“I shall join you soon.” He said again. Anne nodded and walked away from him. For a while, Weston thought of heading to his room to meet Juliet. Maybe he could go give her some form of comfort. What would that even look like for both of them? He had tried his best not to talk to her too much since her accident. As he headed to the dining room, memories of the fateful day played in his head, how he had reached for her as she fell. How his heart had stopped for a second once he saw the cut on her hand.
How he had let down the walls around his heart and let himself get vulnerable for a tiny moment.
He pulled a chair and lowered himself into it. His mother was sitting adjacent to him, gently cutting off the skin off her chicken with a small knife. Anne was on the other side, slicing a piece of her bread.
Eerie and tense silence dominated the dining room. Aside from the sounds of spoons and knives against plates, nothing could be heard. Weston took several glances at his mother, seeing if he could find some remorse in her expression.
He found nothing of the sort, and it made him even more upset.
“Fine weather today, is it not?”
Lady Beatrice looked up at her daughter. “Are you blind or deaf? You do not see the clouds or hear the thunderstorm?”
Anne swallowed. “I was only meaning to make conversation.”
“Then, be factual. It looks like rain.” Lady Beatrice retorted.
“Well, nothing bad with a little rain.” Anne said.
Silence, again. Weston turned to look at Anne. Her attempt to cut the tension surrounding the table had been futile. He was wondering how long it would take him to remove himself from this setting appropriately. He bit a part of his fruit. Perhaps he could leave a few minutes later.
“I see your wife is unable to attend breakfast.” Lady Beatrice said.
Weston said nothing. He was better off saying nothing. Instead, he continued to eat his fruit.
“I've had her food taken to her, so it is no matter.” Anne replied on his behalf. Weston threw his sister a blank stare. She responded with a clueless shrug.
“Is that so?” Lady Beatrice asked, grabbing a cup of water.
“Cease your actions, Mother.” Weston warned, his voice dangerously low. He was not ready to have a repeat of the previous night.
“Cease what? Am I not allowed to find it odd that your wife has refused to come down to eat?”
“Indeed, given the reckless behaviour you exhibited last evening, you can't really blame her now, can you?” Weston asked, grabbing a cup of coffee.
He could feel the anger in his body swimming to the surface. All it needed was a match. One he was most definitely sure his mother would be willing to provide. The clouds outside continued to rumble.
“It is not my fault that your wife has such a delicate constitution. If her feeble personality wouldn't allow her to grace us with her appearance, why am I the one getting the blame?” Lady Beatrice said.
And just like that, the match was lit. Weston slammed his cup on the table, causing some of the hot coffee to spill.
“What is this, huh?” He asked.
“Weston—” Anne called.
“Why have you been trying so hard to antagonise Juliet?” Weston’s voice drowned out Anne's.
Lady Beatrice turned to look at her son, an expression of contempt written all over her face.
“Are you out of your mind? What makes you think you can speak to me this way?”
Weston’s brow furrowed. “Did I stutter, mother? Answer me.”
“Can we all just—” Anne tried to break into the conversation one more time.
“I am your mother. You shall cease to speak to me in that manner this instant!” Beatrice said, her voice booming across the halls.
“Not if you keep coming after my wife.” Weston replied, his voice unwavering. He was always wary of standing up to his mother. Up till now, he'd always been one to keep quiet and take her remarks. It was the better way to ensure the conversation died quickly without any form of escalation.
