Page 15 of The Feud

She was the first to approach Sylvie and spent the majority of the time talking about the Blackburn family. Not the history, but the present. She described each of her children, starting with me and ending with the youngest, twins Kat and Abby. She told stories of her home in Ireland and about all the fun things on the farm that Sylvie will be able to do. Sylvie didn’t show one iota of interest, nor did she ask a single question. Mom, grasping at straws, tried to nudge Sylvie into the conversation by asking her questions. They were answered grudgingly and with as few words as possible. It was with a regretful sigh that Mom eventually left her alone.

Kat tried next. She thought maybe speaking about girly things would draw her out. She attempted to talk to her about fashion and makeup, but Sylvie wanted no part of it.

I listened outside the door as my dad made a fumbling attempt to converse, and he was out of there the fastest, giving up after only a few minutes of silence from his granddaughter. Trey and Wade fared no better. They tried humor, which fell flat, and sent the two big men scurrying away.

“I’ll go up and talk to her,” I say.

Sadly, it’s a statement born of duty. Duty is all I have at this moment because I don’t know how to feel about my daughter. I don’t know her. She is still a shock to my system. I’m plagued with doubts and insecurities because I’ve been thrust into a position of responsibility I didn’t ask for nor do I want.

I’ve always been a man of duty. I’ve given my life to Blackburn Farms and sometimes it’s been at the cost of my own happiness. With the great weight of responsibility comes the absolute loss of personal freedom, but it’s something I’ve become accustomed to. Now I have one more weight on my shoulders and I’m clueless about how to deal with it.

Everyone is quiet as I rise from the table and put my empty coffee cup in the sink. Miranda tries to take it from me but I refuse, rinsing it out myself and placing it in the dishwasher. I ignore the sympathetic look she bestows upon me.

My feet feel heavy as I trudge up the grand staircase and cut a right toward the wing of the house where I reside. I chose Kat’s old bedroom for Sylvie, which has the most feminine furniture and is the easiest to decorate for a little girl. Mom did a good job on such short notice, decorating it with soft pastel yellows and pinks. The curtains on the front window overlooking the oak-lined driveway are sheer white chiffon with delicate flowers embroidered around the edge.

I have no clue if any of that appeals to Sylvie but I’m positive she doesn’t appreciate the effort either way. She’s not in a place where she can do so, and I understand rather than resent it. I may be gruff at times, but I understand how traumatizing this must be. Forget everything she’s been through—she lost her mother just last week and that’s the most important thing to remember. I know I need to have a discussion with her. I need to let her know that I understand she’s operating mostly on grief which translates into anger.

Sylvie’s door is closed and out of respect for her, I knock and wait a sufficient time before opening it. I’ve learned that she won’t say the words to invite me in, but she doesn’t tell me to stay out, so I push the door open.

Sylvie is sitting on her bed propped on pillows, reading a book.

I can’t see what she’s reading, but my mom filled the small bookcase with a mountain of age-appropriate literature. She even went to the library and got some books in French.

Sylvie doesn’t look up, but I can tell by the stiffening of her posture that she’s no longer really seeing the words before her and is hyperaware of my presence.

“I would really like it if you would come down and join us for breakfast.”

“Not hungry.”

She flips a page and makes it seem as if she’s reading, but I can tell she’s braced for my next words.

“You must be hungry. You barely touched your dinner last night.”

Another painfully awkward event… Dinner around the butcher-block table where everyone tried to act natural. There was a period at the beginning where we tried to engage Sylvie, but her sullen silence had us resorting to our typical conversations, mostly about the farm. I watched her closely to see if anything piqued her interest, particularly as we discussed horses.

While there are so many things on my list of priorities with my new daughter, my biggest desire is to spark some interest in what we do for a living. Sylvie comes from a dynasty rooted in bourbon and wine. I don’t know if she even likes animals, much less horses.

I move farther into her room but keep my distance a few feet from the bed. Tucking my hands in my pockets, I say, “I don’t want to put hard rules in place as you’re trying to find your footing, but I think it’s important that you make an effort to spend time around your family.”

“This isn’t my family.”

I knew she would say that. She’s repeated it often enough in the less than twenty-four hours she’s been in my home.

I study her for a long moment. Family is key… I know she has an unwavering loyalty to the Mardraggons but I don’t know how deep it goes. From what little I’ve been able to ascertain from Todd Gillam, I know that Sylvie has spent most of her life in France. Alaine brought her back to Kentucky for short visits on occasion, but it appears she has not spent significant time with the Kentucky Mardraggons. I’m dying to know why that is.

While I suspect they are not an overly loving family, just based on the cold nature of Lionel and Rosemund and how they’ve dealt with Sylvie so far, I know they are a loyal group. They are bonded in hatred toward the Blackburns, and it’s obvious that hate has been imparted to Sylvie. I just don’t know when that happened.

Did Alaine tell her the history dating back to 1852? Or is this more of a recent dilemma the last few months that they’ve been in Kentucky as Alaine slowly withered from brain cancer? How much influence could Lionel and Rosemund put on Sylvie in that short period? And did her mother add to it?

All important questions to be answered and only Sylvie can provide that information.

But now is not the time. Still, I know deep in my gut that the way to provoke her into opening up is going to be centered around the concept of family. I decide to try a bold move.

“You’re definitely a Mardraggon through and through.” That gets Sylvie’s attention and she lifts her head to glare at me. I can see the question in her eyes and her defiance in not wanting to voice the words, so I provide more. “From what I know about the Mardraggons, they are incredibly closed off and suspicious. They don’t like opening themselves up to outsiders. Yes, firm in their convictions no matter how wayward they are, but they’re never willing to give people a chance. You are definitely a Mardraggon.”

Sylvie’s mouth pops open in surprise and her glare melts from one of frigid ice into confusion. I continue. “I will have to say though, there is one thing I do respect about your family.” I know it’s a risk to put her firmly on one side of the battle line. Saying the Mardraggons are her family and not acknowledging the Blackburns are an equal part. “I admire their strength. It’s true… Your grandfather is as strong and tough as they come. Your mother was too, for that matter. I suspect you inherited every drop of that DNA.”

“And your point?”

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