Total pages in book: 192
Estimated words: 183663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 918(@200wpm)___ 735(@250wpm)___ 612(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 183663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 918(@200wpm)___ 735(@250wpm)___ 612(@300wpm)
“What about Griffin?”
“Slip of the tongue.” She waves away her explanation, ignoring the tactless nature of my words. I guess it makes it sound like I was defending him, which is what a girlfriend would do.
I hope you know what you’re doing, she’d whispered last night. Maybe this will help convince her of my lie. The lie I feel awful about.
“But Griffin wasn’t handed any of the responsibility. It all fell to Sandy, even the responsibility for Griffin’s education and the start of his career, but that’s another story.” She turns back to the portrait. “I like to think our parents married for love. She didn’t come from the kind of money needed to get the family back on track. But my father couldn’t stay faithful. So, they loved and then they hated, and my mother drank herself into an early grave.”
“I’m sorry.” So sorry for them both. I mean, I had a less than idyllic childhood, being pushed from mother to grandmother and back again. At least until the last in a long line of boyfriends decided Kennedy and I were more burden than anything else. But at least we had Nana.
“That’s kind of you,” she murmurs blandly, turning back to face me. “Did you have a happy childhood?”
“Yes, I did.” Mostly. “I was mostly raised by my grandmother, who was a character and a half.” I smile in remembrance. “My father died when I was very young, and my mother wasn’t much in the picture. But, yes, I had a happy childhood.”
“Sandy didn’t. Our father was very charming when he wanted to be. Usually when he wanted something. To women, he was a delight. Until he was done with them, I suppose. But he was hard on Sandy, and he left him nothing but trouble. But I’m not telling you this as gossip or a history lesson. I’m telling you because I think you might like to hear it. Sandy isn’t like our father, no matter what anyone says. He’s loyal and just and puts his family and his land above everything else.
“Do you know the meaning of the name Alexander? It means defender or helper of man. I know his manner can be cold. Superior, even. And I know he can seem like such a superior snob. But he isn’t. He’s a good man.”
“I know.” My voice is small. He’s a good man who can’t seem to help himself. I don’t mean it as a slight. It’s more an observation. An affinity, maybe.
“I did tell him to stay away from you and now I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t. Griffin is—”
“Please.” I shake my head, unwilling to get into this.
“You’re a good person, Holland. You deserve better.”
“How come there’s no portrait of him? Of Alexander?” I ask, trying to change the subject.
“There is.” I begin to follow her across the room, realising what we’re heading towards.
“This is us,” she says, pointing at the portrait Chrissy had shown me my first day here.
I find myself smiling up at the boy in long pants and the girl in the blue dress.
“You know, when Chrissy told me about ‘Lady Isla’s wee boys’ I thought you were married to the duke.”
“The Dalforth’s aren’t that bad,” she says with a laugh.
“What about the later duchess?” Like a scab I can’t help but pick, I find myself glancing around the room, wondering where her portrait is.
“We don’t have one. Just this.” Her shoes echo as she walks to the far end of the room as I hesitate, wondering if I should follow. But I do. There, on a credenza, stand a dozen silver framed photographs. Some sepia. Some black and white. Some colour. Isla reaches to one at the back, lifting it before dusting the sleeve of her blouse over the front. “This is Leonie,” she says, passing it over. “I’m not even sure Sandy realises it’s still here.”
“He doesn’t like the reminder,” I assert as I stare at the image of the Duke and Duchess of Dalforth on their wedding day. He seems so young, and she resembles a fairy queen. They appear so happy. So happy I can’t look at it, so I pass it over.
“I suppose that’s one way to look at it,” she replies cryptically as she sets it back on the credenza.
I know it’s not right or even sane to be jealous of someone who isn’t living, but that pain in my chest tells me I am. Which, in a way, tells me I’m doing the right thing. I need to remember how Alexander looked on his wedding day to help strengthen my resolve. To remind me Leonie had Alexander in a way he’ll never be available to me.
Whether it was an enviable marriage or not, this little walk through the Dalforth past has been a useful reminder. And maybe he’s right. Maybe I am despicable. But sometimes you’ve got to be cruel to be kind. Especially to those you love.