Chapter Text
“Your time is over.”
The Dowager gaped, disbelieving the fact that two underage children managed to not only stop her, but kill Linthorn—a profession in the field of assasination—in the process. Ninety one years of her life was dedicated to furthering the Old English agenda. In one night, everything she built went crashing down. Her eyes glazed over as they focused on nothing.
Conflicted at the path before him, the Viscount Tewkesbury gulped. This was his grandmother , for God’s sake. If she were any other person in the world, anyone at all, he wouldn’t have hesitated to incarcerate them. Alas, he couldn’t bring himself to say the words. This woman raised him. She loved him, nurtured him… or so he thought. It didn’t make sense.
Enola immediately felt Tewkesbury hesitate. It didn’t take a detective to figure out that he was at odds with himself, and it showed through his shallow breaths, darting eyes, and creased brows. Enola tentatively raised her hand and enclosed his within hers. Tewkesbury’s head turned and the two locked eyes.
At once, his uncertainties were quashed. One look from her communicated everything. Her warm walnut gaze reminded him that everything was going to be okay, and that they were in it together.
He gave her a small smile.
“You know what we have to do,” said he.
Enola nodded, fixing her eyes once again on the Dowager, who looked absolutely destroyed. Together, the pair walked towards her.
Tewkesbury’s nostrils flared when the Dowager said, “No, please. You mustn't. I’m–I’m old. Nearly dying. You won’t do this to me, will you, Tewkey?” She used her own term of endearment for the young man who was slipping through her brittle fingers.
“You tried to kill me, Nan,” he said. “You hired an assassin. You even…” Tewkesbury gulped. “You even pulled the trigger.”
Tewkesbury and Enola then escorted her into the dark living room where she sat on an antique upholstered armchair, crying. The minutes passed in silence. Enola shook her head disapprovingly at the woman. She looked over at Tewkesbury and found his expression locked in a grimace. There was something she needed to tell him. She pulled him aside and led him to the corner of the room.
“I’ve got to go to Scotland Yard to report this to Lestrade immediately,” said Enola.
He took a deep breath. “Yes,” was all he managed to say.
“Are you going to be alright?” She asked, caressing her thumb against the back of his hand. “I could stay and watch the Dowager with you if you can’t. We’ll go to Scotland Yard tomorrow.”
“No, no,” he protested. “I’m fine. You go.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
Enola’s shoulders sagged as she softened at the sight of this boy. She dropped his hand and in one swift motion, threw her arms around him in a fierce hug. “This can’t be easy for you,” she said. “And I understand if you don’t want to be left alone with her.”
His arms encircled her and his hands connected at the small of her back. “It’s alright, I do. Besides, there are some things we need to talk about.”
Enola nodded. “Well, I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
They pulled away. Tewkesbury said, “I’ll wait for you.”
With one last sad smile, Enola turned away from him and walked outside. Tewkesbury stilled for a few seconds at the sound of Miss Harrison’s motor car. The dull sputtering of the engine was the only noise that broke the silence of the night, but all too soon, it was gone.
For the next couple of minutes, Tewkesbury stayed rooted in that spot, taking deep, even breaths. From his standpoint, he could see the back of the Dowager’s bowed head. Finally, he took one step, two, three, five steps away from the window and towards the dark wooden armchair across from his grandmother.
“I assume you wouldn't oblige if I ask you to fetch me a carriage.”
Tewkesbury kept his tone even. “You’re correct.”
“You can’t possibly let them take me,” said the Dowager. “I’m your father’s mother. I’m family.”
He glared at the floor, unable to meet her gaze. “That’s rich, Nan, coming from you.”
“Isn’t blood thicker than water, Tewkey?”
“Apparently not.”
“Well, I—”
Tewkesbury interrupted her, shooting up from the sofa across the room. He stalked towards her slowly. “You betrayed me, Nan. You , of all people. I trusted you. I didn’t doubt you for a second. You betrayed me, and you betrayed my parents.” He paused, heaving. The Dowager’s big eyes stared him down to show that she was unmoving.
And then, “who killed Father, Nan?”
Silence followed his inquiry. The loaded question weighed heavily on the occupants of the room, not allowing either individual to breathe. She stared indignantly.
“ Who ?” If looks could kill, daggers would have impaled the old woman from the hairs on her head to the soles on her feet.
The Dowager did not give him a verbal reply, but the split second her eyes darted to the dead body outside of the living room told him everything he needed to know. It was the man in the bowler hat.
Linthorn .
“That was you? You asked him to… kill Father? ”
She said nothing.
“You’d do that to your own son ? Nana... you’re a monster.”
Tewkesbury’s posture crumbled on the spot as he was hit by one emotional blow after the other. He blindly reached for the chair’s armrest and used it to anchor himself back on the seat. He could not believe that this was happening. His head dropped into his hands, and he allowed himself to mourn. He mourned for his father, but this time, for completely different reasons, now that he knew the truth. Warm tears moistened the rug underneath and sobs wracked his body painfully.
The Dowager remained silent for a few minutes, allowing her grandson to simmer in the revelations.
After some time, she spoke. “Tewkey,” she said. “Will you remind me again of what’s written on our family crest?”
He looked up, his red-rimmed and puffy eyes on display for her. “What?”
She repeated, “remind me again of what’s written on our family crest.”
He vaguely remembered the golden seal of lions, eagles, and a suit of armour that was suspended above the front gates of the estate. As a young boy, his family always reminded him of the motto on that crest, but he never really thought it meant anything substantial.
“Honorum et officium,” recited Tewkesbury.
“Correct. Honorum et officium.” The Dowager was pleased. “In English, that’s—”
“—Honor and duty.” Tewkesbury finished.
She smiled kindly. “So you understand. As the world grows increasingly unstable, it is important that these ideas of England are preserved for the safety and security of our country. You and your father, you are always focused on what is to be instead of what is and what was. Nothing needs changing, Tewkey. Look around you. England’s true glory is what is.”
He shook his head. “I look around me, Nan, and I see poverty. I see famine, injustice, and hate , and that is nothing short of what England’s true glory is.”
The Dowager scoffed and brushed him off with a wave of her hand. “You’re too young to know about such things, boy. I wouldn't expect you to understand. Perhaps you should read the Tewkesbury motto one more time. Maybe then, you’ll realize my point.”
“This is unbelievable. You… you’d kill your own grandson, you’d kill your own son… over a motto ?” He was absolutely appalled. This woman managed to deceive everyone in her life, and no one would remain the wiser if Enola hadn’t figured it out.
“Our family’s values were set in stone since the day I was born—”
“Yes, but no one would go so far as to kill because of it!” He exclaimed. In that instant, he felt himself unraveling at the seams once again. He felt his whole body tremble and shake like a leaf in the wind, and without Enola there to anchor him, he felt lost. This woman in front of him who he thought he knew from infancy was a complete stranger.
“Tewkey—”
“No.”
The Dowager leaned forward and tried to reason with him. “Tewkey, it was the only way—”
“No more, Nan. No more of this deception. I’ve had enough.” Tewkesbury stood from the upholstered armchair and began walking away. It wasn’t like she could leave Basilwether, anyway. It was half-past nine in the evening and her brittle body wouldn’t withstand a second outdoors. He couldn’t do it. He just couldn’t sit there and let her talk him into her agenda. It was not going to happen.
“Where are you going?”
Tewkesbury chose not to dignify her with an answer. Instead, he merely continued walking away until he was no longer in her line of vision. As soon as he was out of the living room, he leaned on the dark wooden panels and attempted to pull himself together.
At that moment, Tewkesbury wished he’d taken up Enola’s offer to stay. He would have given anything to turn back time and have her with him again. This was too much for him.
His back slid down the wood, and once again, waves of agony and betrayal washed over him violently. The Dowager would probably have heard his cries from the other side of the wall, but he found himself uncaring. She had almost killed him and Enola, the same way she killed his father.
After a few minutes of sitting on the checker-patterned floor, Tewkesbury started to worry about Enola’s whereabouts. He started to grow more anxious when the old grandfather clock in the living room chimed eleven times. Every silent second that passed was torture. He eagerly waited for the sound of her stolen motor car making its way down Basilwether Hall’s stone pavement.
Instead of allowing the restlessness from the Dowager’s revelations and Enola’s absence to engulf him again, he pushed it out completely. He would deal with that later. For now, he realized that both he and Enola would have to stay at Basilwether Hall after Investigator Lestrade takes his grandmother away.
At that, he immediately stood from his spot on the floor and hurriedly rushed up the stairs. He went straight to his mother’s rooms and browsed her collection of old nightgowns from her youth. He picked out three that he assumed would best fit Enola, as he wasn’t going to let her sleep in the bloodied uniform of Miss Harrison’s Finishing School. He took them with him to his own rooms and laid them neatly on the bed.
Tewkesbury quickly found himself with nothing to do. Shortly, the Dowager’s chilling words replayed itself in his mind. The look on her face when he guessed it was she who killed his Father was cold and unkind.
No. He shook his head vigorously as if that motion alone would sufficiently rid him of the depressing thoughts. Instead, he opted to busy himself once again by running a bath.
The Viscount Tewkesbury, Marquess of Basilwether was never one to skimp on indulgences, especially when flora was involved. Every single bath of his life was prolonged as much as possible. Whenever he would take baths, he never took them plainly with just water. Instead, he always made time to boil it, mix it with the cold so it wasn’t too hot, sprinkle bath salts, and infuse his tub with fragrant-smelling herbs and flowers that even his mother called excessive. But today, he bathed in nothing but freezing water, for he was hurrying just in case the sound of Enola’s motor car broke the silence. He noticed that there was a massive purple bruise blooming in his chest from where the Dowager had shot him—the spot where the bullet would have punctured his skin—and it grew tender when his fingers brushed over the area lightly. He winced. There were also long streaks of open wounds on his neck from where Linthorn tried suffocating him. The bathwater quickly pinked at the blood.
After Tewkesbury had long finished drying his hair and body, dressing in his bedtime clothes, and draining the bath, Enola was still nowhere to be found. He paced back and forth, burning a hole into the rug. He stared out the window, checked on the Dowager thrice, and added two more nightgowns to the ones on his bed for Enola to choose from, but she was still missing. Tewkesbury decided to run another bath, then. A bath just for her.
He took his time to go through the motions of his regular soak. He mixed hot and cold water, sprinkled bath salts, and infused the tub with flowers from his collection. Chamomile to soothe her skin, lotus to reduce anxiety, and lavender to relieve her stress. He knew she would need them. After all, he wasn’t the only one who had gone through horse dung tonight. She had killed a man. Tewkesbury was willing to bet his inheritance that she hadn’t killed anyone before Linthorn.
Finally, finally, a little past midnight, the telltale sound of a sputtering motor caught his attention. It grew louder and louder, as well as the sound of galloping horses and chattering men.
Enola was back.