Chapter 2: The Waitstill Legacy
I rapped my knuckles against the mahogany door of my father’s office, a hollow sound that echoed my own apprehension. Lincoln had informed me of this summons, but the anticipation had gnawed at me all day, a relentless tide of dread. I hadn’t joined my siblings at lunch, unable to stomach the thought of forced cheerfulness when my stomach churned with uncertainty.
“Enter,” my father’s voice rumbled from within, gruff as ever. I inhaled deeply, pushing aside a wave of anxiety, and pushed the door open. He was hunched over his desk, pen poised above a stack of documents, the lamplight casting long shadows across his face. He dipped the nib into the inkwell, then looked up as I entered. He didn’t offer a greeting, simply rose from his chair, his movements deliberate and economical. I swallowed, waiting for him to reach for the decanter of amber liquor he reserved for these occasions, the ritualistic sip he needed to steel himself for difficult conversations.
“Finn, take a seat.”
I obeyed, my feet moving mechanically towards the chair opposite his desk. He remained standing, his gaze fixed on the paperwork that cluttered the surface. The sheer volume of documents, each bearing the Waitstill crest, felt suffocating. It was a business I loathed, yet inextricably linked to my identity, a gilded cage forged by birthright.
“I’ve been considering introducing you to some key figures within the firm,” he said, his voice clipped and hurried. “You’re approaching the age where Micah and Theo began to grasp the intricacies of the operations. Hell, Micah manages things more efficiently than I do, at times.” He spoke as if my presence was a disruption, a jarring intrusion into his carefully ordered world. “It would give us something to discuss, finally.” The last sentence was delivered with a strained laugh, a gesture that felt hollow and performative.
I looked at the documents again, the weight of the Waitstill name pressing down on me. I never felt like that stamp belonged to me. Nor did the ring that wrapped around my finger. One that was given to all the Waitstill boys, one that pledged our loyalty to the company.
My mother died when I was seven. I’d always felt closer to her than to my father. The memories of that time were fragmented, like a watercolor painting bled by rain, the colors blurred and indistinct. All I could smell wherever I walk is the potency of failure. Ever since she died, Father had done little to fill the void she left. A wound of that magnitude required something more than mere duty or obligation; it demanded love, a commodity Nicholas Waitstill seemed incapable of dispensing.
I cleared my throat, forcing myself to meet his gaze. “Father… I—” The words felt like stones in my throat, bitter and heavy. I needed to speak, to articulate the truth that had been festering within me for years. “I don’t think I’m suited for—”
“Don’t be absurd, Finn. You’re my son. It’s a family business.”
The tears pricked at my eyes, threatening to spill over. I braced myself, knowing this was the only moment I could lay bare my feelings.
“I don’t want to be a part of it, Father.”
Silence descended, thick and suffocating. I heard the clink of the glass as he set his drink down, the sound echoing in the stillness. My body tensed as I saw his breathing deepen, becoming heavier.
“Your first meeting with the board will be with Micah on Tuesday. Be punctual, Finn.” His voice returned to the tone I remembered from childhood, clipped and final, devoid of warmth.
I finally turned my head and looked at him. He had dark circles underneath his eyes and I could see the grey hairs all around his sideburns. This was the image of my father; stoic, stubborn and near whatever poison he chose for the night.
I opened my mouth to repeat what I had said, hoping he hadn't heard me over the pounding of my own heart.
“And I fully expect you to begin selecting a chattel of your own next year. It will be excellent practice for when you have to train or handle them. Egerton and Crogsworth will guide you, if you desire. But your mind is as sharp as your mother’s, so I suspect they’ll only need a few sessions.”
His mention of my mother struck like a physical blow. “Father, I don’t want a slave. Nor do I want to run or help run the company.” I could hear my voice rising, the power of my conviction surprising even myself. Apples never fall far from the tree. “I want to attend a finishing school. I want to become a medic or a physician, someone who can heal or discover cures. If there had been someone skilled enough when Ma died, perhaps she’d still be with us. I intend to be that person, Father. I want that!”
“Do not speak of your mother’s death, Finn Waitstill!” His voice erupted, shaking the room. Instead of sinking back into my chair, I stood up and faced him head on. He needed to understand.
“Ignoring it doesn’t erase it! I want to find love on my own terms, not someone you’ve stolen, beaten, or defiled from the streets. I don’t want to be complicit in a system that inflicts pain on others!” My voice matched his in volume, fueled by years of suppressed rage.
“You will leave now, boy. Or I swear on everything sacred, you will be begging for my mercy.”
I shook my head, a wave of despair washing over me. I felt tears beginning to cloud my vision. I watched my father’s eyes find mine. He followed a tear trail down my cheek and before I could open my mouth to try and make him understand once more, I saw his hand rise.
The pain flared across my face before the physical impact. I saw his hand connect, the pressure of the blow sending me reeling.
“Man up, you insolent excuse for a son. Only faggots cry. Get out.” He spat the words, his face contorted with fury.
I moved my head forward and all emotion drained from my face. Without looking at him, I took a couple steps towards the door and stopped. The taste of iron burst in my mouth and I licked my tongue out to feel my bottom lip split in two.
I forced my hand up and exited the office.
The house was a hive of activity. Servants, chefs, and keepers bustled about preparing for Elle’s birthday ceremony. Hers was different from Micah and Theo’s, a private affair for which no one was invited. It was a night solely for her. My father had already scheduled a dinner meeting for that night, ensuring his absence. If you could describe my father’s relationship with me and my brothers as loveless. His and Elle’s was something that bred only in the darkest alcoves of Earth.
I walked towards the main dining room and passed the adjoining kitchen where I saw Elle speaking to a female cook. As if by magic, I managed to walk all the way to the grand exit without anyone noticing.
The butlers were busy arranging ceremonial assets, so no one was stationed at the door. I pulled the handle, feeling the weight strain my arm muscles. The door was heavy enough to require several strong men to maneuver, yet determination seemed to imbue me with superhuman strength as I slipped through the exit and finally inhaled the air I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.
The cold winter air stung my cheeks, and I felt the prickle of chill on the tears that had wet my face.
The carriage boy asked if I needed to depart somewhere. Lost in my own turmoil, I shook my head and whispered something about taking a walk down the pathway.
Walking down the long path that led away from Waitstill Manor, I left everything behind. I slipped my hands into my coat pockets and savored the ache the cold brought. I felt a small pouch clink in my pocket and prayed I wouldn’t get robbed.
The sun was beginning to set, and when I reached the main street, I hailed a riding carriage boy. I asked him to take me to the Main Town Square.
“I’m afraid I can’t today, Sir. I 'ave to head home to me Missus. Birds go home. I go home.” He smiled apologetically, and I saw the tobacco stains that dyed his teeth.
“Where’s home?” I asked.
I hadn’t heard what he said of course. I had already entered the carriage before he finished his sentence. “Then that’s where I’m going.”
He briefly looked at the cut on my lip and the potentially blotched cheek I sported and sighed. He looked down at the floor of the carriage before nodding, turning back his head and clacking his mouth. The horses began to ride and soon enough, we were at a steady pace going wherever he mentioned he laid rest.
Maybe a stranger’s so called home could be my salvage for the night.
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Lots of love, Kitkat