04. The last living Sinclair
My words make Christopher surprised. I can tell in the serious countenance that falters for a moment, and the eyebrows furrow in a heartbeat, soon returning to normal as if it had been an illusion.
The priest, also strangled by this ceremony that is surely blasphemy, ends it with a routine blessing that sounds ironic to my ears, “What God hath joined together, let no man put apart.”
Around us, the guests begin to applaud, their forced smiles trying to mask the discomfort they feel in front of a marriage obviously empty of happiness.
I exchange one last look with Christopher, but it is brief and indifferent. There is no kiss to seal the ceremony, no loving caresses… We just turn to the guests, ready to face a lonely party full of people and meaningless acts.
Even though I vowed I would live without regrets if given a chance to make things right, it’s impossible not to feel bitter as I stand at the center of this ridiculous hall, forcing smiles for everyone who comes to greet me.
My eyes wander over the hall’s details, bringing a distressing nostalgia… after all, everything is exactly as it was ten years ago when I first became Christopher Houghton’s wife.
I look around, seeing the walls adorned with big frames portraying the long history of the Houghton family, whose influence dates back to the 16th century.
That was something I once took pride in. Being adopted by a family with noble blood seemed like the plot of a contemporary fairy tale that any teenage girl would dream about, especially with Prince Charming, who made me fall in love at first sight.
Despite the stiff etiquettes and calculated smiles, I liked it and always had a great, deep gratitude for Marshall Grandpa, who adopted me for reasons that, while for some were proof of loyalty, can also be seen as selfishness by more critical sights.
My eyes meet Grandpa’s, who smiles when he notices my attention. He breaks away from the conversation with two of his seven children and quickly approaches, pulling me into a comforting and enveloping hug.
The moment his arms wrap around me, all eyes fall on us. This public display of affection isn’t typical for an earl like him, but it proves that, though I do not carry his blood, I’m the one who has his favor the most.
The smell of his classic aftershave and the slight roughness of his suit against my skin brings unexpected comfort, and my body immediately relaxes in his arms, a point of peace in the chaos.
I close my eyes, painfully aware that in six months, Marshall Houghton will leave this world, and his family will go to war over a will that many deemed unfair.
It’s been years since I dealt with the pain of losing the man who raised me from the age of twelve and shaped the woman I became, for better or for worse. Maybe that’s why I hadn’t considered that going back to the past and reliving alongside people who have already left this world, just like me, could be somewhat painful.
But now that we’re here, and I see his brown eyes full of emotion as he steps back from the hug, a knot forms in my throat. I guess I’m making a really pitiful face because he touches my face and cracks a subtle smile.
“Charlotte, my dear,” he begins, his voice choked with emotion yet full of elegance, “Today is a day I’ve dreamed of for a long time, even before you came into our lives.”
I look at his slightly wrinkled hands, which hold mine — hands that, despite always being soft, can’t escape the ravages of time.
“You know this story; I’ve told it a million times,” he smiles even wider, making me smile as well, with fond memories warming my chest. “But your grandfather was truly a great man. I will never forget how he gave his own life to save mine during that fire sixty years ago. He was a true hero.”
It’s the story of how my grandfather, Harold Sinclair, saved the young earl of the Houghton house from a fire that consumed the mansion, reduced it to ruins, and took his life in the process.
Harold Sinclair left behind three children, all of whom have also passed away; both my father and his two brothers died tragically. My grandmother was the last to die; her heart couldn’t bear the sadness of burying her husband and all her children. I’m the only granddaughter — the last living Sinclair.
Marshall supported the family from the beginning, possibly out of a sense of honor and gratitude. When he found out that I was the last descendant of his savior, he took me into his home and cared for me as if I were his own blood.
I’m not going to lie… There was a time of extreme resentment when I blamed everyone who left me because, inevitably, each small step led to my miserable life alongside Christopher. But I have long since moved past that stage of grieving.
“Is there something on your mind? Are you okay?” Grandpa asks with clear concern.
I force a smile that, despite my best efforts, comes out sad, “Yes, I’m fine.”
“You wanted this marriage so much, dear... is there something that isn’t to your liking?”
Around me, there’s nothing that can be criticized. Everything was thought out with care and perfection. There can’t be anything wrong because, outside, everything looks perfect. Even my dress seems to have come out of a fairy tale. But I can’t express true joy and happiness when I know all that this luxury means… and the price I paid for it.
“It’s all beautiful. I appreciate the effort you put into this party; it really made me happy.” I stroke his hands, the skin thin and veined. He seems to have lost weight, a sad reminder of the disease he will soon learn.
“Really?” He studies my face carefully, and then his eyes become severe and sharp, “Is this because of Christopher, isn’t it?”
I give a subtle and soft smile that surprises him, “It’s okay, Grandpa. Really.”
He looks worried and about to say something, but the sound of his harsh, dry cough stops him. I freeze, feeling my heart pounding as he desperately covers his mouth with his hand, searching for the handkerchief from his perfect suit.
For long moments, Grandpa coughs to the point that his face turns red. Around us, people look and whisper, some curious but most concerned.
I see the discomfort in his eyes and also some shame; for a proud man who has carried the title of earl for decades, showing vulnerability in public is a sin.
“Grandpa,” I start, touching his face delicately, seeing the expression across his flushed face. “How long have you been coughing like this?”
Surprise lights up his face for a moment before a shaky smile replaces it.
“It’s nothing, dear. Just a cold that won’t leave me,” Grandpa says, trying to reassure me.
It’s not just a cold; Grandpa Marshall is sick — and this same disease will kill him. It’s strange; I’ve been in this same place before, and I know how terrible denial is. Going through death in life and mourning oneself is not easy… especially when I’ve neglected myself for years.
The truth is, even if I tell him about his body, there’s nothing he can do to reverse the situation; at this point, the cancer must have spread from his lungs throughout his body.
Honestly, what a miserable life this is, where everyone around me succumbs and suffers so much.
Seeing my darkened expression, Grandpa gives me a comforting smile and squeezes my hand. “Don’t worry, dear. It’s nothing serious. But if it comforts you, I’ll go to the doctor first thing in the morning.”
Seeing the genuine love reflected in his eyes, a feeling I haven’t felt in so long, makes the weight of reality hit me hard. Everything I’ve lived through, all the losses and all the pains, I’m about to go through all of it again. But I wonder, am I capable of enduring it? Will I be able to go through mourning alone again? Will I be able to save my son’s life?
Suddenly, these thoughts bring up old fears of loss and goodbyes that I thought I had overcome a long time ago.
And just like that, all the air in the hall weighs on me, each breath an effort.
“I need a moment,” I say more to myself than to him, my voice almost lost under the sound of music that now thunders like a distant storm.
I let go of his hand and turn, moving quickly away among adorned tables and groups of guests.
My steps are fast, almost running, as I look for the exit to the hall’s gardens. Outside, I hope to find space and fresh air, away from sharp eyes and festive responsibilities, a place to face my fears and find some strength to return…
Instead, what I find near the large fountain where I used to spend most of my childhood isn’t peace, but Christopher Houghton — my soon-to-be ex-husband.