“Your aunt is not here,” Ewan interrupted, the words like gravel in his throat.
“Yes, I had noticed her absence,” Percy replied with uncharacteristic sharpness. “As has every servant in this house. As has every flower in her garden that now blooms with no one to appreciate its beauty. As has every?—”
“Enough!” Ewan slammed his palm against the windowsill, the sharp pain a welcome distraction from the hollow ache in his chest. “I forbid you to speak of her.”
“Uncle—”
“And you will not attend Miss Waverly’s musical evening.”
Percy’s eyes widened in genuine shock. “I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me.” Ewan turned back to the window, unable to bear the hurt confusion in his nephew’s expression. “Such frivolous pursuits are beneath your station. You would do better to focus on matters of substance.”
A tense silence filled the room. When Percy finally spoke, his voice carried none of its usual dramatic flair… only a quiet, wounded dignity.
“I see. Then I shall bid you good day, Uncle.”
The door closed behind him with barely a sound, yet it seemed to echo in the emptiness of the room. Ewan remained at the window, watching as the afternoon shadows lengthened across the garden, stretching like fingers toward the coming darkness.
He did not know how long he stood there before the next interruption came, this time without the courtesy of a knock. The door swung open to reveal Ralph, his expression thunderous.
“What the devil did you say to Percy?” his friend demanded without preamble. “The boy looks as though you’ve struck him.”
“I merely suggested he focus on more appropriate pursuits than flirting with debutantes,” Ewan replied coldly.
Ralph crossed the room in three long strides. “Nonsense. Percy adores Miss Waverly, and the sentiment appears to be mutual. What possible objection could you have to his attending her musical evening?”
“He is becoming frivolous,” Ewan said, the words, though spoken, bore no weight even to his own ear. “Distracted from his responsibilities.”
“Responsibilities?” Ralph echoed incredulously. “The boy is nineteen! His responsibilities are to learn, to grow, to discover his place in the world. And from what I’ve observed, his poetic nature suits Miss Waverly’s temperament perfectly.”
“I don’t recall asking for your opinion on the matter.”
“No, you haven’t asked for anyone’s opinion on anything lately,” Ralph agreed, his tone sharpening. “Not about Percy, not about the estate, and certainly not about your wife.”
Ewan’s head snapped up, a warning in his eyes. “Do not speak of her.”
“Why not? It is obvious now thatsomeoneought to. The entire household walks on eggshells, forbidden to mention the woman who brought life back to this mausoleum you call home. Percy is devastated by her absence. And you—” Ralph paused, his gaze assessing. “You’re destroying yourself, Ewan. And for what? Pride? Fear?”
“You know nothing of my reasons,” Ewan growled.
“Oh, I know more than you think,” Ralph countered. “I know you’re terrified of becoming your father. I know you’ve spent your entire life running from his shadow. But here’s what you fail to see, my friend—in your desperate attempt to be nothing like him, you’re becoming something just as destructive.”
“Get out.” The words emerged as barely more than a whisper, lethal in their quietude.
But Ralph was not so easily cowed. “Your father isolated himself from all who loved him. He pushed away genuine affection. He made those around him miserable with his coldness. Tell me, Ewan—how exactly are you different in this moment?”
The blow came without conscious thought. Ewan’s fist connecting with the solid oak of his desk rather than his friend’s jaw, only by the slimmest margin of restraint.
“I said get out!” he roared, the pain in his hand a welcome counterpoint to the agony in his chest.
Ralph regarded him steadily, unmoved by the display. “You try so hard not to become like your family that you end up destroying all your happiness,” he said quietly. “And that, my friend, is the greatest tragedy of all.”
The door closed behind him with a decisive click, leaving Ewan alone with the echo of words that cut deeper than any blade. He sank into his chair, cradling his bruised hand, the physical pain insignificant compared to the void that had taken residence where his heart should be.
Night fell, and still he sat, the ledgers forgotten, the emptiness of the townhouse pressing in around him like a physical weight. In the darkest hours, when even the servants had retired and London’s ceaseless noise had dimmed to the occasional distant carriage, he finally allowed himself to whisper her name.
“Samantha.”
