Page 13 of Arrogant Heir

I don’t feel any of those things. He texted me yesterday to apologise again. I told him it’s okay and maybe it’s for the best. He didn’t respond, so who knows what he makes of my philosophical reply? Knowing him, I bet he didn’t expect that. The funny thing is, it wasn’t a play-hard-to-get strategic move. It was honest and came from my heart.

Now my anger has subsided, I don’t want to punish him or try to get him back. Yes, my heart feels bruised and tender, and I can’t imagine opening it up ever again. But I feel alright. Hopeful even, and I take that as a sign that it must have been the right thing. Perhaps I will even thank him in the future when I look back.

I can’t imagine anything more miserable than being married to someone and wishing you weren’t. It’s not that I don’t love Simon. I do. I still do. But I’m beginning to suspect it’s not the depth or type of love I should feel for my future husband. What if I was only in love with the idea of him? The idea of us. The romantic wedding plans carried me away, and I missed that vital fact. And as I pull my jacket up further to keep the wind off my neck, relief floods through me.

I’m healthy. I’ve got my mum and a small circle of good friends. I’ve got my own flat in a nice spot in London. Okay, it’s only a rental, but even so, many people my age struggle to afford to rent their own place and they flat share or live at home.

My financial independence is thanks to me getting started fresh out of university as a ghostwriter and learning how to create enough money to support myself. My business—although a tiny enterprise—is flourishing. I feel a rush of gratitude that my income is stable this year, which is the typical self-employed professional’s major challenge.

As I take in the glorious views all around me, my stomach fizzes with excitement. Yes, considering I’ve just been dumped by my long-term boyfriend and fiancé, I’m doing pretty well.

Thank goodness I didn’t do what most of the other women in Simon’s circle did: give up their careers to focus on being the wives of their investment banker husbands. Simon said I could wind up my business when we got engaged. ‘Jack in your hustle’, was his exact expression.Or give it up when we have our first baby…I didn’t agree to either and had no intention of giving up my career. But I did flirt with the idea of gradually scaling back the ghostwriting and developing my romance novelist plan.

Turning someone’s rambling comments into a cohesive narrative is rewarding, but I know the day will come when I focus on writing my own books. Now I’m single, my plan to go full on into my own stuff will have to wait.

The gardens stretch out before me as far as I can see, and I love the tiers of colourful flower beds artfully planted around another pond, this one larger than the one my cottage overlooks. A magnificent sculpture of three white horses rises out of the pond and I admire its splendour.

‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’ A soft voice says from behind me, making me jump. I turn to see an attractive woman, somewhere in her mid-fifties, wearing a green Barbour jacket.

She peels off a gardening glove and offers her hand to me. I shake it, and she clasps my hand and her face curves into an angelic smile.

I see something of Marian in her.

‘You must be Jamie. Lovely to meet you. I’m Vivian, the mother of that rowdy lot I gather you had dinner with last night.’

I do a quick calculation, and work out that she must have had Damian quite young. Although I suppose in those days twenty, wasn’t considered that young for a woman to have her first child.

I smile back and squeeze her hand with equal warmth. ‘I’m so pleased to meet you. What a fabulous bunch they are,’ I say. ‘It was a shame most of them had to shoot off this morning. I would have liked to get to know them better.’

She smiles and reveals a set of immaculate sparkling white teeth. Even in her gardening gear and wellington boots, she’s glamorous and elegant. We meander along the path, admiring the flowers and shrubs.

‘I adore gardening. It’s my favourite way to relax and whenever I get some free time at Greystone, I potter about the gardens. If you’re ever in need of a bit of company or you get writer’s block, there’s a good chance you’ll find me here, weather permitting.’

‘That’s so kind. Thank you. Writer’s block is a bit of a myth with professional writers. If we don’t write, we don’t get paid, which has a remarkable way of focusing you! I’d certainly welcome the company, though.’

She laughs. ‘Yes, I can see how that might be the case. Well, a chat then when you’re on a break.’

I say I love to get out into nature when I have time. She explains the gardens are Victorian themed and there are plenty more areas to explore on the estate.

‘We open the house occasionally for visitors and I think I may still be able to lay my hands on one of the Greystone guides we had printed. That is, if you’d like one?’

I jump at the offer. ‘That would be amazing. I can barely find my way from the cottage to the kitchen at this point.’

The sound of her laughter rings out again. It’s a wonderful, clear laugh and I immediately warm to this mother of seven. The Rochester matriarch.

It realise that Arthur must be her father-in-law because her children bear the name Rochester. ‘So, Arthur, is your father-in-law, I take it?’

She nods. ‘Yes, although I’m fortunate. He loves me like his own flesh and blood. And I him. Julian’s parents embraced me like one of their own from the minute we met.’

I make the occasional sound as she speaks, not wanting to interrupt her flow. I would never share anything told to me in confidence, but chatting to her gives me a sense of who the family is and where they have come from. I’m thrilled she is so approachable and want to make the most of it while she’s here.

We amble around the garden paths together, enjoying the sound of the birds tweeting and the water circulating around the sculpture. I point to the three horses and remark how stunning they are.

‘Ah,’ she says. A wistful look enters her mossy-green eyes. ‘Arthur, who you must have met, commissioned the sculpture for my mother-in-law. It was a surprise shortly after they bought and moved into the estate. The story goes he tied a silk scarf over her eyes and led her outside one mid-summer morning just as dawn broke over the parkland. When he removed the blindfold, her eyes lit on the white horses, and she was so moved she didn’t say a word for a full minute. Arthur laughs when he tells it and says that was the biggest surprise of all. He’d never witnessed his young wife short of something to say for that long!’

I giggle and am moved by the affection in Vivian’s voice as she talks of her parents-in-law when they were young.

Her green eyes glisten and are reminiscent of someone I know. I scour my memories and then I see him.Damian. Damian has eyes the same mossy shade of green, only his are cold shields, whereas Vivian’s communicate volumes. She seems like a woman who isn’t afraid to live fully. But she has loved and lost. I know that from reading about the family and from Sebastian mentioning the premature death of his beloved father.