“Mother, what are you doing?” Weston said, his voice overpowering Beatrice's as he placed his cup on the table.
Beatrice feigned ignorance. “What do you mean?”
“You know exactly what I mean, mother. First, you taunt Juliet by springing her family on her out of nowhere. Then you make her face them with no preparation whatsoever.”
“I did not know I needed to ask for her permission before inviting guests to my party.”
“Those guests are her family. The ones who were not happy with her because of what happened. You can't possibly be so cruel, mother.”
“Enough of that!” Beatrice said, shrinking her son with a withering look. “You shall cease to speak to me in this manner.”
“I shall give you the respect you deserve once you start to do the same to Juliet.” Weston said, his voice floaty.
“I give her the respect she deserves.” Beatrice said, turning to look at Juliet, utter contempt written on her face.
Juliet felt all the blood drain from her face just with that one look from Beatrice. She turned back to her food and continued to stab her meat with the fork. Weston noticed almost instantly.
“If you think the respect she deserves is what you give her, you and I have nothing more to discuss.”
Beatrice turned to her son, who was already beginning to turn red from anger. “I am your mother, Weston.”
“And I am the head of this house!” Weston proclaimed, slamming his coffee cup on the table. It shattered almost instantly, causing every other woman around him to flinch, including Juliet. “You always seem to forget that somehow.”
“Weston—”
“I shall take this no longer. The judgment, the meddling, all of it stops now. Today.”
“You're bleeding.” Anne announced, her voice a convenient break into the tense argument. Juliet's eyes shifted towards Weston’s hand. Blood was slightly seeping down from a cut around his right knuckle.
“Let us find something for that.” Juliet said, springing into action almost instantly. The shattered coffee cup continued to rest on the table as she grabbed his wounded hand.
“Juliet, it is no big deal—”
“You're wounded. We'll find something for it. Come now.”
With Beatrice's discerning gaze continuing to rest on them, Juliet held on to Weston and quietly led him out of the dining room.
Chapter Twenty-One
“Sit there.” Juliet said, gesturing towards the only chair in their bedroom. “I'm sure Estelle kept some of the medicine Irene used for my hand. Let me just search for it.”
“Juliet, you do not need to—”
“Worry?” She asked, turning to him. “This is me not worried. I promise you.”
Weston looked up at her and nodded. “Fine.”
“After that, we shall engage in a discourse on the art of maintaining composure whilst conversing with your mother, so as to avoid undue fervour.” She continued, looking through every top cabinet in her dresser.
“I know. She brings out the worst in me.” Weston replied, holding his wounded hand gingerly.
“No. Shetriesto do that, and you always let it work.”
“I am not built like you, Juliet. I do not have the patience you have.”
Juliet knelt on the floor to look through her dresser's bottom cabinet.
“Patience is not predominantly built into people, Weston. It is taught over and over again. I grew up with a father who spewed venom whenever I tried to tell him my preferences in a man and a brother who thought I was as useless as the highest fruit on a tree. I had to learn patience, or I would've been in a worse situation than this.”
