Page 11

—

Dear Molly,

If you’ve been reading along, I imagine you’re shocked by the version of your gran you’re meeting in these pages. When I was a girl, I could be insensitive and cruel. I simply didn’t know any better, and my parents served as terrible role models. Because I lacked a sense of belonging, I often tried to steal self-worth from those who possessed it naturally, such as Uncle Willy’s son. But we reap what we sow, and if we do not cultivate kindness, malice springs from the soil and poisons everything. I did not learn this lesson easily, and I did not learn it on my own. For every loss I’ve suffered in this life, I’ve gained compassion, comprehension, and empathy. And if I had to do it all again, I wouldn’t exchange these riches for all the gold in the world.

Molly, you’re about to begin a chapter full of surprises, not all of them concerning me. Let’s open a week after the start of my prep courses as I returned home from a day of intense but fulfilling lectures. I was surviving the trials and tribulations of the classroom, and though my classmates made me keenly aware of my gender every single day, I refused to let it hinder me. I studied with relentless resolve, ignoring taunts and provocations from other students. And as each day passed, I thrived on acquired knowledge, finding within myself deep reserves of tenacity I never knew I had.

Meanwhile, at Gray Manor, tensions continued to mount, and the susurrations about Gray Investments turned from vapor to a solid mass. My father’s business was in grave jeopardy. Some foolhardy financial decisions coupled with a market crash had left his firm vulnerable to attack for the very first time in generations. There was talk of liquifying assets, selling stocks, dissolving trusts. Never before had I seen my father—a lion of a man with the soul of a conqueror—so weakened as to be mistaken for a lamb.

In the corridors of Gray Manor, Papa mumbled to himself. Dark circles found permanent refuge beneath his eyes, and when I saw a button hanging by a thread on his normally perfect Savile Row suit jacket, I found Uncle Willy right away. He was washing the cathedral windows in the foyer. “You’re Papa’s butler,” I said. “Do something. He’s falling apart at the seams.”

Uncle Willy put down his spray bottle and cloth. “Flora,” he said, “I’m doing the best I can. Please recall that your father, in his infinite wisdom, fired half the manor staff some time ago. I’ve been filling in the gaps ever since, but he just put me in charge of the Braun Summit to be held at the manor in one week’s time. How much more can one man take on?”

“The Braun Summit?” I repeated, uncomprehending. I knew about the upcoming Workers’ Ball, but I had not heard mention of any other event taking place within the manor walls. I had, however, heard the name Braun bandied about by both of my parents, a name always voiced with fear and trepidation. Magnus Braun was the CEO of Braun Wealth, an up-and-coming investment firm that rivaled my father’s. The way my parents spoke of him, you’d think Magnus was Zeus himself, able to smite his foes with a single bolt of lightning unleashed from his all-powerful hand.

“Flora, next week, Magnus and his board of directors will descend upon the manor for a key meeting,” Uncle Willy revealed, “and if I’m not mistaken, your father intends to make one last-ditch attempt to convince them not to gobble up the family firm entirely. I’ve been given orders to create an illusion of grandeur, as though this estate weren’t running on fumes and a skeleton staff. I’ve hired anyone with a pulse—just for one week. I’m to dress them in service uniforms for jobs they’ve never done in their lives. So can you see how a button on your father’s jacket is not at this moment my foremost concern?”

Never before had I seen Uncle Willy so unnerved. This prompted me to make a rare and immediate apology. “I’m sorry,” I said as I stared at my feet. “I didn’t know any of this.”

He sighed and softened. “I’m sorry, too,” he said. “Things aren’t looking good.”

“But what does this mean?” I asked. “Could we really lose everything, even the estate?”

“It seems so,” Uncle Willy replied.

I heard his words, but young as I was, I didn’t really understand them. I’d been born into wealth, took it as a given. I could hardly comprehend that fortunes can shift unexpectedly, that pedigree and privilege can wither as quickly as a rose plucked from its stem.

“But don’t you worry yourself, Flora,” Uncle Willy said. “It isn’t over until it’s over. And in the meantime, you keep studying. Education opens doors. It’s the one thing no one can take from you. Remember that.”

I surveyed the foyer to make sure no one was around, then I threw my arms around Uncle Willy and hugged him tight. “Thank you,” I said.

I made my way deeper into the manor, walking through the corridor of family portraits, past the cavernous, lonely banquet room. I veered away from the entrance to the kitchen, with its stainless-steel work surfaces and Italian-tiled walls. A maid was on her hands and knees by the oven, scrubbing the checkerboard floor.

I looked away as I passed the main parlor, then rushed up the grand oak staircase toward my destination—the library. As I went, the idea of losing Gray Manor lingered in my mind. I tried to imagine what life would be like beyond the palatial manor walls. Having experienced nothing else, I assumed the estate would always be there for me, as would Mama and Papa. But as you know, Molly, it’s perilous to assume.

In my father’s magnificent library, I found distraction from the mood of doom and gloom in the manor by ensconcing myself in books, but for the first time ever, when I walked through the heavy walnut door, I was not alone. Halfway up the ladder, placing a leather-bound volume back on a high shelf, was a young man I never expected to find on my sacred ground—John.

“What exactly are you doing here?” I snapped at the lad, who, startled, nearly toppled off the ladder on wheels.

I stood imperiously, hands on my hips, staring up at him, to where his unruly head looked down at me from between the faces of two chubby-cheeked cherubs frescoed onto the ceiling. He gingerly stepped down the ladder to the safety of the herringbone-patterned floor.

“Hi,” he said as he wiped his hands on his worker’s trousers. “Don’t worry about me, I’m fine.”

I huffed out loud at the presumption—that I should be worried about him when in fact he should be worried about explaining what in heavens he was doing in Papa’s library. I glowered at him, directing laser beams of ire into his brooding brown eyes, until at long last he broke the silence and said, “So you’re desperate to know what I’m doing here.”

“Indeed,” I said.

“Your father talked to my father. And my father talked to me. Apparently, someone ”—he said this mockingly, mimicking the same death stare I’d directed at him moments ago—“accused me of stealing books from this library, even though I was given permission by your father to borrow whatever I liked.” He paused then, and I watched as his jaw clenched. He walked over to an antique brass book trolley on which various leatherbound volumes were stacked haphazardly. He placed his hand on the top tome as though he were swearing on a Bible. “Think whatever you like about me,” he said, “but know one thing: I’m not a thief.”

“Really?” I replied. “And I should know that how?”

“I always give books back,” he replied. “You don’t remember?”

“I’m sorry?” I said, completely at a loss.

“Really? When we were kids?”

Truly, in that moment, I had no idea what he was talking about.

“So let me get this straight,” I said, barreling on. “After taking all the books you knew I would need in advance of our classes, you decide to put the books back out of the kindness of your heart?”

“Not exactly,” he said with a galling smirk that looked out of place on such a handsome face. “I needed a bit of convincing, but I think you’ll find the volumes returned to their proper shelves—most of them, anyhow.”

“My father will be greatly relieved,” I said.

“Oh, you remember your father now?” he replied. “The other day in class, it was like you completely forgot who he was. And I think you forgot who you are, too.” He smiled then, and his face filled with mirth, his cockiness making me irate.

The dragon in my belly awoke, flailing and raging until its fire colored my cheeks. Had he really expected me to use my father’s good name to save him from the wrath of the boys in class?

“It must be tough for you,” I said, “being the only son of a servant in the entire school.”

His head bowed and his broad shoulders slumped—my arrow had hit its mark. But a moment later, he recovered, and his eyes met mine once more. “It must be tough for you, too,” he countered, “being the only girl in class and being an even worse snob than her parents.”

I was wounded and furious all at once. This is the problem in love and war, Molly. All is fair, but the end result is the same—everyone gets hurt. I bit my lip hard, not caring if I drew blood so long as my hot tears did not spill humiliation down my cheeks right in front ofhim.

John studied me closely, taking in the minutiae of my expression. I was certain he was enjoying my pain, but as it turned out, I was wrong. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t know why I said that. It was a cruel thing to say.”

His voice was still prideful, but there was a catch in it now that I hadn’t heard before, a sincerity that rang true as a clarion bell.

“You know it’s us against them, right?” he continued. He took a step toward me. His eyes were warm and gentle. “All those boys in our class, they’re just jealous because they’re not very bright. That’s why they treat us like they do.”

He smiled, and I noticed his mouth for the very first time—his ruby lips generous and full. I hated him for those lips, for his mouth that could be alluring and caustic at the same time.

I knew I should follow his lead and apologize, too, for the callous remarks I’d made, and for using him as a scapegoat in class. Here was my moment to take it all back, but I couldn’t bring the words forth. Rather than apologize, I took the coward’s route and changed the subject. “There’s something I don’t follow,” I said.

“What’s that?” he asked, curious head cocked to one side.

“Today in class, the headmaster said something about Romeo and Juliet being both a comedy and a tragedy. You just shelved Shakespeare’s play in tragedy, where it belongs,” I said, pointing to where he’d placed the volume on a high shelf, “which means I don’t quite understand what the headmaster was getting at.”

“Love,” John replied simply, the word tripping off his tongue with such unabashed ease. In my family, the word was never said, but in his, it was everything. “Two star-crossed lovers race toward their doom, and yet they have no idea,” he remarked. “It’s all fun and games for them, at least at first, then bang —someone dies and the party’s over.”

I looked at him, seeing him for the first time—this working-class boy far beneath my station who was mature beyond his years, more nuanced and honest and forgiving than anyone I’d ever met. I didn’t know what to think, what to say.

“I realize your parents would hate this idea, but we could study together if you want,” John said, picking up a volume from the stack of leatherbacks on the trolley. “We could partner up, show those boys at school a thing or two about who takes the top of the class. Anything’s possible: a girl can earn top grade; so can a lowly worker’s son. If we team up, we won’t have to fight over books. And though I don’t like to admit it, I suppose I could learn a little something from a girl as smart as you.”

Blushing, I gobbled up the compliment, so starving was I for praise. Still, I was inexperienced in generosity—I offered none in return. “Why do you think I would help you?” I asked.

His eyes grew two sizes. “Why wouldn’t you, Flora?” he replied.

“Excuse me?” I said. “Are we that familiar now? It’s Miss Gray to you.”

I watched as a look of abject shock claimed his face. He began to pace in front of me, his head shaking back and forth. “Right,” he said, coming to a sharp stop in front of me. “Clearly, I’ve forgotten my place again. How dare I call Her Ladyship by her given name. Listen, if that’s how you want it to be, fine. But you’re acting like a spoiled brat. For a while there, I thought there was more to you, but I see I got that wrong.”

“You did,” I said, crossing my arms against my chest. “You got that, and much else, entirely wrong.”

He stomped toward the door, about to leave, but before he did, he turned back. “Assuming I have to talk to you again—and I assure you, I’ll go to great lengths to avoid it—I’ll do as you wish and call you Miss Gray. But I expect the same from you.”

“Meaning?” I asked.

“Don’t call me John. Call me by my father’s family name, a name I am proud to bear and one I respect with every fiber of my being. From now on, to you, I’m Mr.Preston.”

And so it was, Molly, that the man who you know by the very same name became on that day my heart’s desire and my sworn enemy.