Mister and Missus By E L James - 66

My wife has been quietly campaigning for me to reconcile with the Mothership since Rowena’s midnight meltdown. Alessia thinks I haven’t noticed, but for her to seize the moment to meet my mother with such enthusiasm is surprising, given how awful she’s been to Alessia.

You should hear her side of Kit’s story. Sometimes women find themselves in… difficult situations.

That she would volunteer to spend any time with the Mothership is either foolhardy or courageous.

Mate. Who are you kidding?

Alessia is beyond courageous.

She steps out of the spare bedroom to where I wait in the hall.

“Is this okay?” she asks, raising her chin, her dark eyes on me. She’s dressed in her Jimmy Choos, elegant black trousers, and a cream silk blouse. Her hair is brushed and swept back in a chic fancy braid, and the pearls I bought her in Paris nestle at her ears. Her makeup is discreet, her perfume an expensive whisper of Chanel, and her engagement ring sparkles beneath the light from the chandelier.

She’s every inch a peeress.

And for a split second, I’m transported back to a time when a timid young woman with the darkest of dark eyes clutched a broom and hesitantly told me her name in my hallway.

The headscarf.

The blue nylon housecoat.

The scuffed trainers.

A lump threatens to form in my throat.

My wife fucking rocks countessing.

I cough to clear my emotion. “You’re perfect.”

With a flick of her hand, she swats my compliment away, but I know from the lift of her lips that she’s pleased. “ You look perfect. Muchly.”

“This old thing?” I grin and tug on the lapels of my Dior jacket. “Let’s go and get this over with. You happy to walk in those heels?”

“Yes.”

I help her into her jacket and set the alarm, and we leave the flat hand in hand.

Our time away in Cornwall has done the trick. There are no press to hound us when we leave the building, and it’s a mild evening; the dusk air is still warmed by a gloriously bright day that heralded the coming spring.

“We should move to the new house,” Alessia says as we approach what will be our home on Cheyne Walk.

“We should.”

“I can organize that.”

“Okay.” I grin. “I’ll leave it to you. We can move at anytime.”

“The most important piece of furniture is the piano.”

“We’ll probably need to crane it out of the flat.”

She stops outside the house. “A crane!”

“There are specialists. I think that’s how we got it in there.”

“O Zot!”

“Yeah. O Zot. All manner of shenanigans. I’d buy a new one, but I’m very fond of that piano.”

“As am I,” she says dreamily. “It has such a rich tone. You know, when I was cleaning your apartment, it was my escape. I used to play when you were out. It was wonderful.”

I bring her hand to my lips and kiss her knuckles. “I’m glad you had an escape.”

Reaching up, she cups my face. “In so many ways,” she whispers, and her fingertips stroke the stubble on my cheek, stirring my desire.

Enough.

“Come. Let’s get this over with before I decide to take you home and muss your makeup and ravish you.”

She grins. “That would be fine. But we should see your mother.”

I ring the doorbell at Trevelyan House, and Blake answers almost immediately.

“Good evening, Lord Trevethick.”

“Blake.”

“Lady Trevethick,” he greets Alessia with a genial smile.

“Is my mother here?”

“Not yet, my lord.”

“Good. Caroline in the drawing room?”

“Yes, indeed, with Lady Maryanne.”

With Alessia’s hand in mine, we head upstairs and along the open landing toward the drawing room. Before I open the door, I take a deep breath. I know Caroline will want to finish the conversation we started in my office.

Alessia mentally braces herself as Maxim opens the door. They enter to find Caroline in an animated conversation with Maryanne as they stand beside the bar cart holding drinks. Three hefty candles, each with three wicks, burn brightly on the coffee table, and a fire blazes in the grate, giving the drawing room a welcome, warm glow.

“M.A.” Maxim’s voice caresses her nickname, betraying his fondness for his sister as he steps forward and kisses her cheek. “How was Seattle?”

“It was fabulous, Maxie.” Maryanne hugs him and closes her eyes as she briefly holds him. Of course, they’ve not seen each other since their mother spilled her secrets in such an obnoxious fashion in Maxim’s apartment.

Maryanne turns to Alessia and beams. “Alessia, darling. How are you? I hear you were quite the hit during lambing at the Hall.” She hugs Alessia, long and hard, surprising her.

“Hi, Maryanne. Who have you been talking to at the Hall?”

“Gin and tonics for you two?” Caroline calls. “Hello again, Maxim,” she says stiffly and offers her cheek, which he graces with a kiss.

Maryanne pulls back, her smile bright and sincere. “I have my sources. You look lovely.”

“Thank you, as do you,” Alessia responds. “And yes, please, Caroline.”

Both women are impeccably dressed, as usual—Maryanne in a navy trouser suit, Caroline in a belted charcoal silk shirt dress—but this time, Alessia feels she is too.

Caroline busies herself with fixing drinks, and Maxim offers his help.

“You look happy, Alessia,” Maryanne observes.

Alessia smiles. “So do you. You went to see your friend in Seattle?”

Maryanne barks with laughter. “He’s more than a friend. I did. We had a great deal of fun, and I’m hoping you’ll all get to meet Ethan at Easter.”

“I look forward to that.”

“Tell me about Cornwall. I miss it so.” Maryanne gestures to one of the couches and Alessia perches on it while Maryanne sits beside her, all eyes and bright smiles as if she’s genuinely pleased to see her and interested in what she has to say. Alessia relaxes a little and regales Maryanne with her exploits.

Caroline hands me a gin and tonic. “We were interrupted earlier. You never answered my question.”

“Caro. I don’t think this is the time or the place.”

“Please,” she whispers, her plea so heartfelt it confounds me. Sensing my weakness, she persists. “I need to know.”

“Maxim!” Maryanne exclaims. “Tell me you didn’t teach Alessia to drive in the Defender. What kind of sadist are you?”

I turn my attention to her and my wife, who’s eyeing Caroline and me warily.

She knows something’s going on.

“I did. And as ever, my wife did not let me down.” I give Alessia a sweet, and what I hope is reassuring, smile.

“The Defender?” Caroline scoffs, eyeing me from beneath her lashes. “Really? You are a sadist.”

“Alessia can drive that, so she can drive anything.” I shrug and take a sip of my gin and tonic, pleased that both Caro and Maryanne are calling me out, albeit unnecessarily, on behalf of my wife.

Caroline’s lips press into a hard line, and she moves to hand Alessia a drink, saving me from our awkward conversation about the contents of Kit’s journal.

The door opens, and Rowena strides into the room. Stark in a flowing black jumpsuit, no doubt by Chanel, she halts as soon as she sets her myopic gaze on me.

“Hello, Mother,” I greet her brightly and step forward to kiss her cheek. She remains utterly frozen, blinking into the distance like she’s desperately trying to wish herself anywhere but here. Ignoring her reaction, I kiss her anyway, and as I do, it dawns on me that she’s terrified.

My mother? Terrified?

I’m horrified. But, what upsets me more, is that I recognize that look because I’ve seen it before… on my wife.

Something twists and turns and breaks inside me.

And before I can stop myself, I gather Rowena’s thin frame in my arms, holding her close as my heartbeat races. “It’s okay,” I whisper as she stands unyielding in my embrace. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

Breathing in her expensive perfume, I just hold her, probably for the first time in my life—I don’t remember ever clutching her like this, even as a child—and I don’t want to let go.

As we stand in the middle of the drawing room, my heart rate settles into a calmer rhythm, and I become aware that the conversation behind us has ceased and that all eyes are on us, though neither of us can see anyone.

Rowena does… nothing. Just stands there. In shock, probably, and I think she might have stopped breathing altogether, but finally, she shudders, and with a half sigh or silent sob, she raises her face to mine and kisses my cheek.

“My boy,” she whispers and cups my face, her eyes brimming with tears.

“Oh, Mama,” I mutter and kiss her forehead.

“I’m sorry,” she says almost inaudibly.

“I know. Me too.”

Alessia watches the mother-and-son exchange that unfolds before her, and tears prick her eyes. And even though she can’t hear what they’re saying, it’s more than she could have hoped for…

She glances at her sisters-in-law. Maryanne is stunned into silence as she gapes at her mother and brother while Caroline stares at them, frowning in utter confusion. Finally, she scowls.

“What the hell is going on?” Caroline exclaims.

“ You haven’t told her?” Rowena asks me.

I shake my head. “No.”

She nods, a trace of, dare I say, admiration teasing her lips. “You are just like your father. I think you are the best of him.”

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

She half smiles, then rolls her eyes. “All these… feelings. This is frightfully bourgeois.”

I chuckle. “I know.”

She steps out of my embrace, taking the weight of my anger with her.

“Will somebody please explain what’s happening here?” Caroline says.

“Caroline, darling. I think I have some explaining to do,” Rowena says. “But first, Alessia.”

Alessia’s heart starts pumping as Maxim’s mother faces her and raises her chin.

What is this?

“I owe you an apology.”

Alessia’s scalp tingles—she is not expecting this.

“What I said to you the last time we met was unforgivable. Heath had been interfering, as you know. But I brought him to heel. I didn’t want him going to the press. Anyway, I hope you can find it within yourself to forgive me all the same.”

Alessia rises from her seat and moves toward Rowena. “Of course,” she says.

Rowena holds out a hand, and Alessia takes it, surprised at the chilliness of her mother-in-law’s fingers. “You have a generous spirit, my dear. Don’t lose that.”

“My husband has lost one parent, and you have lost a child… Neither one of you needs to lose another.”

Rowena blinks a couple of times, her surprise obvious. “Yes. That’s exactly right.” She squeezes Alessia’s hand. “You’ve had quite the effect on my son.”

“And he on me.”

Maxim wraps his arm around Alessia’s shoulders and kisses her temple.

“I hear great things from the Hall about you, my dear,” Rowena adds kindly.

“Could someone please tell me what the fuck is going on?” Caroline snaps.

“Let me fix you a drink, Mother,” Maxim says.

“Wine. Please, darling.” She sits in one of the armchairs facing the fireplace, and Alessia takes a seat on the couch.

“Are you ready to hear this?” She’s addressing her children.

“Yes,” Maryanne and Maxim say simultaneously.

“Hear what?” Caroline asks, still bewildered.

Maryanne turns to Caroline. “Daddy was not Kit’s father.”

“What?” Caroline pales and looks from Maryanne to Maxim, but he’s busy pouring wine.

“It’s true,” Rowena says, frowning at Maryanne, probably because she’s just blurted out Rowena’s secret so rudely.

“I’m just catching Caro up on events,” Maryanne says in her defense.

Caroline’s lips part, but it’s not from surprise—more like recognition.

“I didn’t mean to spring this on you, Caro darling. I thought I might be able to tell you privately. I didn’t expect the rest of the family would be here. Apologies for that.”

Caroline nods as if she understands… or she’s in shock. Alessia’s not sure.

I put a glass of chilled Chablis on the coffee table in front of my mother and take my place beside Alessia.

“Do you want to hear this?” Rowena is addressing Caroline.

“I do,” Caro responds quietly.

“Okay. I’ll keep this brief,” she says in her clipped mid-Atlantic tone. She folds her hands in her lap and stares into the waning fire. “When I first came down to London, I was naive and stupid. I wasn’t interested in taking the university place that I had secured; I wanted to have fun. My parents had been terribly strict, but they seemed to abandon all parental control once I moved out. I was lucky, I was living in Kensington with friends from school, and one of them had a job as a model. She dragged me along to her agency. They signed me up, and the rest, as they say… I became what was known as an It-girl.” She says the final two words with disdain.

“It was the ’80s. Greed was good. And I was greedy. I embraced the scene, parties, shoulder pads, big hair… and one day, I met a man who I thought was a good sort, a musician with a good head on his shoulders.

“Well, he was unattainable, and I became obsessed. But one night, after a great deal of alcohol… well, I attained him. I won’t go into the sordid details, and he wanted nothing to do with me after that.

“Around the same time, I was doing a great deal of work with John, your father. As you know, he was such a talented photographer—at the peak of his career. He was the top pick for all the glossies… so we did many shoots together. And our relationship was…more than professional, shall we say. I knew he doted on me.”

Rowena pauses and takes a sip of her drink.

“By the time I found out I was pregnant, the musician had disappeared. When I finally tracked him down, he told me that the child was my problem. And that was that.

“It was…” She frowns. “It was too late for me to…well… Your father took pity on me. He was good and kind like that. We married. He embraced Kit as his own. And it became our secret.

“Cameron guessed, of course.” She glances at Alessia. “That’s John’s brother, Maxim’s uncle. He was furious.” She turns to Maryanne. “But your father loved me…” Her voice fades, and her eyes grow more luminous, and she stares into the fire. The crackle of the flames and the tick of the old Georgian clock accentuate the rapt silence.

She shakes her head as if erasing the memory. “Anyway, Kit’s father moved to the U.S. and became a hugely successful entrepreneur, and very publicly gay, which probably explains his dismissal of me and my child. I never heard from him again, and I pushed him to the back of my mind. Until he died last year. It was on the news, and that’s when I learned of his genetic condition.” She pauses and takes a sip of wine. “That was a dark day.

“It coincided with Kit seeking help for his recurring headaches. So I encouraged him to find medical help without informing him about his biological father. Just after the new year, Kit told me he had an issue, and he wanted to tell you two.” She glances at me and then at Maryanne. “And that’s when I confessed to him.” Her lower lip quivers, but she swallows and maintains her composure. “He was furious, of course. And afterwards, he went out on his motorbike—” Her voice cracks, and from inside her sleeve, she produces a cotton handkerchief.

“Well, we know the rest,” I mutter gently.

“Our argument was the last exchange he had with anyone,” she whispers. “He was so angry with me…” She sounds almost childlike.

The room falls silent again, the quiet only disrupted by the clock striking the half hour, startling Alessia. The sound galvanizes Caroline, who rises and comes to sit beside my mother, taking the other armchair and reaching for her hand. “He wasn’t just angry with you. We both let him down,” she murmurs, and I think only I can hear them.

Rowena casts her a sympathetic look. “I know,” she says quietly.

“He told you?”

Rowena nods. “I am in no position to judge, darling. Kit could be… difficult.”

Difficult? Kit?

Caroline glances at me and promptly averts her eyes.

What the hell is that about?

What other secrets has my family been keeping from me?

“It’s time to give him a proper goodbye, Mama. For all our sakes,” Maryanne pipes up.

“Yes,” Caro and I say in unison.

“You’re right,” Rowena concedes and dabs the corners of each eye with her dainty handkerchief.

“Good,” Caroline says. “We’ll go ahead with his memorial service as planned.”

There’s a knock on the door, and Blake enters. “Dinner is served,” he announces, seemingly oblivious as ever to the bombshells that have been dropped in this room. But I’m pleased to see him. All these secrets are making me hungry.

“You okay?” I ask Alessia.

“Yes. You?”

“I’m fine. Much better, in fact. You were right.” I reach for her hand and we follow Caro out of the drawing room. “I needed to hear her story.”

“You…um…reconciled before you heard her story.”

“A wise young woman reminded me that Rowena’s my one remaining parent.”

Alessia’s cheeks flush a lovely shade of pink, and she smiles at my compliment as we head downstairs into the dining room that has been lavishly set for dinner.

The grand mahogany table is a spectacle, laid with delicate white-and-gold china with matching gold cutlery and candelabras. Alessia gasps when she sees it. But she also spies the Yamaha ebony upright piano at one end of the room.

Caroline insists that Maxim sit at the head of the table. On either side of him, Caroline and his mother take their seats, with Maryanne beside Caro and Alessia sitting beside Rowena. Alessia is pleased not to be fazed by the layout of the impressive cutlery, and once again, she’s grateful for the etiquette course.

Dinner is a convivial affair. It’s like everyone has taken a deep breath and exhaled. Maxim is charming and inclusive. He talks at length to his mother about his plans for Cornwall: The distillery. Regenerative farming. And Maryanne and Rowena plague him with questions, and Maxim answers them with informed ease.

His mother seems like a different person. Like she’s broken out of a cage and is feeling the sun on her face for the first time in a long while. Alessia is fascinated.

Maryanne talks more about Seattle and Ethan and her exploits there. Alessia speaks of her audition at the RCM and her auditions to come.

The only person who doesn’t seem at ease is Caroline. She glances continually at Maxim as if trying to convey something.

Finally, during dessert, Caroline rises. Maxim automatically does too.

“Darling,” she says to Maxim. “I need to speak to you and give you those items that belonged to Kit. Please. Can we do it now?”

Maxim’s gaze slides to Alessia’s, and his eyes are wide, with what—panic?

Why?

Alessia decides this is something between him and his ex-mistress. Nothing to do with her. So she gives him a reassuring smile and offers a slight shrug of her shoulder.

“Of course,” he says to Caroline and follows her out of the room, leaving Alessia with her in-laws.

“Alessia, darling,” Rowena says. “I’ve heard a great deal about your musical talent. I’d love to witness it. Would you do us the honor?”

“Of course. I’d love to.” Alessia rises from the table and heads to the upright. She lifts the lid and tries the middle C. It has a rich, robust tone that echoes in pure gold through the room. “It’s tuned,” she says, almost to herself, and takes a seat on the stool.

With a sinking heart, I follow Caro into the dark shrine that was Kit’s study. I’ve not been in here since he died. It’s a little oppressive, with navy blue walls, large paintings, and a shelf crammed with his curios, photographs, and trophies. I think I detect a faint hint of his cologne, and a vision from a long-forgotten dream or nightmare pops unbidden into my head. He’s leaning over me. You’ve got this. This is what you were born to do. And he’s smiling his crooked, sincere smile that’s reserved for those rare moments—well, I thought they were rare—when he’d fucked up.

I’m suddenly thrown.

Perhaps they weren’t so rare where Caro was concerned.

Hell. I’d always looked up to Kit and envied him.

He got the girl. He got the title. He was gifted at his work in the City.

From the dining room, I hear the piano. The piano on which I learned to play.

Alessia.

She’s playing Clair de Lune, and I remember the last time she played that, I did too—and what a life-affirming experience that was. It’s calming, knowing she’s close by, and it pulls me from my gloomy thoughts to the matter in hand. The last thing I want to do is betray his confidences. His journal was exactly that. It contains his private thoughts, and I don’t want to intrude on those, and I don’t want Caro to do the same.

I decide to grasp the bull by the horns. “I heard what you said to Rowena.”

Caro leans against Kit’s antique desk and crosses her arms. “You know, then.”

I sigh. “I know that Kit knew you had been or were playing away.”

Caro’s gaze stays steady on mine. “What did he write in his journal?”

“He was angry with you and Rowena. That’s all. That’s the last entry. I don’t think he meant to kill himself. He was just angry. Angry at the shitty hand he’d been dealt.”

“Are you including me in that shitty hand?”

For fuck’s sake.

I slump into one of the tartan armchairs facing his desk. “I don’t know, Caro. It wasn’t me who wrote it. And I’m in no position to judge. Neither is Rowena, as she’s said. Was it one person? Several people? That was between you and Kit and your conscience.”

She peers down at her fingernails, then turns and slumps into the chair beside me. “I did love him.”

“I know you did. What did Rowena mean about him being difficult?”

Caroline sits up straight and peers at her fingernails again. She sighs. “He was aloof and demanding. Controlling. Occasionally violent.”

What the fuck!

“With you?” I ask, sitting up properly as shock reverberates through every cell in my body.

She nods and looks from her nails to the ceiling. “Not often.”

“That’s awful. Why didn’t you tell us?”

“I couldn’t. I was too ashamed. And to spite him, I sought companionship elsewhere. I didn’t think he’d mind. He did.”

“Oh, Caro, I’m so sorry.”

“Maryanne noticed. She told your mother. I think Rowena had words with him.”

She stops… and we listen to the faint strains of the piano that Alessia plays with such finesse, but all I can dwell on is that my family has been utterly shite, and I was completely unaware.

“I knew I’d made the wrong choice,” she whispers.

“Caro. Don’t. We’re not going there. What’s done is done.”

“It was so hard for me, watching you aimlessly dipping your wick in anything with a short skirt and a pulse.”

I make a face. “Like mother like son.”

She has the grace to laugh.

“But not anymore,” I add, relieved that she still has her sense of humor.

She rolls her eyes. “Yes. I’ve seen it. You light up like fucking Christmas when she walks into a room. It’s nauseating.”

“No, Caro. It’s love.”

“You were never like that with me.”

“No.”

“She’s a lucky girl.”

“I’m a lucky man.”

“Are you going to give me the journal?”

“Do you really want to know what it says?”

“No. I just hope he didn’t hate me.”

“I never got the impression he hated you, Caro. You two had a fine time in Havana and Bequia last Christmas.”

“We were making an effort. Don’t get me wrong. There were good times too.”

“Dwell on those, darling.”

She nods sadly. “I try.”

“We should get back.”

“Yes.” She rises, and I rise too. She leans over his desk and grasps a wooden box. “These are some of his things I thought you might like.” She hands it to me.

“I’ll check this out when I’m home.”

“Okay.”

With the box in one hand, I give her a one-armed hug. “I’m sorry, Caro.”

“I know.”

“And well done for not crying.”

She laughs. “Let’s get back to the family.”

Family. Yes. My family. My fucked-up family.

Sheesh.

Thank God for Alessia.