09 | the old man and the brie

Background color
Font
Font size
Line height

Andrew had never taken a girl to Cornwall.

He drummed his fingers anxiously on the steering wheel. Not even Eleanora had been invited down to his childhood home for the weekend; she had met his parents at a ritzy hotel in London, popping by in between fashion shows and galas.

This was new territory.

He glanced at Ophelia.

She had insisted on treating their six-hour drive as some sort of mad sightseeing tour, pressing her face up against the window like a child at the zoo. She had actually squealed when they passed by the spires of Exeter cathedral. Squealed.

"Dickens met his wife here," she informed him. "Catherine. I don't suppose you'd want to make a quick stop at Mile End Cottage to see where his parents lived?"

"Absolutely not."

"Please?"

"No."

"It's hardly out of the way."

She looked up at him, her brown eyes hopeful. Which is how Andrew found himself turning the car around and then sitting outside a plain gingerbread building for twenty minutes, listening to Ophelia prattle on about "Nicholas Nickleby" and Dickens' greatest hits, flapping her hands around animatedly.

Andrew wasn't sure what it was about this girl that made him want to do stupid and impractical things, but he made a mental note to put an end to it.

Particularly after last night.

His heartbeat sped up as he thought of the way that Ophelia had felt underneath him. The softness of her body. The intoxicating smell of rose and vanilla. The little gasping noises she made when he kissed her neck, breathy and addicting...

His trousers tightened uncomfortably.

Oh, no. Nope. He wasn't going there.

She was an attractive girl, obviously, and Andrew had wanted her; it was as simple as that. But it was over now. Done and dusted. He had gotten the whole thing out of his system, and now he could focus on what mattered most: proposing to Eleanora.

"Alright," Andrew grunted. "Time to go."

He shifted the car into gear.

It wasn't long before they were turning off the single carriageway and on to a narrow, winding path, snaking through endless green fields. Dozens of chimneys came into view first, followed by a stone façade, hidden like a bride beneath a veil of green ivy and Japanese honeysuckle. The rose gardens — normally his mother's pride and joy — were shriveling in the November frost.

Andrew was so caught up in his thoughts that he almost missed Ophelia's gasp.

"You live here?"

"Well, not anymore," he said dryly.

"Oh, gosh." Ophelia got out of the car, shielding her eyes against the late afternoon glare. "It's like a miniature castle."

"It's called Wisteria Hill, actually."

He felt a sudden jolt of anticipation as her eyes flicked over the stone fountain, the trimmed hedges, the family crest on the door. He wanted her to love it, Andrew realized with some surprise. To love it as much as he did. Why was that?

"Come on," Andrew said. "Mum will be waiting in the Orangerie."

He guided her into the cavernous front hall, throwing their jackets unceremoniously on the antique wooden table. Ophelia smirked at him.

"No butler?"

"We let him have the weekend off."

Ophelia seemed unsure if Andrew was joking.

He led her to a glass building sticking out of the house like a burr on a tree. Glass windows offered sweeping views of the gardens — usually manicured, but overgrown, these days — and a fountain burbled in the corner. His mother was perched primly in a white chair, a delicate tea service spread out in front of her.

She smiled as they approached.

"Andrew!"

He resisted the urge to fidget. Jane Hazelton-Scott was a formidable woman, and today was no exception; her blonde hair was pulled up into a knot neater than plain whisky, and she was wearing a pressed white suit. Her heels made clicking noises on the tiles.

"And this must be Ophelia," she said. "You're even prettier in person, my dear."

She kissed both of Ophelia's cheeks. Her gaze was assessing, though, and Andrew had the sudden, bizarre urge to wrap his arm around Ophelia's waist protectively.

Which he didn't.

Obviously.

"You have a lovely home," Ophelia said.

"Thank-you."

"It's exactly how I pictured Pemberley," Ophelia continued. "Wisteria Hill has the same natural beauty."

Andrew winced. His mother wasn't particularly fond of too many compliments, and he had always suspected that Jane loathed any novel that wasn't written by Trollope or nominated for a prize.

To his surprise, Jane beamed. "They were all of them warm in their admiration," she said magnanimously, sweeping an arm around the room. "And at that moment, she felt that to be mistress of Pemberley might be something."

Ophelia's face lit up. "That's my favourite part!"

"Hang on," Andrew sputtered, rounding on his mother. "Since when do you read Austen?"

"Oh, I've always read Austen," Jane said airily. "You hardly know everything about me." She motioned for them to sit. Then she doled out the tea, leaning forward to whisper to Ophelia conspiratorially. "Andrew's a bit of a Philistine."

"Mum!"

"Well, you are."

"I read books," Andrew said, nettled. "Sometimes."

"Men's Health doesn't count, darling."

She smiled as she passed him a cup of English Breakfast. Andrew scowled as he took it, glaring down at the decorative pink flowers. Stupid frilly cup. Stupid Jane Austen. Next to him, Ophelia took a delicate sip.

"He really never read books?"

"Oh, never." Jane stirred sugar into her tea. "He was too busy running around the garden in a superhero costume and terrorizing the dog."

"Mum!"

"And chasing around girls on his tricycle."

Andrew groaned. "Don't you have somewhere to be?" He checked his watch. "I thought your book club started soon."

"You know what?" Jane looked at Ophelia. "I think I may cancel it."

"Cancel it?"

Andrew couldn't remember Jane canceling anything. Ever. For god's sake, the woman had attended a charity event to save beluga whales hours before giving birth to him; the word "cancel" simply wasn't in her vocabulary.

"Why not?" Jane shrugged delicately. "Besides, I haven't finished my tea yet."

The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of tea and scones. Ophelia and Jane chatted amiably, switching from novels to gardening to his parents' holiday to Canada in 1988. Andrew began to feel more and more like the fountain: a nice addition to the room, but largely unnecessary.

Although oddly, he didn't mind.

Andrew couldn't remember the last time he had seen his mother so animated. At least, not since his father got sick about a year ago.

As if on cue, the door swung open.

Andrew froze. He had only seen his father six weeks ago — the same day as his and Eleanora's disastrous anniversary, in fact — but Frank Hazelton-Scott already looked worse. Far worse, in fact. He was slumped slightly in his wheelchair, and his skin had a yellowish hue to it; it was stretched over his skull, thin as watery tea.

"So," he said cheerfully. "You must be the famous Ophelia."

Ophelia flushed. "Hello, sir."

"Please." He wheeled himself into the room. "Call me Frank."

To his surprise, Ophelia stood up, leaning down to kiss both of his cheeks. His father flushed, and Jane smiled into her tea. "Ophelia and I were just discussing the history of the estate."

"Really?" Frank's eyes lit up. "It's fascinating."

Andrew groaned inwardly. Oh, god; here they went. Frank was the worst sort of history buff, devouring medieval history texts the way a child might gleefully devour Halloween candy. Andrew had never had the patience for it.

Ophelia, however, seemed intrigued.

"Do you know much about Wisteria Hill?"

"Oh, everything," Frank told her. "You see that doorway?" He gestured to a stone archway through the glass window, just by the entrance to the kitchen garden. "That's the only remaining part of the original house. It dates back to the Plantagenet era."

"Really?"

"Would you like to see it?"

"I'd love to."

Andrew frowned as Ophelia climbed to her feet, his desire to see his father happy warring with his ever-present anxiety. "Are you sure about this, Father? Your wheelchair on those cobblestones—"

"Oh, leave it alone, Andrew." Frank waved him off. "Besides, I have a wonderful companion to help me if I need it."

He winked at Ophelia, whose blush intensified.

She cast a backwards glance at Andrew before trailing his father out of the room, her red ponytail swinging behind her. He could already hear Frank banging on about how the estate was famous for producing black tea and Manuka honey — his favourite topic — and he repressed a smile.

Poor Ophelia.

He suspected that she wouldn't mind, though.

Jane stood, clearing away the tea service. She was smiling a little to herself, and Andrew frowned at her suspiciously.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Oh, come on, Mum." He crossed his arms. "What is it?"

"No, it's really nothing," Jane insisted, and then paused. "It's just that I've not seen your father so happy in ages." She patted him on the cheek. "Ophelia's a very special girl, Andrew. You must look after her."

"We're not together, Mum."

"Well, naturally you're not," Jane said dismissively. "Ophelia's far too sensible for that." She stepped back. "That is why you must treat her well, Andrew; she may eventually consider dating you, if you're lucky."

"Dating me?" He frowned. "But I thought you liked Eleanora. Father certainly does."

His mother gave him an exasperated look. Then she sighed, placing the tea kettle on the sideboard before looping her arm through his.

"A glass of champagne, I think," Jane mused. "And then we can go into dinner. I ordered peas, especially for you."

"But I hate peas."

"Exactly, darling." She patted his hand. "That is entirely the point."

Ophelia had never seen such a large dinner table.

Or so much food.

The mahogany table groaned under endless dishes: tender pork and crispy bacon and apples glazed in a wine sauce, resting on a bed of roasted potatoes. A bowl of green peas, swimming in brown butter seasoned with thyme from the garden. And then there was the baguette, fresh from the oven.

Ophelia had half-expected servants to materialize out of sliding panels in the wall, but Jane served all of the food herself.

"We do have some help," Jane told Ophelia. "Particularly around the holidays, when we host family. Our cook, Penny, is simply wonderful; the bread is her recipe." She spooned peas on to her husband's plate. "But we manage by ourselves, most of the time."

"The peas are excellent."

"Thank-you, Ophelia." She shot Andrew a pointed look. "I'm happy that someone appreciates them."

Andrew muttered something vaguely non-complimentary.

"And I love these," Ophelia said, raising her champagne glass. "They're gorgeous."

They really were; the champagne flutes were made of spider-like glass, adorned with wedge cuts that reminded Ophelia of mountains. Frank beamed down at his own glass.

"Thank-you, my dear," Frank said. "These glasses are the only thing I like that my mother in-law has given me." A slight pause. "Other than my wife, of course."

Jane swatted him.

Dinner plates were whisked away, swiftly replaced by a decadent chocolate cake topped with raspberry coulis, more champagne, and a cheeseboard boasting smoked cheddar, brie cheese, and gingerbread-spiced Gouda.

Frank tucked into his cake with enthusiasm.

"Frank," Jane scolded. "We have a guest."

"Oh, don't stop on my account," Ophelia said, highly entertained. "I've seen worse."

"She has," Andrew confirmed. "She's met Henry."

Jane frowned. Frank winked at Ophelia, taking another bite of his chocolate cake. She noticed that he swallowed slowly, though. Almost as if it pained him. He pointed his fork at her.

"If there's one thing I've learned over the years, my dear, it's this; you will find that it's the good things in life that keep us alive, but it is the sinful things that are worth living for."

Ophelia smiled, helping herself to a piece of brie cheese. Andrew had told her that his father was a successful businessman, and she could see why; Frank had that sort of rare charisma that made you feel like a spotlight was shining on you every time he looked your way. She had noticed it earlier, when he showed her the Plantagenet doorway.

"It's not just a doorway," he explained. "It's an artifact. A relic of history."

She touched the stone delicately. "In Canada, it would be in a museum."

"Ah, museums." Frank waved her off. "A place where history goes to die." He winked. "Not that I would admit it to most people, of course; I happen to be on the board of several London museums."

Yes. Ophelia could see why people liked Frank.

Why they would do anything for him.

She glanced sideways at Andrew. He was pushing around his chocolate cake, clearly pretending to listen to whatever Jane was saying. Was that why he wanted to marry Eleanora so badly? So that Frank could come to the wedding? It was obvious that he was sick. Ophelia wasn't a doctor, but judging by the older man's pallor, she guessed it wasn't good.

Andrew rose from the table.

"Well, we'd better turn in." He kissed his mother on the cheek. "Best to get an early start tomorrow morning."

Jane frowned. "You're leaving?"

"But you just got here," Frank protested.

Andrew shifted uncomfortably. "Yes, well, I have loads of coursework to catch up on. And Ophelia is busy, too." He gave her a pointed look. "Aren't you?"

She hesitated. "Well, I..."

"Nonsense." Jane shook her head. "You can't leave without showing Ophelia the coast; it's lovely this time of year."

"But Mum—"

"I won't hear of it." Jane started clearing the dessert plates. "It's settled; you and Ophelia can stay tomorrow, and then leave first thing on Monday." She smiled at Ophelia. "Now, my dear; what do you say to a game of cards?"

A/N: Hi all! Happy Saturday :)

Just thought I'd hop in and say that although Wisteria Hill isn't a place, it's based off of Tregothnan, which translates to "the house at the head of the valley." You can find pictures on my Instagram story today!

What does everyone think of Andrew's parents? And Ophelia's revelation about why Andrew might want to marry Eleanora?

Affectionately,

J.K.


You are reading the story above: TeenFic.Net