Page 45 of False God

I never saw my father’s cracks. Not until he was gone and no longer able to hide them. I’m worried I’m missing Blythe’s. That mine are forming under the pressure of holding everything together.

I exhale, trying to keep my composure. It’s fucking exhausting, acting as the bridge between two people determined to keep their distance.

Two hours spent in ten stores—that was how long it took to pick out the wrapped handbag sitting on the table. One very similar to the purses spilling out of Blythe’s overstuffed closet. One that she would probably love if gifted to her by a friend or an admirer.

But the one thing worse than returning home with a gift my mother didn’t want to buy and my sister would never use would have been coming back empty-handed, allowing my mother to completely ignore the existence of her other child.

I nod toward the bag. “Take it.”

Maybe she can hear the fissures forming in my voice.

Because Blythe listens for once. She takes the bag and tells me, “I’m glad you’re home, Charlie,” before leaving the dining room.

My grandmother lives in a townhouse in Knightsbridge that overlooks Hyde Park. For most people, the coveted address and five live-in staff would be a recipe for contentment.

Grace Marlborough is not most people.

For all the privilege in her life, she’s also endured more than her fair share of hardship. My grandfather died when I was six. My dad inherited the Duke of Manchester title young, just like I did. She’s seen the title pass through three generations in her lifetime.

As I open the metal gate and walk up the short stone path, I pray the tradition ends with me. Assuming I have children and there’s anything left of the dukedom to pass on. Otherwise,everythingwill end with me.

Elsie—the woman who’s assisted my grandmother for longer than I’ve been alive—answers the door. She beams when she sees me. “Hullo, Charlie. How are yuh?”

The sound of her Cockney accent hits me with a strong dose of nostalgia. Elsie outlasted all of the nannies Blythe and I had. She’s a fond reminder of childhood—the easier, smoother patch of my life between losing my parents. The closest to a surrogate mother I have.

“Good, Elsie.” I kiss her weathered cheek, then hand her one of the bunches of flowers I bought from the newspaper stand down the street.

Her smile stretches wider, overtaking her wrinkled cheeks. She’s in her early sixties now. “Yuh spoil me. I’m puttin’ ’ese in me room.” Elsie glances down the stone walkway, one eyebrow, threaded with gray, lifting when she registers Blythe’s absence before she shuts the door behind me. “Yuh ain’t the strictest bruvah.”

I sigh. “I know. Granny in the sunroom?”

“Aye.”

I thank Elsie and continue walking down the hallway and past the staircase. The only adornment on the cream-colored wall opposite the stairs is an oil painting of Gran, my father, and my grandfather. It was painted when my father was fifteen. There used to be a similar family portrait hanging in Newcastle Hall, but Papa wiped all evidence of Georgia’s existence from the manor as soon as she left. Out of anger or sadness, I’ll never know.

My grandmother is perched on the edge of a floral settee in the sunroom, a spread already laid out—steaming tea, scones, and clotted cream piled high in a glass bowl. My stomach grumbles, still on American time. It’s past dinner there, and all I’ve eaten today was breakfast.

Granny’s eyes are sharp and assessing as she appraises me, the flowers I’m holding, and the conspicuous absence of Blythe.

“Hello, Granny.”

She accepts the flowers and a kiss on the cheek with a demure smile. I take my usual seat in one of the armchairs opposite her.

“Hello, Charles. Where’s your sister?”

It’s obvious Blythe isn’t here. But of course, she’s going to make me say it.

“She couldn’t make it.”

My grandmother clicks her tongue as she hands the bouquet off to Alfie, her butler. He shoots me a smile before leaving the room.

“You spoil that girl, Charles.”

She’s not wrong. I’ve done everything I can to insulate Blythe’s world since our father died. Protecting her peace of mind is my main motivation at the moment. The last bit of normalcy in my life.

Instead of that, I say, “You’re looking well.”

My last visit was a week ago, right before I left for New York, and Granny was coming down with a cold.

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