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The lukewarm water swirled around the last of the supper plates as Taggie scrubbed, the rhythmic scrape of the sponge providing a domestic backbeat to the crackle of the hearth. Behind her, the dining table was a sanctuary of rare quiet in the old house. Her mother sat bathed in the amber glow of the fire, a script held aloft, her lips moving silently as she rehearsed. They were sharing the room for the warmth, a practical sisterhood against the biting evening chill.
She loved moments like that, always found her mother felt more like a petulant sister, and that they got along better when both of them acted like they were on equal family footing. It brought them peace when the house was full of only the two.
Then, the peace fractured.
The sound of gravel being pulverised under heavy tyres announced an arrival. It wasn’t a smooth pull-up; slow enough that she wondered whether it would have been quieter to speed along the sharp stones. Taggie paused, hands suspended in the suds, and checked the clock above the stove. 2:28 am, she had been cleaning the kitchen for 3 hours now, and had totally lost track of time.
The sequence of noises that followed was surreal: the two percussive thwacks of car doors, the roar of an engine restarting with a defiant rev, and then, rising over the mechanical din, two baritone voices bellowing in a key that didn't exist, two different songs rising above each other. One distantly recognisable as the national anthem, although the words were slightly out of place (“Send her victorious, happy and defending us…”), the other a messy version of The Seven Drunken Nights, a recognisable tune from her childhood in Cork.
Taggie twitched the lace curtains aside. She caught a fleeting glimpse of Bas’s taillights vanishing down the drive like a getaway driver fleeing a crime scene. In his wake stood two lumbering silhouettes, recognisable even in the dark as her father and Rupert. They were braced against one another like two weary soldiers, or more accurately, two leaning towers of Pisa made of tweed and gin.
She turned to her mother. In a rare moment of crystalline camaraderie, the kind born from the weary, shared wisdom women possess regarding the childishness of men, their eyes met. Her mother simply offered a knowing smirk and stood with a slow, regal deliberation.
They moved together, passing through Venturer’s makeshift office and the cramped 2nd living room. They reached the foyer just as the front door was flung open with such violent enthusiasm it nearly sent the two men sprawling headlong onto the rug.
"My girls!" Daddy roared. He was the first through the threshold, his keys dangling precariously from a single finger like a forgotten trophy.
He lunged forward, sweeping them both into a sprawling, uncoordinated embrace. Taggie found herself pinned between his coat, smelling of cold air, expensive cigars, and stale scotch, and his sudden, overwhelming joy. It was the sheer absurdity of it that broke her; she was used to her father as a morose drunk, the kind who wept quietly into his whiskey while the house slept. But this was a different vintage entirely. He looked younger, the heavy lines of his face smoothed out by a manic, bubbling levity. It was as if the life inside him had finally shaken off its sediment, rising to the surface like the frantic fizz on a poured prosecco.
"My wonderful, wonderful girls!"
His weight shifted suddenly, leaning heavily onto Taggie’s shoulder. She braced herself, not minding the burden for once, while her mother deftly slipped from the huddle to deal with Rupert. With the practised grace of a matron handling a large, damp dog, her mother eased Rupert out of his coat and draped it over the rack.
"Taggie, love... is there any tea?"
Her father’s slurred words were thick, but they carried a lightness that made Taggie feel buoyant. She began to guide him toward the kitchen, her mother following with Rupert in tow. The air was thick with the steady, patient chatter of her mother and the monosyllabic, yet somehow still slurred grunts Rupert offered in response.
As they marched toward the back of the house, her father took up his tune again. It wasn't the anthem of drunken Irishmen anymore, but a ribald folk song she dimly remembered her grandfather singing, a melody that seemed to hum through his very bones (despite that melody being quite unrecognisable, he was a man of many talents, but singing was not one of them).
The kitchen, once quiet, was suddenly full of the chaos of the living. Daddy collapsed onto one side of the wooden table with a satisfied groan. Opposite him, Rupert sank into a chair beside her mother, looking utterly bewildered by the concept of furniture. Taggie, moving with a renewed energy, reached for the kettle and clicked the stove into life, the blue flame blooming in the dim light, casting long, dancing shadows across the kitchen. Rupert sat propped up at the table, his usually immaculate hair a wild bird’s nest, staring intently at a salt shaker as if trying to remember its name.
Maud, who had gracefully glided into the seat next to him, leaned in. The heavy scent of his expensive cologne mixed with the sharp tang of gin washed over her. She rested her chin in her hand, her eyes glittering with a sudden, playful spark. It was rare to see the great Rupert Campbell-Black so thoroughly undone, and Maud, never one to miss a theatrical opportunity, decided to enjoy it.
"Well, Rupert," Maud purred, her voice dropping into a low, smoky register as she twirled a lock of her hair. "You look absolutely scandalous. If I didn't know any better, I’d think you desperately needed someone to take care of you tonight. And you know... I’ve always had a soft spot for a man in distress." She leaned just a fraction closer, her shoulder brushing his. "Are you going to let me play the hero?"
Daddy let out a booming, uncoordinated laugh from across the table, thoroughly entertained by the spectacle. Taggie wondered if it was the fact that he was drunk or that it was his best mate that made him so unworried about his marriage at that moment. She was leaning toward the former.
Rupert blinked heavily, his gaze slowly shifting from the salt shaker to Maud. He frowned, a look of profound, drunken gravity washing over his handsome face. He slumped back into his chair, waving a hand in a clumsy gesture of refusal.
"Can't," Rupert muttered, his speech thick and terribly slurred. He blinked heavily, trying to focus on Maud’s face, which was currently far too close to his own. "Impossible. Strictly off the market, Maudie. I'm a married man."
It felt like the kitchen went dead silent. The rhythmic clatter of Taggie assembling the teacups stopped instantly. Daddy’s booming laughter grew into a choked cough, Maud’s mouth hanging open in sheer bewilderment. He sat, a half-lit cigar hovering precariously near his lip, his eyes glassy from the whiskey. Everyone stared at Rupert as if he had just announced he was fluent in Martian.
Maud threw her head back and let out a rich, pealing laugh, breaking the stunned silence.
"Oh, Rupert, darling, you really are wasted," Maud gasped, patting his arm affectionately, though her sharp eyes were already scanning his face for the punchline. "You're not married! You divorced Helen ages ago. Don't tell me the drink has wiped out the last ten years of your memory? Or did you manage to elope with some poor girl between the front gate and the hallway?"
Rupert shook his head stubbornly, the movement so violent he nearly lost his seat. He gripped the rough edge of the wooden table to steady himself, his knuckles turning white as he forced his chin up. His eyes, usually so cynical and mocking, were wide and terrifyingly earnest. He was completely blind to the rest of the room, locked in his own heavy, alcohol-soaked reality.
"Not Helen," he hiccuped, a sudden, surprisingly soft smile breaking through his drunken stupor. It transformed his face, smoothing away the hard, arrogant lines of his mouth. "God, no. Not Helen. Wouldn't marry her again if she were the last woman on earth. No... I'm talking about my angel. The absolute best of them. Love her to pieces, I do."
Maud’s theatrical smile faltered, dropping away entirely to reveal a look of utter, stark confusion. She leaned back a fraction, her brow furrowing as she looked from Rupert to her husband.
"Declan," Maud said, her voice dropping its playful lilt and turning sharp, almost sharp enough to cut through the gin fumes. "What on earth is he talking about? Who was he with at the pub? Did he meet someone?"
Daddy, however, was far too far gone to play detective. He let out a sudden, loud, wet snort, his head lolling back against his chair as he roared with laughter.
"An angel!" Daddy bellowed, slapping his heavy hand down on the table so hard the salt shaker rattled. "Hear that, Maudie? Old Rupert’s gone and married a bloody angel! Did she fly down into the saloon bar, Rupert? Did she order a gin and tonic?" He wiped a tear of sheer, drunken mirth from his eye, swaying dangerously in his seat.
Rupert started to look frustrated, “My angel’s too good to everyone, too good for you both.” This seemed to only make Declan laugh more.
Daddy’s laughing, and Maud’s confusion meant no one was looking over at Taggie as they ribbed the man she loved. "The man is raving. He's absolutely magnificent. He’s seen the light!"
"Declan, don't be an idiot, listen to him," Maud snapped, exasperated, but Daddy just waved a dismissive, heavy hand in the air.
"Oh, let 'im boast, Maudie," Daddy chuckled thickly, his speech slurring into a warm, happy blur. "If I drank as much as him, I’d be married to the Queen of Sheba by now. Good on you, Rupe. Is your fake wife a blonde angel?"
"She’s real, she’s mine," Rupert insisted, completely ignoring Daddy’s teasing. His voice rose with a touch of defensive, drunken dignity. He knocked his hand against the table to emphasise his point, though he missed the spot he was aiming for. "My wife. Told you. She’s... she’s everything. Gentle. Smells like... like summer. Not like the rest of you vultures."
"Well, thank you very much," Maud snorted, though her curiosity was thoroughly piqued now. She tilted her head, watching the way Rupert's face seemed to glow just at the mention of this mystery woman. "An angel who smells like summer? Declan, he’s completely lost his mind. He’s inventing people."
"Nonsense!" Daddy cheered, raising his empty glass to the ceiling. "To Rupert’s angel! May she bless his miserable soul!" He giggled, a sound completely unsuited to his massive frame, before his chin dropped to his chest, his eyes half-closing as the exhaustion began to reel him back in. "Beautiful angel... hope she brings a bottle when we meet her,"
Rupert only let out a long, contented sigh, his head nodding heavily as if the secret was far too beautiful to share with the likes of them. "Can't tell you," he whispered conspiratorially to the tablecloth, his eyes half-closing. "She’s mine. My girl. My angel"
Only Taggie stood perfectly still by the stove.
Her heart did a violent, sudden flip against her ribs, a warm, fierce blush instantly creeping up her neck and flooding her cheeks with a scorching heat. She gripped the handle of the kettle so tightly her knuckles turned white, the metal biting into her palm.
My angel. My girl.
It was his name for her. The words he had whispered into the dark of her hair when the house was busy rooms away, the murmured vows he had pressed against her skin when the rest of the world was shut out and they were entirely alone that night. To hear them now, shouted into the bright, stark light of that same kitchen while her father laughed like a madman and her mother searched for clues, making her feel entirely naked. She felt as though a spotlight had been turned directly on her, exposing every secret she held close.
She stared at him, her breath catching in her throat, terrified that if she even blinked, her mother’s razor-sharp intuition would track the silence right back to her.
Rupert, however, was entirely oblivious. His eyes were glazed over, staring right past Taggie toward the kitchen window, utterly unaware that the very girl he was slurring about was standing a mere five feet away, holding a tea towel and trying very hard not to faint. He let out a heavy, contented sigh, his chin dropping toward his chest as the alcohol finally began to claim him completely.
"An absolute angel..." he mumbled one last time into his collar, totally dead to the world.
"Right," Daddy muttered, breaking the spell as he rubbed his face with both hands, his skin turning a mottled red from the friction. "He’s officially gone over the edge. Delirious. Hallucinating."
"An angel," Maud repeated, her voice dripping with a mix of amusement and profound scepticism. She reached out and poked Rupert’s shoulder, but he only let out a soft, snoring grunt in response, his head lolling precariously toward his chest. "Honestly, the ego on the man. Even when he’s practically comatose, he’s inventing beings just to keep up appearances. Who do you suppose he means, Declan? Some girl from the polo club? Or has he finally lost his mind and started referring to his favourite mare?"
"Knowing Rupert, the mare is a distinct possibility," Daddy grunted, pushing himself up from the table with a massive, uncoordinated heave. The wooden legs scraped loudly against the linoleum. "Come on, let’s get the bastard onto the sofa before he cracks his skull open on the salt cellar."
Taggie stood frozen by the stove, the kettle pouring a steady, forgotten plume of steam into the chilly air. Her heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. Every instinct screamed at her to look away, to play the dutiful, innocent daughter fetching the tea, but her eyes were glued to the crown of Rupert’s messy hair.
He was so close. If she reached out, she could touch the soft tweed of his jacket. But he was entirely elsewhere, drowned in gin and exhaustion, completely unaware of the tiny firestorm he had just ignited in the middle of her kitchen.
She turned back to the sink, the dish water now cold and silky with stewing soap, not really washing anything, just vaguely splashing about as she heard her parents manoeuvring him like a piece of furniture toward the sofa in the small living room.
Too zoned out staring at the swirling patterns the fire’s reflections made in the bubbles, she didn’t hear her parents re-enter the room.
"Taggie, love, the kettle," Maud prompted gently, breaking through her trance. Maud was looking at her with a faint, curious frown, her sharp eyes narrowing just a fraction as she noted the bright, unmistakable crimson staining Taggie’s cheeks. "Are you alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost."
"I'm- fine. Just cold," Taggie lied quickly, her voice a little higher than usual. She hastily clicked off the stove, the sudden silence in the kitchen feeling loud and accusatory. She grabbed the teapot, her hands shaking just enough to make the ceramic lid rattle. "The steam just... caught my face."
Maud seemed at the same time to find the whole situation funny and deeply troubling. "Well, I’m not staying up to police a sleeping lunatic,"
Daddy grunted, setting his half-finished mug down with a heavy clatter. He stood up, rubbing the small of his back, his temporary burst of manic energy completely spent. "The man's a menace to a peaceful household. I'm going to bed."
Maud cast one last, lingering look at Rupert's snoring form, then sighed, draining her cup. "Quite right. It’s nearly three in the morning, and if I don't get some sleep, I shall look like a tragedy in the morning light." She stepped toward the hallway, paused, and looked back at Taggie, who was already busy stacking the mugs back onto the tray. "Don't stay up too late, Tag. Let the house sleep."
"I won't, Mummy. I'm just going to lock up the back door," Taggie said, keeping her voice carefully level.
She stood perfectly still in the centre of the drawing room until the rhythmic thud of her parents' footsteps faded up the stairs, followed by the distant, familiar creak of their bedroom door closing shut.
The old house plunged into a profound, heavy silence, broken only by the steady tick of the grandfather clock in the hall and the soft, rhythmic breathing of the man on the sofa.
Taggie set the tray down. Her heart, which had finally slowed its frantic pace, began to thud wildly against her ribs all over again. Moving on tiptoe, her bare feet silent against the Persian rug, she crept closer to the sofa.
Rupert looked entirely defenceless. The fierce, arrogant, dazzling Rupert Campbell-Black was gone, replaced by a man utterly defeated. His jacket was hitched up around his shoulders, his collar was open, and a curl of dark hair had fallen across his forehead. He looked younger like this, the sharp, cynical lines of his face softened by sleep.
Taggie knelt beside the sofa, the hem of her nightdress pooling around her on the floor. She smelled the familiar, intoxicating mix of him - expensive tobacco, the sharp tang of spirits, and the clean, outdoor scent of the stables that always clung to his skin.
"Rupert," she whispered, her voice barely a breath.
Slowly, as if drawn by a magnet, she reached out. Her fingers trembled slightly as she gently brushed the stray lock of hair away from his forehead. Her skin felt cool against his flushed, warm brow.
Rupert stirred. A low, ragged sigh escaped his lips, and his long eyelashes fluttered. His eyes opened, but they were glazed, heavy with sleep and alcohol, completely unfocused. He blinked slowly, staring directly at her through the dim, amber shadows of the dying fire.
A soft, lazy smile spread across his face, not unlike his usual wicked, confident smirk, but more tender, almost childlike.
"Oh," he murmured, his voice a gravelly, slurred whisper. He didn't move a muscle, as if afraid that the slightest shift would shatter the room around him. "There you are..."
"Rupert, it's me," she whispered, her heart throat-high. "You're on the sofa. You need to sleep."
He let out a weak, breathy laugh, his eyes fixed entirely on her face. He raised a heavy hand, his fingers clumsily tracing the line of her jaw, his thumb brushing against her cheek. His touch was warm, sending a delicious, terrifying shiver straight down her spine.
"Missed you," he mumbled, his eyelids already drooping, losing the battle against the alcohol. "Always dream about you... my angel. Don't wake up yet..."
"I'm not a dream," Taggie whispered, leaning into his touch just for a second, her eyes stinging with a sudden, overwhelming rush of affection.
"Mmm... yes, you are," he muttered, his hand slipping from her cheek and dropping heavily onto the cushion beside her. His head rolled back into the pillows, his breathing instantly deepening into the heavy, unbroken rhythm of deep sleep. "Best dream..."
Taggie stayed frozen on her knees for a long time, watching him as his features relaxed back into total unconsciousness. A small, breathless smile broke through her worry. He hadn't realised she was actually there, but in the dark, drunken depths of his mind, she was the only thing he was looking for.
Carefully, she reached over and pulled the heavy woollen throw from the back of the sofa, draping it gently over his broad shoulders. She leaned down, her lips brushing the very edge of his temple, so softly it wouldn't have broken a spider's web.
"Goodnight, Rupert," she whispered, starting to pull away.
But she didn't get far.
With a sudden, uncoordinated burst of strength, Rupert’s hand shot out from beneath the blanket. His fingers wrapped around her wrist, his grip surprisingly firm despite his state. His eyes flew open again, no longer just sleepy, but wide with a flash of raw, panicked desperation.
"No," he choked out, his voice thick, rough, and sounding entirely terrified. "No, don't go. Don't go back into the dark."
"Rupert, let go," Taggie whispered frantically, casting a panicked glance toward the ceiling, terrified the sudden noise would bring Maud or her father back down the stairs. "You're safe. You're on the sofa. I'm just going up to bed."
"No!" He pulled on her wrist, trying to haul himself upward, but his balance was so utterly shot that he only succeeded in dragging her closer until she was practically leaning over him, her hair cascading around his face. He gripped her sleeve with his other hand, anchoring her to him. "Don't leave me. If I wake up... if I wake up and you're gone, it's just the nightmare again. Stay. Please, angel, just stay."
He was trembling, the fierce, unshakeable Rupert Campbell-Black looking thoroughly reduced by the gin and whatever ghosts were haunting his drunken mind. He was completely blind to the reality of the drawing room, but he was holding onto her like a drowning man clutching a lifeline.
"Rupert, please, someone will hear you," she pleaded softly, her heart hammering against her ribs as she tried to gently pry his fingers away. He wouldn't budge. He only tightened his hold, a desperate, miserable groan escaping his throat.
She realised then that he wasn't going to let her go. Not like this. If she fought him, he’d only get louder, and the whole house would come crashing down on them.
She took a deep, steadying breath, placing her free hand gently against the side of his neck, feeling the rapid, erratic thrum of his pulse.
"Alright," she murmured, her voice dropping into a soothing, quiet hum. "Alright, Rupert. Look at me."
He blinked, his bloodshot eyes struggling to focus on her face, his breathing shallow and ragged.
"I'm not going to leave you in the dark," she whispered, her thumb wiping away the tension on his brow. "But you can't sleep on this sofa. It's too cold. You're coming upstairs with me. You can sleep in my bed, alright? Just come with me."
The words felt dangerously bold, leaving a hot, tingling sensation in her throat, but they worked like magic.
Rupert stared at her for a long second, processing the offer through the heavy fog of alcohol. Slowly, the frantic panic in his eyes began to melt away, replaced by an expression of profound, childlike relief. The desperate tension in his fingers loosened, though he didn't let go of her hand entirely.
"With you?" he mumbled, a faint, dopey smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Upstairs?"
"Yes," Taggie whispered, offering a small, reassuring smile as she gently stood up, easing him along with her. "But you have to be very, very quiet. Like a mouse. Can you do that for me?"
"Quiet," he echoed obediently, nodding his head so heavily he nearly toppled forward. "Quiet as a mouse for my angel."
With Taggie guiding him, acting as a steady, patient crutch, they began the slow, agonisingly careful trek out of the drawing room. Rupert was still mostly a dead weight, but the promise of her bed kept him moving, his heavy footsteps muffled by the thick rugs as she steered him away from the creaking floorboards and up into the shadows of the stairs.