Chapter 36

Kent

The wheels of the plane touch the tarmac with a familiar shudder, and Heathrow sprawls out before us. Amelia's hand tightens on mine, her knuckles whitening. Her eyes, wide as saucers, flit between the overhead compartments and the fasten seatbelt sign as it flicks off. "We made it," I murmur, but my reassurance is met with a tentative nod. Amelia's thoughts are likely tangled again in what Cordelia said about our mother.

"Difficult" was putting it mildly, but I couldn't fault my sister for her honesty. Better to rip off the Band-Aid now than let Amelia walk into the lion's den unprepared.

"Kent," Amelia whispers, and there's a quiver in her voice that needles at my conscience. "What if she doesn't approve?"

"Impossible," I say with more confidence than I feel, offering her a smile that I hope looks convincing.

We rise together, collecting carry-ons and stepping into the stream of passengers eager to set foot on solid ground.

Customs is a blur of blue uniforms and the beep of scanned passports until finally, we're through. And there they are—Rhonda and Spencer—like lighthouses in a sea of people. Rhonda's arms open first, pulling us into a warm, lavender-scented hug, while Spencer's embrace is firm and a tad awkward, as always.

"Welcome home, Kent," Rhonda says, her voice thick with emotion.

I can only nod, my throat too tight to form words.

Spencer clears his throat, drawing our attention. "So, we've got some studying to do before we head over to Vancouver, eh?" He chuckles, a sound so rare and precious it immediately seems to put Amelia at ease. "Been memorizing those road maps. Even know where the hospital is. Got to be ready when Cordelia has her baby."

"Always the scout," I tease, clapping him on the shoulder. It's strange to see this new side of him, this bubbling enthusiasm for change. But I'm grateful for it. Especially today.

"Can't wait," he replies, grinning.

"Vancouver will suit you," I tell them, stealing a glance at Rhonda, whose eyes twinkle with unspoken plans and dreams. "You'll be grandparents."

Rhonda's eyes glisten. She may have been our governess in title, but she and Spencer were our true parents. Rhonda links her arm with Spencer's. "Cordelia's thrilled, isn't she?"

"Over the moon," I confirm. Our conversations have brimmed with anticipation, the promise of family reunions, and support. Rhonda and Spencer moving to Canada isn't just a transition; it's the start of something new for all of us, a reassembling of scattered pieces.

"Let's get you two settled then," Spencer declares, leading the way. As we follow, I feel Amelia's grip relax, her earlier trepidation melting in the wake of family and fresh starts.

Less than an hour later, the car eases to a stop in front of Mayfair House, its stately fa?ade standing proud amidst the urban noises of cars, horns, brakes, and life. Amelia's face lights up as she takes in the sight before us—the intricate brickwork, the gleaming windows, and the promise of history nestled within those walls.

"Welcome to the city house," Rhonda declares. "Over the weekend, we'll venture up to Whitstable on the coast. The family estate is quite the sight, sprawling over five hundred hectares with views of the English Channel."

"Sounds gorgeous," Amelia responds, awe in her tone. "Are you ready to return with us to Vancouver?"

"I think so, but I'll miss what I know and things like the simplicity of fresh eggs every morning," Rhonda muses, her gaze drifting as if she can already see the chickens pecking at the estate grounds.

"Maybe not fresh from the backyard, but there are plenty of farms around the Vancouver area that sell eggs and other fresh items," Amelia assures her.

"Really? That'd be lovely," Rhonda replies. Her expression mirrors the relief I feel—a sign that Amelia's charm might just bridge the gaps between us.

As Spencer retrieves our luggage, I slide a glance his way. "How's Mum?"

"Going to pick her up shortly," he answers, and it's all he needs to say.

I nod, understanding the subtext. Mum's request for alone time on the drive back from Parliament is as much about control as it is about preparing to reconnect.

"Let me show you where we'll be staying," I tell Amelia, leading her through the heavy oak door. "Don't be too hard on my old room." Up the winding staircase, we reach my childhood bedroom. It hasn't changed. It's more of an apartment, really, with a sitting area that holds years of memories, a bathroom stocked with necessities, and a small kitchenette that's barely been touched.

"Wow, this is…cozy," she says, taking in every detail, from the vintage posters on the wall to the stack of books on the shelf.

"Cozy was the goal, I think." I chuckle, remembering the days when these four walls were my entire world. "It should give us a little privacy and space to relax."

"Thank you, Kent. It's perfect." She smiles, and I'm caught in it for a moment, like a fly in a web.

"Make yourself at home," I tell her, feeling the weight of what's to come next. This room, these walls, they're part of who I am…or who I was. As Amelia settles in, I step back, ready to face the past and carve a path for our future.

I stand hesitantly by the door, the words hanging in my throat. "Amelia, I'm going to head out with Spencer to fetch my mother."

The corners of her lips lift in an understanding smile. "Of course," she murmurs, pushing up on her toes to kiss my cheek. "I'll get my things sorted. And I'll be here, exploring your fortress of solitude. Where did you hide your Playboys?"

I laugh. "I brought those with me to Canada."

Amelia nods and shoos me away. "Go see your mother and assure her she's still important to you."

"Everything's going to be fine," I tell her, mostly to convince myself. She nods, her trust in me soothing my frayed nerves. As I pull away, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror, determined, hopeful, but a flash of doubt shadows my eyes. My mother's disapproval is a constant hum in my mind, an old tune that's grown louder since I announced my intentions with Amelia.

Back downstairs, I step outside, the brisk air slapping against my skin, a sobering reminder of the reality I'm about to face. Spencer waits by the car, his apprehension barely concealed beneath his quiet exterior.

"Ready?" he asks as I slide into the passenger seat.

"Let's get this over with," I say, fastening my seatbelt as we pull away from the curb.

We drive through the city, the familiar streets a backdrop to the tension brewing inside me.

Spencer clears his throat, breaking the silence. "Just so you're prepared… Your mother's not taking our move well. Thinks we're abandoning ship."

"Sorry for that, Spence," I murmur, nodding. "She's never been good with change."

"Nor with letting go," Spencer adds, a note of sympathy in his voice. "But Rhonda and I, we're ready for this new chapter. Cordelia needs us, and frankly, your mother hasn't really needed us for years. She has a driver set up, and Divya, her housekeeper, will happily step in and cook."

"Can't argue with that." I let out a dry laugh, watching the scenery zip past. I think of Cordelia's excitement, the support she's shown Amelia and me, and it fortifies my resolve. Yes, we're all moving forward, and I can't wait for our "parents" to join us in Canada. It's something they promised years ago. "Change is good, Spencer. You're going to love Vancouver."

"We already do," he says, and I know he's referring to being back with Cordelia and me.

The austere fa?ade of the Parliament building looms before me as I step out of the car. Spencer gives me a nod, his eyes a silent well of support, before I turn and ascend the stone steps. Each footfall echoes a resolute thud, marking my path into the belly of our family's legacy.

I push through the heavy doors and navigate the hallowed halls with a familiarity that feels more like muscle memory than sentiment. My mother's office door is ajar, and I hear her voice, clear and authoritative, spilling into the corridor.

"Ah, Kent, there you are," she exclaims as I enter, brightening with the kind of pride reserved for public displays. She turns to her staff, two diligent shadows in the corners of the room. "Everyone, may I present Lord Burnaby-Johns, named for the very soil of our ancestors. He'll be returning to England soon to continue our work here."

Her announcement hangs in the air, a banner unfurled without my consent. But I let it pass, shelving that disagreement for a more private setting.

Her team leaves us with polite nods.

"Mother," I greet her, inclining my head slightly. She motions to an empty chair, but I linger by the doorframe. "Spencer is waiting for us," I remind her, declining the seat with a polite firmness.

"Of course," she concedes, though her gaze suggests that such trivialities shouldn't concern a man of my standing. Still, she pulls two glasses from her bar cart and a bottle of aged whiskey, pouring with practiced elegance. The amber liquid catches the light as she offers me a glass. I accept if only to mirror the gesture of peace.

"To your return," she toasts, her smile a rehearsed curve.

"Actually, Mother," I interject, the time for niceties now behind us, "the purpose of this visit is so you can meet Amelia. And…" I hesitate, the word propose suddenly feeling too weighty for my tongue.

"Go on," she encourages, mistaking my pause for nerves.

"I'm going to ask her to marry me," I finish, sitting down in the chair opposite of her. "I don't know when, but I know she's the one."

"Marvelous!" she exclaims, though I detect a strategic calculation behind her eyes. "I shall give my approval, naturally, once you agree to move back home."

"Mother, Amelia and I…" I steel myself against the inevitable storm. "…our life is in Vancouver. I'm a doctor there."

The silence that follows is charged, a current running beneath Mother's poised exterior. The warmth of her earlier expression cools into something more distant, more calculating. But I stand resolute.

Mother's displeasure turns the atmosphere frosty. "Kent, this legacy, it's been in our family for generations. You can't just abandon a seat in Parliament," she says, her voice a mix of command and desperation. "If you walk away, it'll go to election."

"Mother," I reply firmly, looking her straight in the eyes, "I'm Canadian. That's where my life is, where my heart is. Amelia has nothing to do with this decision. I made it long before she came into my life. I have told you this before." My allegiance to my adopted country is unwavering, no matter her scrutiny.

"Love is fleeting," she retorts, her anger rising like the tide against a steadfast cliff. "You think it will last forever, but it won't."

"It's difficult to understand love when you've never shown up for it," I snap back, the years of frustration bubbling to the surface. "You promised Father you'd join us in Canada, but you never did." My words hang between us.

"He left, Kent," she counters sharply, her eyes flashing with a rare vulnerability. "Your father took that job in Vancouver to get away from me, not because of any promises made or broken."

I shake my head. "No, he was upset that you chose your career over our family," I correct her. The truth is as clear as the crystal decanter on her desk. She pushed him away, and now, she's trying to rewrite history.

"His choice, not mine," she insists, her voice firm.

Silence falls, a chasm growing wider with each unsaid word. I push away from where I've leaned against the wall, feeling the weight of tradition and expectation bearing down on me. Yet there's clarity in my defiance, a strength in choosing my own path. This isn't going to be solved today or maybe ever. So, I need to change the subject.

"Rhonda has prepared a rack of lamb with fingerling potatoes," I tell her, my tone shifting to something lighter, an attempt to bridge the divide. "And she's made a strawberry and ginger trifle, your favorite, for dessert."

She rises slowly, dignity intact despite the earlier exchange. "Do you truly love her, Kent?" Her question pierces the remnants of our standoff.

"Yes, Mother. I do," I answer without hesitation.

For a moment, I catch a glimmer in her eye, a moisture that betrays her usual stoicism. She quickly turns away, and I convince myself it's merely a trick of the light. Mother doesn't cry. She never does.