Part 4
He looked at his wrist.
“Why?”
“So we have a record of what happened.”
“Will Grandmother see it?”
“Maybe. Her lawyers might.”
He considered this.
“Will everyone?”
“No.”
Clara had learned to make promises narrowly. Broad promises were how adults reassured children while leaving themselves room to fail.
Oliver extended his arm.
The marks were fainter now but still visible. Clara took three photographs in the light from the bedside lamp and one near the window. She included his watch in two images to establish the time, then wrote down the date and what he had told her in the car.
She did not ask him to repeat it.
When she finished, he rubbed his wrist.
“Did you slap her because of Mum?”
Clara sat beside him.
“I slapped her because she wouldn’t let go.”
“Were you going to before?”
“No.”
He looked unconvinced.
“I was angry before,” she admitted. “But no.”
“Are the police coming?”
“I don’t know.”
His eyes widened.
“I’m not saying they are. Lady Beatrice may report me. She may not.”
“Will you go to prison?”
“No.”
She said it too quickly.
Oliver noticed.
“Probably not,” Clara corrected. “It was one slap. There are witnesses. We’ll tell the truth.”
“You said probably.”
“I shouldn’t have hit her.”
“But she was hurting me.”
“Yes.”
“Then why shouldn’t you?”
Clara looked at her palm.
Because violence moved through families by borrowing the language of protection. Because Julian had always insisted he was preventing something worse. Because Eleanor had once defended a bruise by saying he had only grabbed her when she tried to drive after drinking, though Clara later learned she had not been drinking at all.
Because being right about danger did not make every response right.
“I should have moved her hand,” Clara said. “I should have called someone over. I should have done anything that stopped her without hitting her.”
Oliver thought about that.
“Would she have let go?”
“I don’t know.”
“She didn’t when you told her.”
“No.”
“So you did the thing that worked.”
Children had a cruel way of finding the weakest joint in an adult’s explanation.
Clara put her hands between her knees.
“I did. And now we have to deal with what that caused.”
He leaned back against the wall.
“Is she still my grandmother?”
“Yes.”
“Even if she’s bad?”
Clara looked at him.
“People don’t stop being related because they do something bad.”
“Is she bad?”
There were days when Clara hated Lady Beatrice with a purity that made every complicated answer feel dishonest. There were other days when she remembered the woman at Eleanor’s wedding, sewing a loose pearl back onto the bride’s veil with her own hands because the seamstress had gone home. She remembered Beatrice sitting on the nursery floor in an expensive skirt, teaching two-year-old Oliver to stack wooden blocks. She remembered the birthday card Beatrice sent Clara every year, always formal, always on time.
“No one is only one thing,” Clara said. “But what she did today was wrong.”
Oliver picked at a thread on his blanket.
“Was what Daddy did wrong?”
Clara’s throat tightened.
“What do you remember?”
He stopped picking at the thread.
“I don’t want to say.”
“All right.”
“Will Mrs. Patel make me?”
“No. She may ask. You can tell her you’re not ready.”
He glanced at the doorway.
“Grandmother said if I say it wrong, people will think Daddy was a monster.”
Clara stayed very still.
“What do you think?”
“I think he was my dad.”
The answer contained more grief than accusation.
Clara reached for him. Oliver hesitated only a moment before moving against her. His head fit beneath her chin. He smelled of the soap he liked because it had no perfume.
“He was your dad,” she said.
“And he scared Mum.”
“Yes.”
“And sometimes me.”
Clara closed her eyes.
“Yes.”
Oliver’s breath caught once. He did not cry.
After several minutes, he asked whether he could have toast for dinner.
Clara said yes.
Downstairs, her solicitor answered on the second ring.
Helen Ward had represented Clara since the guardianship proceedings began after Eleanor’s death. She was brisk, practical, and allergic to dramatic language.
“Before you tell me anything,” Helen said, “are you alone?”
“Marta’s here. Oliver’s upstairs.”
“Did you strike Lady Beatrice?”
“Yes.”
“Open hand?”
“Yes.”
“Once?”
“Yes.”
“Any injury?”
“No visible injury.”
“Did she strike you?”
“No.”
“Did she threaten you?”
“Not directly.”
“Were there witnesses?”
“Approximately everyone who funds half the county.”
Helen exhaled.
“Did she have physical contact with Oliver before you struck her?”
“She was gripping his wrist. There are marks. I photographed them.”
“Good. Don’t edit the photographs. Don’t send them through messaging applications. Email the originals to me.”
“I will.”
“Did you say anything before striking her?”
“I told her twice to release him.”
“And after?”
Clara closed her eyes.
“You were warned never to touch him again.”
There was a pause.
“Helen?”
“I’m here.”
“That was bad.”
“It was memorable.”
“Same thing, legally?”
“Not always. In this case, possibly.”
Clara told her about Oliver’s account, the photographs Lady Beatrice mentioned, the anonymous documents, and the appointment diary from March.
Helen’s questions slowed.
“You need to forward that email without opening any additional attachments.”
“There are only two.”
“Forward it as received. Do not reply. Do not contact Daniel Mercer.”
“I think he sent it.”
“You may think that privately.”
“He spoke to me outside.”
“What did he say?”
Clara repeated the exchange.
Helen was silent again.
“Lady Beatrice may apply for an urgent order tomorrow,” she said. “She will argue that you exposed Oliver to violence, assaulted a family member in his presence, and are using allegations against Julian to obstruct contact.”
“She was the one holding him.”
“I know. But she has photographs of her cheek, forty witnesses, and a reputation for behaving like a person who has never perspired.”
May you like
“What happens?”
“Tonight, nothing. Tomorrow, perhaps a solicitor’s letter. Perhaps police contact. Perhaps an application. Don’t speak publicly. Don’t respond to anyone except me. Write a complete account while it’s fresh.”
