Formal
Damon hated this time of year. When the chef needed a duck, Damon wanted to crawl into a hole and wait for the ordeal to blow over. But no, Elinor Baird would never allow it. The formal family dinner was too important.
This piece went here and this one right beside it, and then this screw held them together. That looks right.
He was, in fact, hiding but he knew it would end soon. His nanny had strict orders to watch him. He was nine years old, and to him, he felt that was old enough to make his own decisions. He also felt he was too old to have a nanny.
He glanced up at the clock in his work shed. He'd spent the better part of last year building the shed from any scrap he could find. It gave him a sense of pride that he could build a solid structure, and that it angered his mother. The sight of the metal shed amongst the perfectly groomed gardens made Damon grin, but he couldn't shake the disdain he felt for the upcoming nightmare.
Two hours until the big show. Maybe this year would be better. Maybe no one would threaten the other with a lawsuit.
Yeah, and my name isn't Damon Symon Baird.
"Damon! Damon, are you out there?"
He sighed and set down the device he'd been working with. He could ignore the nanny but he knew she would make her way into his work shed. No one was allowed in. It was his space.
"Yeah," he called. "What do you want?"
"It's time to come in, dear. Miss Elinor wants you to be ready for dinner."
It never ceased to amuse him that his mother refused to be called "Mrs. Baird." It was always "Miss Elinor" or "Miss Lytton." Why did she marry Jocelin Baird if she was so ashamed to be called one?
"In case you lost the ability to read time, dinner isn't for another two hours," Damon snapped. "Just leave me alone."
"Miss Elinor wants to remind you of last year, when you were five minutes late to the table."
Five minutes. Like it's the end of the world.
"Have you been playing in grease? Is there dirt under your nails?" He checked his nails. Yeah, they were dark from prying open the device's case. "Come inside and get a bath," she continued. "Your outfit is already laid out for you."
He threw his screwdriver against the wall. It ricocheted with a satisfactory bang. "I'm not wearing a monkey suit!"
"Don't raise your voice at me, young man. Imagine if your father were here."
Damon grit his teeth. He stomped out of the shed, locking it behind him as he returned to the house. His nanny stood just outside the veranda door with a small smile, ready to usher him inside and through the long maze of halls. He didn't want to get clean. He enjoyed the dirt under his nails, the sweat on his face, and the filthy clothes he wore. It was his one small act toward controlling his life.
But now he had to dress up like Elinor's perfect doll. He knew he wasn't really a child to her, just a burden. He was alive to carry on the Baird name, nothing more. She had left his upbringing and well-being to a stranger so she could enjoy her life. Now and then, she would dress him up and pretend to be a mother, but Damon had stopped lying to himself a long time ago. He knew all he needed about Elinor Baird.
Damon entered his bedroom and slammed the door in the nanny's face, signaling he could get ready by himself. She ignored his tantrum and opened the door as she had many times before.
This would be a long night.
After he was clean and dressed in a suit and bow tie, his blond hair combed and controlled, the nanny deemed him presentable for dinner. There were ten minutes left until the strictly scheduled time, but that left plenty of room for him to socialize with the family.
The nanny led him to the eastwing parlor where he knew Grandfathers Baird and Lytton were waiting with his parents. He could hear their laughter from the hallway. What was so funny? Normally their conversations were quiet, controlled. What was he missing?
"Behave for Miss Elinor, Damon," the nanny whispered and then knocked on the door. She didn't wait for a response before opening the gleaming cherry oak door. "Excuse me, but Damon is ready, Miss Elinor."
Damon stepped into the stuffy room with a grimace. It smelled like cigar smoke and big egos. His mother smiled at him and brought him further into the room; she'd already had too much wine, Damon decided.
"There's the little runt," Grandfather Baird said with a guffaw. "Looks more like you every day, Jocelin."
Damon's father, standing by the fireplace, bristled with pride.
"Don't be ridiculous," Grandfather Lytton growled. "He looks more like Elinor. It's all in the eyes, see?"
"No, look at that frown. Same as his father's."
It was always like this. One side of the family wanted him to be completely theirs. Either way, he was inheriting the Baird fortune. He knew absolutely nothing about his mother's side except that Grandfather Lytton was a serious hard ass.
Elinor set him down on the plush chaise on the opposite wall from where the family gathered. She gave him a critical eye—one that was both assessing and warning—before turning back to her company. He was nine, not four, but he was still just a nuisance to her. He would never be allowed to join the adult's conversation. His job was to sit quietly and pretend he didn't exist.
"So, Jocelin, how are the negotiations coming for our Damon?" Grandfather Baird asked. He took a sip from his crystal glass; brandy was his preferred alcohol, Damon knew, and judging from his red face, he was already drunk. "Find anything suitable yet?"
"There have been more offers than I expected. I've whittled it down to three candidates," Jocelin replied.
"We were so surprised when we received letters as far as New Sherrith," Elinor said. She always had to butt into a conversation. "But Damon is such a bright young man, it's really no wonder."
Damon wanted to gag, but they were openly talking about him and that had never happened before. He was intrigued. Had they decided he was old enough to hear this or did they forget he was in the room? He crossed his arms over his chest and listened.
"I hope you had some say in the matter, Elinor," Grandfather Lytton said.
"Of course, Father. Jocelin and I made the decision together. We have three candidates, like he said, to interview." Elinor stood beside her husband and touched his arm. "But I already have my eye set on a specific type for my son. I just know he'll enjoy her."
As if you know anything about what I like. Wait, her? What her?
"They were mostly heiresses," Jocelin continued as if they hadn't said anything. "But I found three intelligent girls with a good pedigree, and any one of them will further the Baird name in society. Damon won't have to struggle for anything in life."
"He's still joining the war effort, correct?" Grandfather Baird asked.
"If it's still being fought, of course."
"That will be difficult for his new bride to handle. Make sure that comes up in the interview process."
Bride? War effort? Damon balked. He jumped from the chaise and Elinor immediately stopped him with a glare. He wanted to yell, to demand what they were doing, but he was a smart boy. He already knew. He had never been able to make his own decisions in life, why should he get to choose who he married?
"Where do you think you're going, young man?"
It was almost time for dinner. She wouldn't let him escape. "Excuse me, Mother, I have to use the restroom." She raised her eyebrows at his clipped tone, but at least he wasn't screaming.
"Make it quick."
He went to the door on numb legs. Outside, his nanny still waited with a patient smile. He was always surprised how no one seemed to know him and yet, somehow, they knew him too well. Elinor's sentry would ensure he attended dinner.
"Bathroom, Damon?" she asked politely.
He pushed past her without comment but she followed dutifully. His intestines felt like ice. Never before had he hated his parents this much. He knew they were organizing his life but he never thought they would do something as big as an arranged marriage behind his back. Weren't most kids told they would be married off? He wouldn't go through with it. No, he wouldn't have to. Magistrate Jocelin Baird would do the paperwork; he would use his influence in the political world. Damon wouldn't even have to sign on the dotted line.
This was his normal life. He was a pawn for his parents to increase their social standing. They never stopped to think about what he wanted or how he felt. He was used to their behavior by now, and yet as smart as Damon was, he was met by a total mystery. He could not understand why, out of the many things Jocelin and Elinor did, this made him cry.