MY RUIN: In Love With My Step-Uncle-Chapter 51 - Fifty-One: Eavesdropping

//CLARA//

Beatrice returned with three ice creams balanced precariously in her hands, her face bright with the effort of not dropping them. Oliver moved toward her before I could, taking two of the cones from her grasp.

"Thank you, Mr. Whitfield," she said.

"Oliver," he corrected again, this time with a voice so soft it was basically a stage whisper.

Beatrice looked up at him and beamed. Between the heat and the sheer awkwardness of the moment, the blush spreading across her face was so bright and patchy she looked less like a blushing debutante and more like a startled cockatiel.

Oliver just stared at her, completely malfunctioning. It was like his brain had hit a 404 error. The man who had literally just automated the future of the printing industry had suddenly devolved into a total airhead.

He was looking at Beatrice as if he’d forgotten I was originally using her as a high-society pawn to stick it to Catherine—and honestly, he looked like he’d forgotten Catherine even existed.

He was so busy glitching out that he’d totally discarded the fact that his ice cream was currently losing its battle with physics.

I sat back on the blanket, reaching up to gently pry my cone from Beatrice’s frozen hand before it became a permanent part of her silk sleeve. I looked at the two of them—one bright pink, the other staring into space like he’d just seen a vision.

"Let’s eat," I said, nodding toward the sticky disaster imminent on their fingers. "Before the ice creams ends up as a puddle on our gloves."

The afternoon passed in a blur of sunshine and laughter and the particular pleasure of watching two people find each other.

Beatrice was flustered in a way I’d never seen her. She dropped her napkin twice. She laughed too loudly at things that weren’t funny. She caught Oliver looking at her and immediately looked away, her cheeks stained pink, her hands suddenly fascinated with the hem of her skirt.

Oliver wasn’t much better. He kept running his hands through his hair, leaving it more disheveled each time. He talked about the Linotype, then stopped talking about it when Beatrice asked a question about the matrices, then started talking about it again when he realized he had something to say that she might actually understand.

She did understand. She asked better questions than half the men at the demonstration.

I leaned back, letting the scene play out while mentally transporting myself to a beach in Mykonos. In my head, I was wearing a bikini and holding something with a high ABV, not sitting here in a ridiculous mountain of silk that was basically a high-end human oven. I was literally baking alive for the sake of gilded age aesthetics.

God, I wondered how everyone was doing back in my own time after I’d magically vanished into thin air. Was I a trending hashtag? A cold case? Or was my mother already selling the movie rights to my disappearance?

When the sun began to dip toward the horizon, Oliver walked Beatrice to her carriage. I watched them go, watched him offer his hand to help her up, watched her take it and hold it a moment too long.

When he came back to gather the blanket, he was smiling.

"Eleanor."

I folded the corner of the blanket. As I looked up at him, his face was open, warm, grateful. There was no accusation in his voice.

"Did you enjoy yourself?" I asked.

He was quiet for a moment, and I could practically see the gears in that brilliant mind of his grinding away. He looked at me like my question was some million-dollar riddle he had to solve before he could win the game. It was a total system-processing moment.

"Yes," he finally admitted, and for once, the words didn’t sound like they were being dragged out of him. "I did."

I picked up the basket, feeling that familiar, smug click of a successful launch. "Good. Then it was a successful picnic."

He laughed, and we walked out of the park together.

Behind us, the gaslights were beginning to flicker on, giving the whole place that vintage, grainy-filter look that I usually had to pay an editor for.

I just knew that somewhere across the city, Catherine was staring at the evening papers, watching her social standing evaporate in real-time. She was probably just now realizing that she’d traded a visionary for a turnip.

And somewhere else, in a carriage vibrating with the kind of excitement you can’t fake, Beatrice Sterling was probably still blushing a hole through her silk seat.

I smiled. It was a good day.

Later that night, after dinner, Casimir and I hadn’t talked much. Well—how could we, with some annoying old bitch hovering around the table like a vulture with a grudge? We kept it to yes and no, the kind of conversation that could freeze wine in the glass.

But I wasn’t about to let her win. I waited until the estate settled, until the last servant’s footsteps faded, and crept toward his study. I wasn’t expecting to find anyone else there.

The voices stopped me at the corner.

Casimir’s first—low, controlled, the tone he used when he was deciding whether to destroy something or walk away. And the other? That shrill, self-righteous pitch I’d learned to recognize from across any room.

Aunt Cornelia.

What is she doing here?

I’m not usually one for eavesdropping. But with that old hag? I’ll make an exception. I pressed against the wall, heart already hammering. Here we go, I thought. She’s found another way to sell me off. Probably trying to resurrect Bartholomew from whatever hole Casimir buried him in.

But what I heard next made me freeze.

"Casimir, I cannot—for the love of God—allow you to do this to yourself."

"Why, Auntie?" His voice had that razor edge I knew too well. "Why must you interfere in every part of my life?"

"Because this is your only chance for marriage."

Marriage for Casimir? Not me? Well, this is a new flavor of tea. What is this bitch brewing up?

Casimir’s laugh was sharp and humorless. I heard the scrape of a chair—he must be on his feet now.

"Who said I want to be married?"

"Are you mad?" Her voice climbed higher. "Of course you wish to marry. Who will take care of you when you’re old? Who will carry the Guggenheim name?"

"You speak to me of marriage?" His voice dropped dangerously. "You, Auntie? Who spent thirty years punishing everyone in this house because you couldn’t keep a man of your own?"

The silence that followed was devastating. I pressed my hand over my mouth.

"I—I... you know why I never married—"

"Oh, I know." His laugh was cold, like a blade drawn slow. "The man you claimed to love chose another woman. Or have you rewritten that history too?"

"He had a child—a bastard he didn’t tell me about until after I’d accepted his proposal—"

"Yes." Casimir’s voice cut through hers. "He came to you with the one truth that could destroy him. Trusted you with it. And what did the pious Lady Cornelia do?"

No answer.

"You told every drawing room in New York. You made sure his name was thrown to the mud from here to Boston. You smiled at his ruin like it was your greatest accomplishment." He paused. "Is that what you want for me, Auntie? To become like you? To choose pride over everything else and call it virtue?"

I heard her breath catch. For one glorious moment, I thought he’d actually done it—shut her up for good. Maybe she’d slink back to her room for another week. A month, if the universe was kind. Permanently, if I had my way.

Then she spoke.

"I wrote to Miss Adelaide Chase."

Her voice was calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that comes from a woman who knows exactly what card she’s holding.

"You know her, of course. Old Boston money. Unimpeachable bloodlines. Her mother and I have been corresponding for weeks." A rustle of silk—she was standing now as well. "She will be joining us for dinner tomorrow evening."

The silence that followed was the most dangerous thing I’d ever heard.

"You did what?"

Casimir’s voice had dropped to something barely human. I’d heard him cold. I’d heard him furious. I’d never heard him sound like he was about to commit murder in his own home.

"Surely you didn’t think I would simply allow you to throw away the Guggenheim legacy?" Aunt Cornelia’s voice sharpened, gaining confidence with every word. "You need a wife. A proper wife, Casimir—regardless of what you think. You do well remember that."

What the fuck did just happened?