Page 4 of The Feud

I stare down at the folder, the contents inside having just turned my world upside down. Even if it isn’t true, I’m getting ready to enter a shitstorm because nothing good ever comes from tangling with the Mardraggons.

“My card is stapled on the inside. Call me if you need anything but just know that I’m Sylvie’s legal representative and everything I do is in her best interests.”

I nod, not bothering to look at the man. I hear him move to the door and step aside to allow him access. Before he steps over the threshold, I ask, “What type of cancer did Alaine have?”

“Brain cancer. Glioblastoma. Very aggressive. Nothing could be done.”

I acknowledge that news with a lift of my chin, although I can’t say I’m sad to hear of her passing. I grew up despising Alaine and her brother, Gabe, just as they hated me and my siblings. The bitterness between the families runs so deep that we avoid each other at all costs. That drunken one-night stand shouldn’t have ever happened, but we were both wasted and I can barely remember it.

Maybe she didn’t remember it correctly either. In fact, I’m sure she was probably the type of woman who was sleeping around and any number of men could be the father.

That has to be the answer.

Regardless, this is a huge problem and needs my immediate attention. Whipping my phone out, I shoot a group text to my siblings.

Emergency family meeting now at the main house.

CHAPTER 2

Ethan

“You had sex with Alaine Mardraggon?” Trey asks for the third time.

I shoot my brother a warning look to not ask again. I’ve answered it once and I’m not going to waste my breath when there are more important things to decide.

“Do you believe what Alaine wrote?” Kat asks. She’s holding the single-page typed letter that I read a dozen times before my siblings congregated in the main sitting room. The heart of the restored Georgian mansion, an ever-present reminder of a bygone era, harmonizes historical splendor with subtle contemporary touches. The room is defined by its tall, paneled windows. These windows, with their traditional wooden shutters, frame the outside world and fill the space with a soft, natural glow that dances across the high ceilings adorned with ornate plasterwork. From the center of these intricate designs a crystal chandelier hangs like a jewel, scattering light in a warm, embracing aura.

The polished oak floors wear a large Persian rug of deep reds and blues woven in intricate patterns. Chippendale-style chairs with their mahogany frames display graceful curves and carvings, while a matching sofa reupholstered in luxurious, deep green velvet whispers of modern comfort amid historical charm.

In one corner, a Georgian tea table with cabriole legs and ball-and-claw feet stands and on the wall adjacent to the fireplace sits a Pembroke table perched by the window, which Miranda always fills with fresh flowers. It’s our mom’s favorite place to write letters back home to Ireland.

Tall, built-in bookcases flank the wall opposite the fireplace, their shelves a mosaic of leather-bound classics and various keepsakes, echoing generations of intellectual pursuits. The walls themselves are a gallery adorned with oil paintings. Portraits of ancestral figures, stern and regal, keep watch over the room, their eyes following the passage of time. Landscapes in ornate frames offer views of pastoral scenes and historic landmarks, a visual escape to the world outside.

Dominating the room is a large marble fireplace, its presence commanding yet inviting. Above it, a grand, gilded mirror reflects the life of the room, multiplying its light and space. On mantelpieces and side tables, small, tasteful decorations are carefully arranged: brass candlesticks, a silver tea set, a porcelain figurine or two, each a character in this elegant narrative. Over the years, my mom chose and placed many of the items, but most have been handed down through generations.

Subtle modern touches are woven seamlessly into the fabric of the room, like plush throw pillows and a casually draped cashmere blanket on the sofa’s arm, offering a nod to contemporary comfort.

I shrug, my hand resting on the mantel as I stare into the cold fireplace.

“Of course you can’t believe what she wrote,” Trey says. His temper can run fiercely hot, particularly when his family is at the heart of the matter. “She’s a Mardraggon. Can’t believe a fucking thing they say.”

The bitter feud between the Blackburn and Mardraggon families started in the mid-nineteenth century when a young Elizabeth Blackburn fell in love with a dashing Henry Mardraggon and all of Shelby County, Kentucky was abuzz. The two families had recently settled in the area—the Blackburns hailing from England and the Mardraggons from France. Times were perilous and the young country was engaged in a civil war, although Kentucky was a key border state and attempted to maintain neutrality.

The Blackburns and the Mardraggons were both up-and-coming, influential families and looked upon with great favor by all who knew them.

The Blackburns worked tirelessly to build up a saddlebred breeding farm, horses known for their versatility, beauty, smooth gaits and endurance. They saw great economic opportunity in selling their horses to the Union. The saddlebred’s speed, agility and ability to cover long distances were ideal for cavalry horses and officer mounts. It was through the placement of these horses with the Union that the Blackburns started their meteoric rise as purveyors of the best horseflesh in the country.

The Mardraggons—who had some experience in making wine in the Burgundy region of France—started a new venture in distilling bourbon. Settling in Kentucky, they found corn abundant, and it became the primary grain for whiskey. Using charred oak barrels for aging, the Mardraggons were one of the original pioneers of distilling that defining characteristic of bourbon. By the mid-1800s, they were mass producing in sealed bottles and gaining a reputation for quality and authenticity in their alcohol. The Mardraggons also took advantage of the economic opportunity the Civil War presented but were not as discerning between the two warring factions of the Union and Confederacy, providing liquor to both.

Elizabeth Blackburn and Henry Mardraggon cared nothing about horses, bourbon, or war. They only cared about each other. They were madly, deeply, and wholeheartedly in love. Henry proposed to Elizabeth after getting permission from her father, James Blackburn. The engagement was widely celebrated throughout all polite society. Two powerhouse families would be merging, and everyone knew that they would be controlling much of the economic interests in the region.

But as with many love stories, things went disastrously wrong. After a blissful two months of engaged life, dark rumors started to circulate about Elizabeth Blackburn. Ugly, salacious gossip that, if true, spelled disaster for the young couple. It most certainly spelled ruination for Elizabeth. It had reached her father’s ears that Elizabeth had been engaged in an illicit affair with a young man of no importance in Shelbyville.

The rumors were without merit, vehemently denied, devoid of proof and undoubtedly false. That didn’t matter to anyone because women whispered behind Elizabeth’s back, fueling the gossip, and both patriarchs of the Mardraggon and Blackburn families stewed over the potential truth.

An argument ensued between the two fathers, James Blackburn and Edward Mardraggon. No, not an argument—a rageful, blasphemous feud between two powerful men tossing bladed barbs at one another. Young Henry, who refused to believe the worst about his love, tried to intervene and calm the situation. Tempers between the fathers flared hotter and pistols were drawn.

Two shots were fired with the intent to kill but only one bullet landed tragically.

---