I am so sorry for your loss. I imagine it was a difficult summer, but we are here to help in any way we can.”
“I didn't bring my uniform because I came straight here from our private Caribbean island. My mother is still there recovering.” He said it in an affected accent.
Mr. Webster helped the driver to unload the suitcases. “Do worry, Your Grace. Mrs. Webster left one ironed in your bedroom.”
“Who is this?” Ernest asked, intrigued by so many perks. “Another secret son of the Prince of Wales?”
“Don’t you know who he? Havey ou grew up in a barn?” Bart was scandalized with Ernest questions.
“No…”
“He is Tristan Richard, the new Duke of Karlington. Practically royalty. Only two generations removed from it. His father died this summer, making him the youngest duke since the war.”
“How do you know all this?”
“I may or may not have a weakness for gossip.” Bart blushed.
Ernest looked around and didn't see his father. It was as if he had evaporated into thin air. Slightly dizzy from looking around for his father, Ernest ended up bumping into the young duke.
“Get out of my way, kid!” Richard growled.
“I think your father already left, Ernest.” The housemaster said.
“Without saying goodbye?” Ernest was trying to contain tears.
“I don't want crybabies near me,” Richard grumbled to the master.
To avoid upsetting either of them, Mr. Webster hurried to comfort Ernest. “This is a very emotional day, especially for new students. Come on, Ernest. Mr. Sinclaire must have had a good reason for leaving so suddenly. I'll take you to your bedroom.”
That night, Ernest didn't sleep. He cried all night. The boy cried because he missed his home, his mother, Constance, and the new crack his father had opened in his heart.
Months later, before Christmas break
Somehow, Bart's natural sweetness would soften Mrs. Webster's heart, to the point that she would be persuaded to allow them to accompany her to Windsor.
After following her from store to store, she allowed them to explore the commercial area alone while she chatted with a friend.
While Bart was choosing chocolates in the chocolate shop, Ernest walked into a picture framing shop. He had made a drawing of Mrs. Lewis and was looking for a special frame to give it her for Christmas.
Among the shelves, Ernest recognized two voices. Moving aside two picture frames, he saw Richard and his French lackey, Gideon Payne, standing in front of an automatic photo printing machine. Gideon already had stack of photographs in his hand. They were wearing white gloves, which made everything even stranger.
Ernest continued wandering through the store until he found the perfect frame. It had a classic style, but it was painted in a vibrant colour. He took it to the store counter.
Since he had forgotten to check it, when the employee told him the price, Ernest realized he didn't have enough money. Since he had already bought other gifts, his remaining savings were no longer enough to pay for it.
Despite his wealth, his father wouldn't allow him to carry a considerable amount of money. Eton provided everything he needed, so his allowance was modest.
Ernest was very embarrassed. “I'm so sorry. I was sure I had extra money with me.” The young man tried to apologize. “I'll come back another day to buy this frame or another one you have in stock. I’ll call my father tonight.”
Ernest had said the frame was for a portrait of a special person, so the employee assumed it was a gift for a girlfriend.
“Don't worry, kid. I'll apply my employee discount. That way, you'll still have change left over to buy her some chocolates.” The shopkeeper smiled tenderly.
Ernest was going to deny it but decided to just thank him for his kindness. He really wanted that frame for Constance.
“Get out of the way, you broken bastard.” He pushed Ernest back. “I need you to exchange these two 50-pound notes for the photo printing machine,” Tristan demanded of the shopkeeper.
“I’m sorry, I can’t. I have very few coins today.”
“How so you don’t have?” He was irritated.
“On this time of the year customers pay with higher denomination bills, so…”
“I don't care. I need coins now!” He cried.
The shop owner came from the workshop to see what was going on. Tristan complained about the shopkeeper's incompetence.
“In case you haven't noticed, we manufacture picture frames; we're not the Bank of England.” The owner replied in a tone.
“Do you know whom you are speaking to?” Tristan was foaming at the mouth.
“With someone who has many bills but zero education. Please, take your bills and leave my shop.”
Tristan stormed out of the store, fuming like a dragon.
On the following morning, all the Wellington House students, upon waking up, found an envelope in their rooms. It didn’t have any identification of the sender or clue about the content.
When Ernest opened his, he dropped the contents. Looking at the photographs scattered on the floor, he didn't realize exactly what they were at first. Only later, upon closer inspection, he realize that they were intimate photographs of a woman.
Hearing a commotion in the hallway, Ernest opened the door. Clearly, the other guys had received something similar.
Some seemed embarrassed; others were letting their hormones take over. The neighbours were saying that the woman in the photos was the Maths teacher.
Ernest looked at the photos again. They didn't seem like the typical nudes that some of his colleagues received and showed off. The teacher seemed oblivious to the camera. Almost all of them were in the shower or getting dressed.
Mr. Webster tried to remain calm, but he was furiously snatching the photographs from the students' hands. “Miss Law is a respectable lady. You should be ashamed of yourselves for laughing at this hideous prank. I hope the culprit wasn't anyone from this house! No one leaves or enters! I'm going to talk with the principal now. If anyone here was complicit or knows anything about this matter and isn't man enough to admit it, you all will suffer triple the penalty!”
Ernest joined Bart in his room while they waited for the master to return.
“Poor, Miss Law. I'm not a fan of Maths, but I'm a fan of hers. Only someone very Machiavellian could do something like that.” Bart commented. He noticed that Ernest was pensive. “A penny for your thoughts, my friend?”
“The photographs, besides being...well...revolting...has a strange perspective.”
“What do you mean?”
“It looks like they were taken with a spy camera.”
“Do you think someone installed spy cameras in her bedroom?”
“It's quite possible.”
“But who? Who would want to harm her? Sometimes she's a bit harsh, but everyone knows that's tough love.”
The Dame went from door to door announcing that everyone should stay in their rooms all day as punishment. The students had until the following morning for someone to confess or denounce the culprit. Otherwise, harsher measures would be taken.
From the window, Ernest saw Miss Law leave the building. Some bolder boys whistled at her from the windows. The teacher was so devastated that she flipped them the middle finger.
It was whispered in the hallways of the house that the police were already involved.
Although he was studying, Ernest couldn't stop thinking about the case. He felt like he was in one of those mystery series where the key clue is right in front of the eyes, but nobody sees it.
During the night, Ernest woke up suddenly for no reason. That's when he remembered: he had seen Richard and Gideon in town printing many photos days before. He was almost certainly involved.
Nevertheless, Ernest was afraid they wouldn't believe him. Most people treated Richard like a prince.
As soon as the sun rose, Ernest went to see Mr. Webster, but he only told everything he knew in front of the principal. “That's a good lead. Thank you for coming forward, Ernest. We will investigate in the coming days.”
The punishments were temporarily lifted during the investigation.
In the following days, they had another Maths teacher...one of those boring ones.
“They say the punishment is temporarily suspended, but these classes are pure torture.” Bart complained. “I chose punishment!”
A couple of days later, around bedtime, some police officers entered the house. All the boys stood at the door to see who would be taken away.
Everyone was speechless when they saw the police officers knocking on Tristan Richard's door. As if by magic, a lawyer appeared minutes later to accompany him and Gideon to the police station.
Mr. and Mrs. Webster couldn’t calm the boys' agitation.
Tristan and Gideon returned to the dormitory early in the morning. Despite the masters' orders, all the boys were peeking through the door.
Tristan stopped at Ernest's door. “I know what you did. You'll pay for this, you rat.” He didn't speak loudly, just loud enough for Ernest to hear inside the bedroom.
“How did he know it was you? Isn't there a rule protecting witnesses in this institution?” Bart, who had sneaked into Ernest's bedroom during the night, was outraged. “Why didn't you tell me about your suspicions?”
“Precisely because they were just suspicions. Furthermore, I was afraid that someone would break the confidentiality of the complaint. You don't need more problems than you already have, Bart.”
“Thank you for your consideration, but I wouldn't have minded teaching that pompous duke a lesson. Not even at Eton are we all equal.” Bart sighed. “Last night they were saying he did it as revenge for a bad grade. Others said he tried to flirt with her, and Miss Law rejected him.”
“Whatever the reason he claims, it was a very low blow. He may be royalty, but he lacks nobility of spirit.”
“You’ll have Miss Law’s eternal gratitude. You are now her knight in shining armour, which will be useful at the grades… Unfortunately, I think you've made an enemy, Ernest. This guy isn't used to losing a play.”
“A Sinclaire doesn’t have enemies," Ernest said.
“Don't know what Charles Mackay said.? ‘You have no enemies, you say? Alas, my friend, the boast is poor. He who has mingled in the fray of duty that the brave endure must have made foes. If you have none, small is the work that you have done.’”
Many had warned him that bad things were going to happen. Tristan Richard was powerful and had many lackeys in his service. Impeccably polished shoes that mysteriously became dirty, the detachable collar that disappeared, sports equipment that disappeared and reappeared in the most unusual places, messages that never reached their destination…even an invasion of frogs in the room that almost caused Bart to have a heart attack.
Ernest knew who was behind it, but he couldn't prove it, or no one seemed interested in . investigating it. More than the pranks, the reprimands were what annoyed Ernest the most. He was striving to be exemplary, and that pompous duke was tarnishing his first year.
∭
Years later
Minerva said she would come to the Christmas market opening with her sisters after lunch. Ernest had arrived sooner, determined to not waste any minute. Even if he didn't do it consciously, the young Sinclaire killed time was pacing around, looking in all directions.
Despite his gloves, his hands were cold from nervousness.
He touched his coat pocket obsessively, afraid of losing the fancy box. He almost regretted having bought it already. Maybe it was soon to give it to her.
Distracted by his anxieties, he almost got rammed by an unruly group of children running to Santa Claus's house.
When she turned his head, there she was: beautiful and elegant, even though she was being dragged by the twins.
When their eyes met, Minerva smiled at him, turning his legs into jelly.
The nanny he got to look after the Parsons girls had just arrived.
“Don't look at expenses to keep them busy, Annabeth.” Ernest asked the girl.
“Don’t worry, Ernest. You will not see them all afternoon. Good luck!” Annabeth pinched his cheek.
It took Minerva a few minutes to persuade the twins to stay with Annabeth. When they finally released her, Ernest went to her.
“Is she trustworthy?” Minerva asked concernedly, looking back.
“Yes, don't worry. Even though she's not much older than us, she looked out for me a few times. She’s amazing! They won’t even notice time passing. Shall we?” Ernest offered her his arm, and Minerva took it.
“Why is that big backpack?” she asked.
“It’s a surprise,” he smiled.
During their trip to the market, Ernest bought several delicacies.
“Are you thinking about giving someone a sugar rush?” Minerva tried to sound him out.
“I can’t resist sweet things.” Ernest smiled enigmatically.
After a walk around the market, Ernest led her towards the forest.
“Where are we going?” Minerva pressed him to spill the beans.
“To one of my favourite places.” He kept an inscrutable tone.
They walked for a while in the snowy forest.
“I guess I didn't think about it very well after all...” Ernest murmured when they arrived at the frozen lake.
“What’s wrong, Ernest?”
“I... It was my fault... Would you mind if I blindfolded you?” Ernest felkt embarrassed by his own question.
“What?!” Minerva wasn’t expecting such request.
“I'm sorry; I really wanted it to be a surprise, but my plan failed in some details.”
“Very well, I trust in you, Ernest. Blind me then.”
Ernest did it with his scarf. When trying to put things together quickly, he slipped on the ice a couple of times.
“Is everything alright, Ernest?” Minerva sensed something was happening.
“Yes... I am almost ready.” Ernest sped up the preparations.
When he finished, Ernest felt himself sweating like a summer day. He hoped his body didn't smell like it.
He took one last look before removing her blindfold. Several fur blankets covering the ice, two cushions each to lean on, sweets carefully arranged, and two big thermos bottles of spiced hot chocolate.
Ernest took a deep breath as he took off her blindfold. If she didn't like it, it would be the end before it even began.
Her squeals of joy soothed his heart. “What a wonderful idea, Ernest! It feels like we are in a winter postcard!” She kissed his cheek.
“I’m happy you liked it.” He smiled, relieved. “Shall we?” Ernest helped her to get installed.
He poured her a chocolate drink. “I hope it isn't too strong.”
“It’s perfect; don’t worry! I still have Indian blood, remember? A little of spice doesn’t scare me.” She laughed.
A cooler breeze swept across the valley, sending a shiver down Minerva's spine. Since there weren’t any more blankets, Ernest offered her his coat.
“No way! I have a better idea.” Minerva opened the buttons of his coat. A not-so-pure thought crossed his mind as he observed her delicate fingers dancing with his buttons. Then, Minerva leaned against his body, making his heart skip a beat. He could have sworn his blood was boiling. “Much better.” She smiled at him.
As time passed, Ernest's nervousness dissipated. Calmer, he let himself enjoy these new feelings that Minerva was making flourish within him.
“If I had known we were coming here, I would have brought my skates!” Minerva commented. “Please note this is not a complaint. I am really enjoying this moment with you.”
“Maybe that can be arranged.” He smiled. Ernest had been debating until the last moment whether to take the ice skates or not, but now he was very glad he had taken them.
“Would you mind if I see if the shoe fits, Miss Parson?” He took a pair out of the backpack. Ernest helped her take off her boots. Even though she was wearing thick stockings, he felt for a brief moment like he was in a scene from a Regency-era film. Ernest assumed Minerva thought the same because she was blushing a little. He put her ice skates on.
“How did you know that...that I might want it?”
“I, well... I've seen you skate every winter since ever... You're really good at it, by the way.” He felt foolish, but it was the best compliment he could come up with at the moment. Ernest was afraid he was making a terrible impression. His feelings were clouding his eloquence.
Once Ernest was sure the ice skates were securely fastened, Minerva flew onto the ice. She looked like a feather floating in the summer breeze. Looking at her marvelled, he forgot to tighten his own skates.
“What are you waiting for? Come on, Ernest!” She called him.
He gladly followed her. Minerva took his hand, and he followed her lead, letting himself get lost in her dance.
One of her pirouettes made their noses brush against each other. His lips were a breath away from hers. Would she want it as much as he? He was still tilting her chin up but changed his mind and made her spin again. Everything was going well so far; he didn't want to risk a false step.
He didn't know exactly how much time had passed, but when he came back to reality, the sun was disappearing on the horizon.
“I think we'd better get going. Annabeth must be about to go crazy with the little terrors.”
Hand in hand, they headed back to the market.
Arriving there, they say the younger Parsons were still in line for Santa's house.
“I think we just got bonus time.” Minerva smiled, squeezing his hand. She led him behind Santa Claus's house. “Thank you, Ernest. It was a wonderful time.”
“I am happy you enjoyed our time together.” Ernest cringed at his own words. He hoped it had not sounded as ridiculous as it did in his head. “May I see you again soon?” He caressed her cheek.
“I’d like it very much.”
Ernest couldn't tell who made the first move, because in the next second his lips were so close to hers that he could feel the soft tickle of her breath. That was the moment. That was the moment he had been imagining for the last few weeks. Ernest wanted to do this right so badly that for a couple of seconds he felt as if he had fainted. Coming to his senses, Ernest looked into Minerva's eyes and let his heart do the rest. He feared rejection, yet brushing her lips tentatively, he found the greatest softness he could imagine. Not only did he feel welcomed but also felt her pulling him closer. When his mouth closed over hers, the door to a new world opened for him. Ernest thought his heart would burst at any moment with such new and blissful feelings. His body gently pressed her against the wall as her lips claimed more of him. Ernest could barely breathe, but he didn't care. He just wanted that moment never to end.
Panting, they rested their foreheads against each other. “I want more than this… I mean, I’m falling in love with you… and I want to fall even more. “Would you consider being my girlfriend?” Ernest hadn't planned to ask at that moment, but he couldn't help himself any longer.
“Yes! A thousand times yes!” She accepted it with happy tears in her eyes.
Ernest hugged her, spinning her around in the air, possessed of utter happiness.
Annabeth cleared her throat to draw their attention to her and the girls' presence. Cordelia's face was still wet from tears.
“What happened?” Minerva asked worriedly, caressing the twin' cheeks.
“Cordelia was afraid of Santa, but now everything is fine. They made peace,” Annabeth explained.
“Look, sis, he gave me this giant lollipop!” Cordelia showed it off proudly.
“Good, but it’s enough adventures in the market. Let’s go home!” Minerva took each twin in her hand. She kissed him on the cheek and whispered in his ear, “I will text you later today.”
Ernest stared at her until she disappeared into the middle of the crowd. However, when he turned to take his way back home, he saw Annabelle still standing there. “What are you doing here? Come, I’ll take you home!”
“I thought you might like to know that my silence is for sale.” Annabelle told him, ignoring his question.
“What do you mean?” Ernest frowned.
“Exactly what you heard.” Annabelle smiled.
“What did you see or think you saw... There's nothing wrong. We are mature enough for that.” Ernest argued.
“I don't know if my father shares the same opinion.” Annabelle immediately counter-argued.
He sighed. There was no point in denying it; all he could do was bribe the girl until he asked Mr. Parson for the official permission. “What currency do you trade in?”
“Preferably in cash. I no longer sell myself for sugar.”
Ernest rummaged through his wallet and found a twenty-pound note. “It’s all I have now.”
Annabelle took the note from his hand. “I am not worried. I know there's a lot more where that came from. You will hear from me soon.” The girl ran into the crowd to catch her sisters.
“Damn! I forgot to give her the bracelet!” Ernest remembered as he put his hand in his pocket.
The young man was so ecstatic that he didn't even remember how he got home. Ernest closed the door behind him and leaned against the old wood for a moment to catch his breath. He still couldn’t believe in himself. He had kissed Minerva Parson, the most beautiful girl he had ever met! Ernest still could feel her scent on his sweater.
The things had not happened exactly as planned. Now that Ernest thought about it, it was a little embarrassing. A kiss behind Santa Claus's hut didn't fit the cinematic moment he had envisioned. He would have preferred it to have happened somewhere more romantic, but with the younger Parsons around them, it was for the best.
So, that was love? He was unsure about what to do next. He needed some advice. However, he didn't feel comfortable approaching the subject with his father. Not that he had been around much lately anyway, spending most of the week in London, sunk in work. Much less with Mrs. Lewis. The very thought of it made him blush. Maybe with the Earl? Ernest would have to act soon. The Parsons would spend the holidays in London that year.
Still a little dazed by what had happened, Ernest went upstairs. Nothing like some maths exercises to organise the ideas.
Passing through the corridor, he heard voices coming from his father's office. Approaching the door, he made out his father's and Earl's voices.
“Mary,what?!” Matthew raised his voice, incredulous.
“Exactly what you heard, Matthew. Mary was pregnant. We broke up in February, and the baby was born in November. It’s a girl...Beatrice.”
A baby...born in November? How so? The Earl had a baby daughter? And who the hell was Mary? Ernest couldn't believe what he was hearing. He couldn't imagine Vincent doing such a thing. The Earl was a model of the family man...at least in Ernest’s eyes. Of course, he knew better than to listen behind the door, but not even the good English manners could resist finding out more.
“The test results arrived in the mail today... They are positive... Not that there were any doubts...” Vincent continued.
“She has much of you, indeed. And she’s very cute! Look at this face!” Matthew's voice It had a sweetness that Ernest hadn't heard in a long time. “But she has Mary’s sassiness in her eyes… And she'll definitely have it on her tongue too, I bet. If she inherited her mother's voice... it's the fatal combination. Better you get your shotgun ready to scare away the suitors.” He joked. “Talking seriously, what are you going to do about it?”
“Bring her home, of course! She is my daughter!”
“I'd do the same, obviously, but you're going to cause World War III in Edgewater, you know that.”
“They both already know. At first, my mother was a little shocked, like any proper lady, but I know that deep down, she is loving the idea of having a granddaughter to pamper.
“Henrietta is more hysterical about this, but eventually she will calm down. Be that as it may, she was warned: I will not hesitate in choosing my daughter over her. I just have to explain it to the boys. They the truth. I don't want to make the same mistakes. If I only knew...”
“Would you have done anything differently? Would you have changed your decision?” Ernest recognised his father's tone o skepticism. m. He was becoming more and more intrigued.
“I don’t know... Maybe... Maybe not... But I would have done things differently, that’s for sure. At least towards my daughter. She is completely innocent of this mess.”
“It's unbelievable that they were so close all this time. It's almost a miracle they didn't cross you sooner.”
“Believe me, there were times when I thought about going to Grovenshire and turning over every stone looking for her, for some information...”
Ernest felt a light tap on his shoulder. He almost jumped out of his skin.
“Here you are!” Mrs. Lewis caught him in the act. “I need help from a tall guy in the library, please. Are you free by chance?”
“Yes, Mrs. Lewis. I’m coming.” Ernest turned red.
Even though unconsciously (and his conscious side knew it was none of his business), Ernest couldn't stop thinking about it all day.
At dinner, even Mr. Sinclaire noticed his son was quieter than usual. “You're very quiet tonight, Ernest. Is everything okay? How are things going with Minerva?”
“How...?” Ernest didn't imagine his father knew what was happening. Mrs. Lewis had probably told him. Those two were gossip experts. “Yes...It’s fine.” Ernest opened his mouth several times before he could verbalize the question. “Is it true that the Earl has a... let’s say... a natural daughter?” He could barely speak because of delicate nature of the subject.
“Did you hear our conversation?”
“I... I was walking down the hall, and I heard you talking louder... I had no intention of eavesdropping, but my curiosity got the better of me.
His father laughed at his embarrassment. A hearty laugh from his father was a rare occurrence. “Yes, it’s true.”
“So... does the Earl have a mistress?”
“No.”
“So how...?”
“Did you really think Henrietta was Earl's first choice?”
“I...I mean...I never thought about it... But you mentioned a baby!”
“She's not a baby anymore. It's a young girl. Her name is Beatrice.” Matthew Sinclaire was amused by his son's naïve observations. “This isn't my story to tell, but I think I can sum up the facts for you. Some years ago, I threw an enormous party at The Trafalgar St. James. At that party, the Earl, who was single at the time, met a singer called Mary. I guess we can say it was a case of love at first sight. They were together for a couple of years. The Earl had proposed to her, but there was a misunderstanding between them, and they broke up. After that, Mary simply vanished from the radar screens, and Vincent ended up complying with his family's wishes, marrying Henrietta. However, as you heard, Mary was pregnant, and a girl was born. No one knew about her until now.” Before Ernest could ask, Matthew answered. “Sadly, Mary passed away last month. That's why the truth has came to light now. The girl has no family left other than the Foredale.”
The girl's situation moved Ernest. He knew well what the girl was going through. Losing a mother was a wound that healed, but it was a throbbing pain that never went away.
Despite his initial surprise, the weeks passed, and Ernest, with all his time taken up by studies and Miss Parson, almost forgot the matter.
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These technicians are fitting the V12 Merlin engine at the Castle Bromwich Aircraft Factory. The engine - which produced 1030hp - was able to power the Spitfire to 362mph - 30mph quicker than the Hurricane equipped with the same engine.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.
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Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
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