A/N: It's been a long, long time. This story was originally supposed to be a Christmas story, but I was abandoned by my muse pretty close to the story's end. Fortunately, Miss Muse has been behaving herself once again, if not entirely back to her normal self (but who is?) ;)
So, before Miss Muse decides she'd like to go on another prolonged vacation, I figure I might as well finish this story and call it a Christmas in June miracle! ;)
Lol. Seriously, though, I think we only need one or two chapters after this chapter to wrap this up. This story was never meant to be a long one – though this damn chapter might prove me a big liar.
Anyway, most characters belong to S. Meyer. The rest to me. All mistakes are mine.
Chapter 11 – The Girl Who Disliked Weeds
Three weeks before my arrival in London and before Eavesdropper eavesdropped his way into my life, New York City experienced an unexpected weather event.
That wasn't my wording of choice for the occurrence but rather the overly-dramatized term used by the forecasters, who'd failed at their job of forecasting. Nonetheless, I couldn't completely fault them for their need for hyperbole, for their attempt to detract from failure by exaggerating one aspect of the event at the expense of another aspect. In fact, as I was in the midst of my own attempt at disguising an epic failure, I empathized.
In the forecasters' case, hyperbole was employed to describe the unexpected weather event as the ushering of the Apocalypse, when in reality, bare, sinewy tree limbs, concrete sidewalks, steely high-rises, black-tarred rooftops, and every city object in between were weighed down by a blanket of ivory gauze velvety enough to rival the heaven's clouds. What's more, all of it was juxtaposed against a backdrop of deceivingly unpretentious yet elaborately intricate snowflakes cascading like a gentle waterfall from the evening sky.
Yet, on that night three weeks before I met Eavesdropper, I found myself scowling at the aforementioned view from the windows of Sulpicia Volturi's ornately decorated twenty-fifth-floor corner office. See, a few mornings earlier, I'd awoken to the unexpected surprise of my boyfriend Marcus's phone buzzing demandingly from his pants pocket. Having snuck a teeny, tiny peek, I received in return an exponentially larger surprise – namely that Marcus had a wife by the name of Didyme. It was a pretty remarkable name, and so for the next few days, it grew into an earworm, like one of those songs or catchy lyrics that get stuck in your head, except in my head, it was more like a fucking war drum, drumming in triple-time.
Didyme, Didyme, Didyme. Didyme, Didyme, Didyme.
This was why I'd lost my ability to see beauty in the unexpected and was therefore ripe for the forecasters' insinuations that all surprises must lead to misery. In my mood, I cared nothing for wintry beauty.
Didyme, Didyme, Didyme. Didyme, Didyme, Didyme.
If anything, I was relieved that for all of Sulpicia Volturi's office' gilded splendor, one would've never guessed it was the holidays. There was no tree and no tinsel.
Didyme, Didyme, Didyme. Didyme, Didyme, Didyme.
And there sure as fuck was nothing either holly or jolly-
"Hello? Earth to Isabella? Did you get all that, or do I need to repeat myself?"
Before Sulpicia could demean me further, I verbally ticked off the list of to-dos she'd just recited despite all the Didymes dancing in my head.
Sulpicia quirked a brow, in and of itself a surprising confirmation that she was impressed.
"You see, Isabella? This is why it's you in here, working late with me, rather than Tyler or any of the other junior architects. With you, I don't have to worry about workplace drama or concern myself with HR's unnecessary demands for an acceptable work environment."
Didyme, Didyme, Didyme. Didyme, Didyme, Didyme.
Sulpicia's willingness to take advantage of me because I was intelligent, resilient, yet still malleable and compliant was a form of praise; at least, it was praise in her convoluted manner of thought.
"How was I to know that Ben would end up in the hospital with an ulcer as a consequence of being overstressed," she continued her gripe, adding a sardonic scoff. "What does overstressed even mean? Do you know? Because I certainly don't."
"I suppose it means-"
I should've known it was a rhetorical question. Sulpicia never actually wanted a reply beyond an affirmation.
"Just take care of those extra plans before you leave for London," she ordered, cutting me off, "so I don't accidentally overstress Ben with it. That'll be all."
"Sure, Sulpicia."
I stowed my laptop in my bag and expelled a furtive breath in protest of yet another project and deadline earned by my ability to juggle a zillion projects at once while simultaneously avoiding stress-induced hospital visits that would set the HR admins on Sulpicia. And while having a nauseating earworm stuck in my head, let's not forget that.
Didyme, Didyme, Didyme. Didyme, Didyme, Didyme.
Shitty accolades and repetitive wife-names aside, while my personal life was falling apart, I'd somehow managed an epiphanic moment:
If I didn't assert myself, the world would turn me into a non-overstress-able lackey running hither and tither; an Atlas who'd shrug 'til her knees hit the floor yet never break; a flower blowing in the wind, choked by weeds, perpetually bound to the muddy ground.
Alright, perhaps that was more hyperbole. My point is, that night, I had a breakthrough, a Eureka! moment despite the Didyme, Didyme, Didyme. Didyme, Didyme, Didyme. I
was done being pushed around, playing Bob Cratchit to Sulpicia's Scroogette, with being the 'other woman' whether accidentally or on purpose. And Sulpicia would be the first to reap the rewards – or consequences – of the New-and-Improved, backbone-possessing Isabella Swan.
I straightened in my seat with a deep breath, located my spine, and opened my mouth.
"Actually, Sulpicia, first, I'd like to say that I appreciate the confidence you've placed in me since I started with Volturi Architecture. It's gratifying to know that you value my strong stomach and my ability to take on a variety of projects at once without ending up in the ER."
Grinning, I paused to offer her an opportunity to laugh at my little joke, then assure me that she valued me for more than my ability to remain vertical under duress.
Scroogette stared back blankly.
"Yes, well, as I said, while I do appreciate your confidence in me, I can't help finding it somewhat unfair that-"
"Bella, hold that thought." Sulpicia held an index finger suspended in midair, then barked into her cell phone. "Didyme, if you're interrupting my work hours, someone better be dead or dying. Yes, six p.m. is still work hours, what do you want? Why the hell would I know where Marcus is? Your husband heads a department ten floors below, purposely, I might add, so that I won't have to deal with the constant drama between you two. You know if there's one thing I hate, it's drama."
With that, Sulpicia Volturi – founder of Volturi Architecture – ended the call. She then briskly returned her attention to where I sat nauseously and wondering if my personal war drum had somehow managed to leach into the tangible world.
"You were saying, Isabella?"
"I…you…you know Didyme?"
"Yes, she's my sister," she replied hastily. "Continue."
My vision blurred. My head spun. Rivulets of bile licked up the base of my throat. So much for that strong stomach Sulpicia admired.
"That…that was your sister?"
"Yes."
"Didyme?" I whispered.
"It's a horrendous name, I know; doesn't glide off the tongue nearly as gracefully as does Sulpicia. Oh, well. I suppose I reaped the benefits of being first-born." She shrugged then gestured for me to get on with it.
"Your sister…"
Sulpicia sucked her teeth. "Isabella, did you have something to say, or are we wasting time here?"
I lurched to my feet. "Sulpicia, I…I have to…I suppose I should tell you…"
"What, Isabella?" she prompted, unequivocally frustrated now.
Despite my perilous predicament, I remained frozen for a couple of heartbeats, abruptly empathetic to deer caught in headlights. Yet in that moment of stillness, I had another epiphany, one that trumped the previous insight about asserting myself before I turned into a flower with no petals. It was this:
Unexpected surprises were like weeds that popped out of nowhere only to suddenly wrap themselves around you, bind you, tighten their grip if you tried to escape their tangled roots.
"I have to tell you that I've got to go so that I can get working on those additional design plans and have them ready before I leave for London."
Satisfied, Sulpicia sat back against her white leather chair and steepled her hands. "Tomorrow, let Ben know that I've decided to take him off that project and hand it to you. That'll be all." Then, swiveling in her chair, she offered me her back.
Didyme, Didyme, Didyme. Didyme, Didyme, Didyme.
"Will do. Thanks, Sulpicia."
Ladies and gentlemen, just call me Bob fucking Cratchit.
OOOOO
PRESENT:
I wake with a hitch of breath, momentarily petrified when I feel something twisted like a pretzel around me, and in my drowsy state, confuse it for weeds. Then I hear the conversation around me.
"…not surprising she's so tired; she got home in the wee hours after walking around the West End with Edward. Pass me those lace ones, will you, Rose?"
"Ooh, good choice, Al. She'll look hot in those – not that she needs any help looking hot in his eyes. God, have you seen how he looks at her?"
"If Jasper didn't look at me in much the same way, as much as I love her, I'd be one fucking jealous bitch."
"Ditto with Emmett."
Whispered snickers mix with the sound of sliding closet doors, by drawers pulled open and pushed shut, and by objects shuffled around. All the while, I lay tangled in my sheets, praying that the earworm won't return.
"All right, Al, what do you think of this cluster of candles here on the dresser?"
"That looks perfect there, Rose; it'll provide just enough flickering light and set up the romance wonderfully – not that they'll need help in that department," Alice adds. "Damn. We'll be lucky if those two haven't set the flat aflame by the time we return after the holidays."
They share another round of chortles. When I chuckle along, Rose peers down and catches me watching them.
"Hallelujah, she's awake!"
The mattress then dips and bounces, springs creak, and effusively wild hugs and kisses flank me.
"You're awake! You're awake! Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas!"
"Merry Christmas!"
They pull away simultaneously, both still laughing. But knowing me well, it only takes them a moment to note something is off.
"What's wrong, B?"
"Yeah, what is it?"
I open my mouth, ready to tell them everything, starting with what I've kept from them, what I learned on that horrifying night a few weeks ago, all the way to the fact that Marcus texted me in the early hours of the morning to inform me that he's in London. Oh, and the earworm.
But there's a reason, beyond mortification, why although I told my best friends about Marcus being married, I never told them I later found out that his wife is my employer's sister. That knowledge has had my stomach knotted ever since, and when my stomach is knotted, so are theirs. Because we're the Three Musketeers – one for all and all for one fucking idiot. Namely me.
Take that conversation to which I was just privy. Like me, Rose and Alice are over the moon about how well things are going between Edward and me. The flip side of that is that when I'm miserable, they tend to be as well. Imagine if I were to tell them what I've kept from them?
And really, when one stops to think about it, is this unexpected surprise really necessary at this point, mentioning any of it and ruining their Christmas day? As a matter of fact, why ruin Christmas Day for any of us? It would be premature at best and unnecessary at worst to cause them to worry by telling them everything now when things are going great for us all.
The fact is that after my three-word text to Marcus – all in caps and unambiguously worded – my phone didn't buzz for the rest of the night. Instead of scrutinizing and turning over that embarrassing chapter ad nauseam, perhaps it's time to simply and discreetly let it go. Perhaps…perhaps the weeds sown from that entire unexpected fiasco have finally been pulled.
Therefore, these are the words that come out of my mouth.
"Everything's fine, guys. I just…I had a bad dream, but as it turns out, everything's absolutely wonderful. You two have no idea how happy I am to be here with you, sharing Christmas morning together instead of over Zoom. I mean, what other gift can I ask for this Christmas?"
It's all true, and even as I say the words, I feel them seep into my bones. When Rose and Alice wrap their arms around me once again, even more warmth seeps into me as the three of us hug fiercely. We pull apart a few seconds later, sporting matching glassy eyes and genuine smiles.
"We're thrilled you're here too," Rose says, brushing a sentimental tear from under one eye. "Though there is one more gift you can ask for this Christmas." She waves it away.
"What's that?" I wonder.
"Well, since you ask, I'll give you a hint: it's shaped like a cucumber-"
"So much for that sentimental moment," I say with a smirk. Meanwhile, Alice chuckles bawdily.
"-and this year – and from the looks of it, for many years to come – " she continues, "it'll come wrapped in tall, copper-haired, green-eyed, and eavesdropping yumminess."
"And here's one more hint," Alice adds. "You already got it hard back at JFK Airport, so we know it's going to work like fucking Christmas Day magic now."
"You're both gross and not subtle hinters at all."
They burst out laughing.
"Seriously…" I chuckle from one to the other, "what the hell would I do without you two?"
"You'd fuck in the dark," Rose quips, jerking her jaw toward the candles she's arranged.
"And with non-matching lingerie," Alice says, pointing at the gorgeous set she's laid out for me.
Pulling my pillow out from under me, I use it to smack first one then the other, at which point we descend into more peals of raucous laughter.
And Marcus, Sulpicia, and Didyme, Didyme, Didyme are completely forgotten.
OOOOO
About an hour later, Rose, Alice, and I are done with our breakfast and gift exchange.
I'd smiled a secret smile to myself as they opened the Tiffany frames I bought them, with a picture of us on a random, carefree day. The frames made it under the tree thanks to Edward, who sacrificed his already meager leg space to keep them safe on our flight in from London.
Alice designed us each custom necklaces from a quirky jeweler here in London who designs sparkly, pink vulva charms meant to be empowering and feminist. We squeal like silly teenagers as we fasten them around our necks. We're equally thrilled by the tickets Rose got us to see a one-woman Regency-era revival in London's West End Theatre district. By the time both Rose and Alice have left for their respective long weekends, I'm full of anticipation for all that awaits me soon.
Mostly, I'm anxious to see Edward.
He texted me earlier to say 'Happy Christmas' once again, even though we rang in the holiday lip-locked at midnight under the Oxford Street Christmas Lights, as witnessed by the tabloids that've already run pics. He also assured me that he'd be on time this morning.
So, when the flat's buzzer rings about a half-hour earlier than expected, my heart seizes – confused and unsure of what to do with the medley of excitement, surprise, and eagerness suddenly coursing through it. As I hastily double-check my reflection in the mirror, a series of uneven sighs escape me, and my heart resumes beating triple time.
I hit the intercom button. "Yesss?" There's more than a hint of irrepressible desire even in the one word, but I don't care.
However, instead of Edward's low, husky voice, an unexpected, unknown, and refined female voice answers.
"Oh! Well, good morning. Have I the pleasure of addressing Miss Isabella Marie Swan?"
Frowning, I hit the intercom. "Uhm, yeah?"
"Pardon me, but I'm unfamiliar with the phrase 'uhm, yeah' as punctuated with a question mark. Does that mean you are or you are not Miss Isabella Marie Swan?"
This time I hit the intercom with a bit more force. "It means I am, yes. Who's this?"
"This is Jane Adams, secretary to the Honourable Dowager Baroness Masen, Lady Charlotte Cullen, who would like to request the honor of your company for Christmas morning tea."
Cautiously, I back away from the intercom as if it's suddenly grown a head – the venomous type. For a few seconds, I stand stock-still. When I move forward again, I do so with the wariness of someone afraid of being bitten.
Once again, I tap down on the intercom. Jane Adams is mid-word.
"-llo? Hello? Are you there? Hello?"
"Hi, yes. Yes, I'm here."
"Ah, lovely. Shall I inform Lady Charlotte you'll be down in a trice then?"
Even if I knew exactly how long a trice was, I wouldn't be down in one.
"Uhm, no?"
"In American English, does that mean you need a few minutes?"
"It means I've already had breakfast and coffee, so please tell Lady Charlotte I said thanks for the tea invite, but no thanks."
When I hit the intercom and receive no immediate reply, I nurse a fleeting hope that Jane the secretary has left the building.
"Are you…do you mean to turn down Lady Charlotte's invitation?"
What the fuck? I mouth to myself, then speaking into the intercom, "Yes. Yes, that's what I mean to do."
Another lengthy pause ensues. "Miss Swan, you see, it's not so much an invitation as it is a-"
Another voice, this one just as refined but much more imperious, cuts in. "Jane, what is the delay?"
"Oh! I apologize, Lady Charlotte, but there appears to be some sort of misunderstanding."
"A misunderstanding?" Lady Charlotte snaps. "What misunderstanding can there possibly be? Did you not tell the Bee I wanted to see her down here this instant?"
I roll my eyes.
"Yes, Lady Charlotte, I did, but-"
"Then I fail to comprehend the nature of this misunderstanding and the resultant delay."
"Lady Charlotte, Miss Swan, erm…the Bee, appears disinclined, and I'm trying to-"
"Disinclined? Disinclined?" Lady Charlotte repeats as if she's as unfamiliar with having someone disinclined to having tea with her as Sulpicia is with the concept of 'overstressing' her subordinates. "Jane, I did not hire you to try; I hired you to do. Now, if you can't perform a task as simple as getting the Bee down here-"
Groaning, I release the intercom and squeeze my eyes shut. Then I drop my forehead against the wall. A brisk run-through of my options include:
Cursing out Lady Charlotte via the unfortunate Jane Adams;
Calling the cops, though what would I say – "An extremely annoying and pompous aristocrat wants to have tea with me."?
Texting Edward to alert him that his crazy-ass grandmother has just shown up on my doorstep for Christmas tea.
When I press down on the intercom, I catch Lady Charlotte still going off on her unfortunate secretary.
"Furthermore, Jane, I have a mind to ring the agency who recommended you and inform them of the shoddy job you're doing-"
"Lady Charlotte, please don't blame your secretary for the misunderstanding. I'll…I'll be right down."
"Ah, brilliant. Do you see how simple that was, Jane? Now, tell the Bee I'll await her in the Range Rover," Lady Charlotte replies.
What royal fuckery am I getting myself into now?
OOOOO
A drizzle pitter-patters and bounces like pebbles off the sidewalk as I step out of the building's vestibule. The morning fog rolls breezily through the narrow streets, cocooning objects in a downy haze. It takes me a couple of seconds to spot the shiny black Range Rover since the mist camouflages it. As I head toward it, I bump into a woman who seems to appear out of nowhere, hidden within the fog.
"Ooh! 'Scuse me, sorry!"
She stands and glares at me as if I've collided with her on purpose when she was literally just standing there, shrouded in the fog. Either way, I'm too anxious to get my current shit-show on the road and over with to begin a new shit-show.
As I near, a young woman – the unfortunate Jane the secretary, I assume – steps out of the driver's side of the Range Rover. She's smaller than me, with blond hair pulled back in a bun that makes her look twelve though she's probably around my age. She sports a prim, black pencil skirt, a white button-down with a black tie, and black pumps. The unfortunate Jane the secretary moves to hold an umbrella open over my head and then opens the Rover's back door for me.
"Thank you." I offer her a faint smile, not entirely comfortable with the idea of another person not only opening the door but shielding me from the elements.
Jane's gaze remains trained straight ahead, barely acknowledging me. I take a seat, determined not to say another word until she's seated, lest my effusive gratitude cause another scene like the Wassailing incident a couple of days ago. However, when it becomes clear that Jane plans to remain outside, I'm unable to keep my mouth shut.
"Please, don't wait outside in the rain! There's plenty of room-"
"Bee, I see you're still having difficulty with the concept of allowing the assistants to do their jobs," Lady Charlotte says.
"But it's ridiculous that she should remain in the rain when-"
"We British do not melt in the rain. Jane, shut the door behind you."
Jane does as she's told, slamming the car door in my face. I turn to the old hag, momentarily distracted from my fury by the car's interior. It's almost the size of my apartment back home, though, with its white-leather-covered-everything, it's already more luxurious. There are buttons and screens and upgrades galore, and even a white-linen covered table that seems to pop out from some hidden compartment. The table rests between Lady Charlotte and me, set with a floral-designed porcelain tea set, a matching three-tier serving tray with various puffy scones, miniature sandwiches, pastries, and a stack of white linen napkins. When the seat begins massaging my ass, it's Tea-time.
"Happy Christmas, Bee," Lady Charlotte greets me.
"Merry Christmas to you too, Lady Charlotte. This is an unexpected surprise."
"Ah, very good," she says, unaware that unexpected surprise equals cursed calamity in my book. She then plucks one of the linen napkins from the table, situates it over her lap, and begins pouring.
"Lady Charlotte, honestly…I'm not a tea drinker. I just came down to thank you for the invite, but I'm expecting…" I clear my throat, "company in a short while and-"
"Milk?" The Lady asks, continuing the tea prep and lifting a small milk pitcher.
We lock gazes while the milk pitcher remains poised over the teacup, and we engage in a battle of wills. Eventually, I sigh and grab a napkin. I'll hand over the battle because I'm determined to win the fucking war.
"Sure, please, and thank you."
She pours the milk then lifts the lid off a small sugar bowl.
"One lump or two?"
"Three." I quirk a brow.
She doesn't bat a lash as she employs a minuscule set of tongs to drop three lumps of sugar into my fancy teacup. She then hands me the cup with a saucer and proceeds to prepare her own. When both are ready, Lady Charlotte stirs hers, eyeing me and nodding toward my spoon.
I proceed to stir my tea, but apparently, there's a right and wrong way to do so.
"Bee, we're stirring tea, not churning butter. Observe." She stirs with a grace that, along with the opulence of the interior, the ass-massaging seat, the warm heat now emanating from the said seat, and the classical music in the background, makes me feel like I'm having tea at the Ritz rather than in the back seat of a car. That is if one can have tea at the Ritz with a fire-breathing dragon.
When she's done stirring, she plucks the spoon out of the cup and places it on the saucer. Imitating her, I stir again then remove the spoon.
The lady flinches.
"We're placing our spoons gently on the saucer, not dropping V-rockets on the unsuspecting populace."
A misplaced bout of nervous laughter bubbles upward. I press my lips together, but my mouth twitches.
"I apologize. I'm not used to drinking tea from such fancy china, nor to its preparation being an art form."
"Really? One would never guess," she retorts dryly. Then, as Lady Charlotte sips her tea delicately, I follow suit, wiping my mouth just as she does, mimicking her ramrod straight posture and how she folds her legs sideways.
"The tea set was a gift from King George, in gratitude for the family's service during the Second World War."
"That's amazing," I breathe, momentarily forgetting our face-off. "It's like a piece of history then."
She nods. "It is, yes. But our family has always served this country and its interests. It's of no surprise."
I say nothing as I take another sip.
"How is your Christmas day so far, Bee?"
"It's enjoyable so far." Or at least it was until a few minutes ago.
"Is that a Christmas present?" She peers at my necklace, and my face burns hot as coal. She leans in closer. "What exactly is-?
"It's an avocado," I volunteer. "A sparkly pink avocado."
"A sparkly pink avocado?" she echoes, though, in her posh accent, it sounds even more ridiculous, and I'm forced to swallow back another bout of laughter. "I've never seen one of those here in the U.K."
"Really? They grow wild in America. So, Uhm, Lady Charlotte, how is your Christmas day so far? Any cool presents of your own?" I ask, diverting her attention away from my pink avocado.
"It's as well as could be expected. As for cool presents, as you say, Lady Irina stopped in this morning to personally deliver the loveliest Christmas flowers for the family." She takes another sip, the sharp-tongued viper.
"Did she? How lovely." I take another sip.
"Such a wonderful, thoughtful young woman," she croons. "We had a lovely conversation, considering."
"Considering?" As soon as the word is instinctively out, I want to snatch it back.
"Considering the abominable manner in which our families have featured for the past few days in those papers that pass for news outlets. Still- Bee, it is tea, not ale at the local pub," she corrects because apparently, I've begun gulping down my tea. "As I was saying, still, with the lack of respect and deference that our own younger generation displays nowadays for our customs and culture, how can we expect others to show us respect?"
Just finish your tea, just finish your tea, I recite inwardly.
"Take, for example, the quintessentially British tea custom. Few customs around the world are as meaningful as the British custom of tea time."
An extremely inelegant snort escapes me, one that I'd bet my warm and massaged ass has no place in the custom of tea time, and one that I'm positive Lady Irina would never utter. When I attempt to disguise it with a follow-up cough, Lady Charlotte smirks. She may be an aristocratic blue-blood, but she ain't a stupid aristocratic blue-blood.
"I suppose to someone whose national pride consists of an impulsive and spontaneous cowboy culture, a custom born of our forefathers' ability to consider, to discuss things rationally around a table, to take the time to-"
"Lady Charlotte, I meant no disrespect, but despite what you may believe, not all Americans are cowboys. However, we do like us a good Western. Yeehaw," I grin.
Lady Charlotte eyes me impassively. "Does nothing daunt you, Bee? Do you respect nothing?"
"Lady Charlotte, of course, there are things that frighten me, that knot my stomach, that tangle around me like weeds. But the ghosts of aristocrats aren't one of those things."
"But they're not merely ghosts; this is what you fail to comprehend. They're our heritage, for good or for bad. No," she shakes her head, "our history is not a perfect one, but it is our history, and if we don't keep it alive, who will?"
"Lady-"
"It's difficult enough to get our young people, those who'll inherit our nation, to respect our history. How do you teach someone who comes from a place with no notion of ancient traditions to understand…or to carry on what we hold dear?"
At this point, I set down my tea, cringing when the cup rattles against the saucer. Then, with a deep breath, I turn back to Lady Charlotte.
"Lady Charlotte, as we're learning in my country, heritage is about more than carrying on traditions just because they're expected. In the past few days, Edward has shared a lot of his heritage with me, and I love listening to it not so much because of the traditions themselves, but because they've shaped him into the man he is more than you realize."
She pulls back as if I've slapped her. "Do you intend to tell me that you know my grandson, heir to the Masen Baronetcy, better than I? After what, a few days' acquaintance?"
"That's not what I meant."
Her ensuing smile drips haughty snobbery. "Dear Bee, as few as a hundred years ago, as the matriarch of this family, I would've decided to whom the heir of the baronetcy paid his attentions. In which case, we wouldn't even be involved in this conversation."
Ouch. Now it's my turn to reel back as if I've been slapped.
"I may no longer officially hold that power," she continues, "but I am still the Masen matriarch. Whoever the future Baron eventually chooses must have the correct…pedigree to one day take my place." All the while, she holds my gaze through steely green eyes so much yet nothing like her grandson's.
"Merry Christmas, Lady Charlotte. Thanks for the tea."
Turning away, I rest my hand on the door handle, but then…
Then I turn back toward her, apparently catching her off-guard. She wipes a smirk off her face but not quickly enough.
"This isn't a hundred years ago."
"Pardon?"
"I said, this isn't a hundred years ago, Lady Charlotte, and it's time I started pulling weeds."
"Bee, I have no notion of what peculiar Americanisms you're spouting now."
"Yes, you're the first English Baroness I've met, but you're far from the first patronizing, high-handed, and pretentious person I've met. We've loads of those in America."
Gasping, she clutches her pearls – literally. "Well. I never!"
"Obviously, but you see, lately, I've been intimidated, talked down to, made to feel inferior by people just like you, so you're not special in that regard. And you're right, I've only known Edward for a few days, but in those few days-"
"Do you see yourself as the next mistress of Masen Park?" she interrupts with a wry grin.
When I shake my head, it's more in disbelief of her nerve than as a denial.
"What I was going to say is that in the few days I've known Edward, I've learned that he isn't the type to be led around by anyone, least of all by someone who disguises her prejudices as traditions."
Lady Charlotte's dainty nostrils flare. If she were indeed a viper, this is where the deadly strike would come. Instead, she stays surprisingly shut.
"Edward is his own man, who makes his own decisions based on what feels right to him, not based on the hundreds-year-old customs of a bunch of dead men. You look at me, and you see a gauche, unrefined rustic who's way out of her league. And while Edward and I do come from completely different backgrounds, in today's world, it's those differences, not our limited similarities, which have the potential to make us great together."
She stares at me, no longer appearing furious nor indignant, just simply confused, maybe even a bit…lost. At that moment, she's less the worldly Baroness and more a little old lady, which is why when I speak again, my voice softens.
"Lady Charlotte, I couldn't care less about Edward's money, his title, his castle-"
"It's more of a stately manor house, Bee," she snaps.
"-his pedigree, or even his good looks. Well, no, that last part is a bit of a lie. I love that he's hot as sin," I grin. "But it's his character that has me literally entranced, completely awed, and yeah, interested enough to do something I haven't done lately."
"What is that? Drink a proper cup of tea?"
No. Speak up for myself. And now, have a wonderful holiday, Lady Charlotte, truly. Enjoy your flowers from Lady Irina. I've got to go finish getting ready for your grandson's visit."
OOOOO
When the doorbell buzzes about ten minutes later, I answer the intercom warily.
"Yes?"
There's a fleeting moment of silence before I hear his voice and breathe an ensuing sigh of relief.
"Bella? It's me. Edward."
"Come on up."
As soon as I buzz him up, I pull open the apartment door. Sure, it makes me look anxious, but at this point, do I care? His footsteps resound up the staircase, level by level. My heartbeat keeps time with his pace.
He pauses at the top when he comes into view, with one Timberland-booted foot on the landing, one foot on the step below. His chest heaves, cheeks ruddy, but I don't think it's the exertion of the climb. He's a fit guy who hefts heavy luggage without thinking twice. No, this is almost as if he's unsure whether he should proceed with both feet. Nevertheless, he takes me in admiringly.
"You look beautiful."
"Thank you. You look great too." He looks dapper yet airily relaxed as always in his dark wool coat with a red knit scarf loosely wound around his neck.
"Merry Christmas," I grin. "Everything okay?"
He swallows and offers me a lopsided, tentative grin. "You tell me. You sounded somewhat…off through the buzzer."
When I chuckle, he frowns, but the other side of his mouth now joins the first in the grin. His left foot hits the landing as if buoyed by my amusement.
"I was just worried that-" I move toward him, laughing, and he moves toward me, and our mouths meet. My hands slip through his hair, and his hands cradle my face, and we nip one another's lips, alternating top then bottom until our tongues join the fray.
"You were worried that?" he prompts, kissing my nose, brushing his mouth against one closed lid then the other.
"Come in, and I'll tell you all about it."
OOOOO
"I can't believe she had the bullocks to show up here," Edward says, shaking his head and agitatedly raking his fingers through his hair. "I mean, how did she even know where you're staying?"
I offer him a shrug. I haven't even told him the entire story, merely that his grandmother showed up for tea in her Range Rover a la Queen Elizabeth.
"Was she insulting?"
Again, I shrug. We're seated side by side on a love seat, with the Christmas tree in front of us and the windows out to London behind us.
"She was…Lady Charlotte."
"Ugh." He throws his head against the headrest, and I laugh, leaning forward so I can meet his gaze. "I'm so, so sorry, and this evening, I'll be-"
"Edward," I say, biting my lip hesitantly, "not only do I not need you to apologize, but by the end of tea time, I kinda said a couple of things that may have been a bit…rough, especially when speaking to a little old lady."
He quirks a brow, his eyes searching mine, then he chuckles. "Well, I can't say I'm accustomed to hearing my grandmother referred to as a little old lady nor to hearing sympathy in anyone's tone when speaking of her." Slipping a hand around my nape, he draws me closer, our mouths almost meeting. "Oi, don't you dare regret standing up to her. God knows I love Grandmother dearly, but she's a right old cow who needs more tongue-lashings than she receives. The fact that you actually gave her one…" He chuckles again, and the sound reverberates against my lips like a summer breeze, "is one of the many things that makes you so bloody perfect." His amusement fades. "But if she insulted you-"
"Can we stop talking about your grandmother, please?" I grin, brushing my lips against his.
And just like the three disregarded people before her, Lady Charlotte is consigned to oblivion as
I frame his face with my hands and deepen our kiss. Getting on my knees for a better angle, I hover above him, and he wraps his hands around my waist, situating me sideways on his lap. From there, it's just a moment before I've got one leg on either side of his thighs, straddling him, my dress riding upward. For a few glorious moments, he gazes at me in an open wonder that heats me all over. He moves in closer, but when his eyes dip to my neck, he stops, eyes narrowing curiously.
"What is that?"
"It's a Christmas present from Alice," I grin.
"Is it a…?" His eyes meet mine, and when I nod, he chuckles.
"Interesting."
"Your grandmother found it interesting too."
"Please, let's not speak of my grandmother at this moment," he pleads, parting my lips with his warm tongue. We kiss with the abandonment of children playing on a warm, summer day, with the hunger of lions on the prowl, with the urgency of two people who've been separated for days rather than hours. His thumbs caress the corners of mouth, gently stroking. I drop over his lap, forgetting where he ends and I begin, and we moan, and we groan, and-
"Missed you, Bella," he grunts against my mouth when I pull away to breathe.
"It's only been a few hours since we were together," I whisper.
"I don't care."
I kiss his jaw while he kisses the tip of my nose. "Me too. Me too, Edward."
When I crane to meet his mouth again, he holds me at bay.
"Speaking of presents, I've got something for you."
"I know. I can feel it."
Edward offers me a throaty chuckle. "Not that, my cheeky American."
He lifts me off his lap and situates me beside him once more, stretching an arm to reach into his discarded coat's pocket. When he pulls out a small, wrapped gift box and hands it to me, my eyes widen.
"Edward, you didn't have to get me anything!"
My broad grin likely negates my words, as may how I bounce happily in my seat while cradling the box on my lap. It's wrapped in pretty, green paper and tied with a velvety-white ribbon.
"No one said I had to get you something, my American girl, more like I wanted to – very badly. It has meaning." He whispers the last words close to my ear, making every fine hair on my body stand on end.
Despite my initial excitement and curiosity, I fidget with the box, stroking the wrapping paper, winding the ribbon around my finger, all without actually unwrapping it.
Meanwhile, Edward's leg bounces up and down. After a minute, he groans and reaches for the small box as if he means to reclaim it. Shrieking, I hold it out of his reach and laugh.
"Stop!"
"You don't seem keen on opening it."
"Maybe if you allow me to open it before I decide?"
"Is that how it works in America, then, love? You open a gift before you decide if you want it?"
"I'm scared!" I admit with a nervous chuckle.
"Bloody hell, Bella, it's neither a bomb nor a million-pound engagement ring – not yet."
My heart explodes. Seriously, I feel the organ blow up and leach its contents into every crevice of my insides – most warmly and wonderfully. Who knew an exploding heart could feel so amazing? Who knew an unexpected surprise…
"Not yet for which?" I tease, trying to remain lighthearted while inside, I'm gift-wrapping the last piece of my heart, while every bungled tenet I thought I'd learned over the past couple of years rearrange themselves. There's an epiphany unlike any other about to burst like fireworks. "The bomb or the ring?"
"You are the most maddening creature…" he shakes his head. "I'll tell you what; right now, I'm leaning more toward the bomb than the ring."
I scowl at him, but that exploded heart somehow races wildly.
"My palms are sweaty again," I grin, holding up one hand for his inspection.
Here, he rolls his eyes and does take the box from me while I chuckle heartily. "You and your panic-sweating. Here, allow me before you add drooling to the mix."
I lean in close, watching intently as he slowly pulls on one end of the ribbon.
"I can't believe I'm opening my own gift to you."
"Hurry!"
"Oh, now she's impatient." With the ribbon off, he unwraps the paper with exaggerated caution, ensuring there's not one single rip or tear.
"You're going ultra-slow on purpose."
"I most assuredly am," he snickers.
When the paper and ribbon are both off, Edward holds a green box decorated with pretty yellow branches and flowers. The name 'Alex Monroe' is printed in black lettering on the box. Rose and Alice are huge fans of the elegant jewelry brand known for creating nature-inspired pieces handcrafted in England.
When I peer up at Edward, he looks so sweetly anxious all of a sudden, so unsure of his gift.
"May I do the rest?" I ask.
Edward nods wordlessly as I take the box from him. Lifting the top, I find a layer of tissue paper nestling a delicate, two-toned bracelet. It's gold, with an emerald-colored vine twisting around it and tiny, emerald and golden leaves sprouting from the ivy vine in a whimsical pattern.
"Edward…" I breathe.
"May I?" Edward asks as he takes the bracelet and clasps it around my wrist. "It's supposed to be a strong branch with English ivy wrapped around it." He swallows thickly. "There's an old, medieval legend surrounding English Ivy, where a Cornish knight named Tristan fell in love with a princess who landed on our English shores. Her name was Isolde. Unfortunately, Isolde was meant for King Mark," Edward grins, his eyes still on the bracelet, "and when Tristan and Isolde died, King Mark had them buried in distant graves so that even in death, they wouldn't be together. However, an ivy vine grew out of each grave and toward one another…" Edward says, his eyes again meeting mine, "so that despite the distance-"
"They remained together," I finish.
Edward nods.
"That's a…sad story," I chuckle.
Edward chuckles sheepishly, his eyes once again falling to the bracelet. "It is. I apologize."
I cup his cheek, waiting for him to meet my gaze. "Are we supposed to be Tristan and Isolde?"
He shakes his head. "No. Their ending was rather macabre, as you pointed out. But we are…or rather…I feel as if I'm the English ivy…"
He's the ivy—the binder. But ivy…ivy is just another form of weed. And as I know well, it can take one by surprise and grow unchecked, grow unexpectedly, tighten its grip and never allow me to escape its twisting roots...
"Edward, are you telling me you're in love with me?"
He's startled.
It's not that I have a problem with admitting it first. It's just that I've been hit by that bursting epiphany, by the greatest one of my life:
Not all unexpected surprises are bad. Not all binders are soul-crushing weeds. Not all grips need escaping.
So when I open my mouth to preface the question with an admittance, because I know what his answer is going to be, he crushes his mouth to mine, kisses me urgently, then softly, then urgently, then adoringly.
"And the way you just asked that," he chuckles against my mouth, "is yet another reason why the answer is yes. Yes, my American Girl, I'm madly in love with you."
A/N: Thoughts?
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"See" you soon for more Christmas in June!