Chapter 35: Mrs. Ransor, December 2021

It is raining for the third straight day. The temperature has not topped 13 degrees in over a week, nor has the sun made more than a half-hearted appearance from behind the canopy of thick cloud cover. The city is sodden and windy, the days depressingly short. The holy days will arrive at the end of this dreary week, however, and with them, celebrations all over the city. On Friday night, trainloads of revelers wearing purple and gold, many of them tourists in town for the party, will flock to the riverwalk to see the performers, eat street food, and drink beer from red plastic cups. But today is Wednesday, and Hugh is scheduled to work every night this week, to make up for his time off during Maggie’s recovery.

From the couch where he has been relaxing, he rises and goes to the window where he looks down at the mews. Nothing yet.

Three cardboard boxes are stacked by the front door, all of them neatly taped shut. On the side of each, the contents have been noted in black marker—Kitchen or Bedroom or Books. These are the last of Silvia’s belongings, which he packed this morning, and which her mother is now coming to retrieve.

When she returned Hugh’s phone call a few days ago, Silvia’s mother introduced herself as Camilla, which briefly confused him because he only knew her as Mrs. Ransor. Her manner on the phone was surprisingly cordial, which he interpreted as pity. She had won the war, after all. Even if the Ransors were disappointed to have Tommy out of the picture, they must have been relieved the bartender flatmate was gone as well. Even now, as Hugh stands peering at the window, Camilla Ransor is probably making her way down Stanfield Street to pick up these last few items—as a favor to Silvia who, she explained, is still in London.

At just after two, the security buzzer sounds. When he hears Mrs. Ransor’s voice on the intercom, Hugh buzzes her in, opens the flat door, and waits with a box of books in hand. Footsteps creak on the wooden stairs; a woman’s face appears—brunette, attractive, well-preserved. After another three steps, the entire human being comes into view, fashionably thin, dressed in a mid-thigh raincoat, leggings, and tall rain boots, everything black.

“Hugh,” she says as she steps onto the landing. “It’s nice to see you again.” She rests her umbrella against the banister and shakes the raindrops from her coat. The way she says his name, almost as a sigh, sounds so like her daughter that he could imagine Silvia has just come home from class. Mrs. Ransor looks remarkably like Silvia, as well: the green eyes, thick brown hair, erect posture.

“Nice to see you again,” Hugh says. “I think I found all her stuff. Just ring me if anything’s missing.” He steps back inside the door, and Mrs. Ransor follows him.

“So you’re going to continue living here?” she asks.

By this time, his arms have begun to ache from holding the box, so he leans over and sets the parcel on some other boxes.

“Yeah, I just need to find a new roommate,” he replies. “Thanks for the furniture. That was very generous.”

“Not at all,” she says. “I’m glad you can use it.” She glances down at the boxes, then at Hugh. “I’m sorry you had to pack all this up. I hope it wasn’t too much work.”

Hugh shakes his head. “No, not too much.”

“It’s just with Silvia being in London…”

“Right,” says Hugh. “That’s why I rang you directly, ‘cause I still had this stuff of hers, and she wasn’t getting back to me. I hope you don’t mind.”

“I’m sorry Silvia didn’t respond,” she says. “She’s having trouble receiving text messages in London. But I’m glad you reached out…”

He can tell she’s making excuses for Silvia, but he doesn’t really mind. He’s envious, in fact—of having a parent who would run interference for her offspring.

When Mrs. Ransor stoops to pick up a box, Hugh asks, “When you see Sil, can you tell her I’m sorry how things ended?”

This freezes her mid-motion. “Of course I will tell her,” she says, her expression softening. “I imagine this has been difficult for you, Hugh.” Then she pauses as if to consider her next move, eventually adding, “You know, if you’ve got a minute, I might be able to shed some light on Silvia’s behavior.”

“Sure, yeah,” he says. “I’d appreciate that.”

Mrs. Ransor removes her raincoat, and drapes it over a chair. Then she stands there for a moment, looking around the flat—at the living room, the kitchen, the hallway—all with a wistful expression.

“I remember helping Silvia shop for all these things,” she says. “We had such fun picking them out.” She gestures at the sofa, bangles jingling on her wrist. “She absolutely had to have that sofa,” she laughs. “I picked out a sleeper with this fabulous mohair fabric, but she would not be persuaded to buy it. Said she didn’t need a sleeper.”

Hugh gestures at the couch. “You want something to drink?”

“Nothing, thank you.” She goes to the couch and sits down. Hugh seats himself in the armchair, feeling all of the sudden like a guest in her home.

“I was surprised Silvia left for January term so early,” he says. “I thought it started after the holy days.”

“It does,” she replies, dabbing the corner of her mouth with her little finger. “But she decided to go sooner—I think to sort through some things.”

She glances at the window, then rises and goes to it. Hugh watches as she inspects the curtain with her thumb and forefinger then draws it back to look outside. She turns and laughs. “Wouldn’t you know I’d schedule to move boxes on a day like this!”

“Oh, I’ll bring those down for you…”

“No, no, it’s fine,” she continues. “In fact, I planned to have someone pick the boxes up for me, but then decided to come in person because I wanted to see this flat one more time, isn’t that silly? I feel so sentimental about it, but shopping for this furniture was one of the last fun things we did as mother and daughter.”

Now Mrs. Ransor returns to the sofa. “In any case, Hugh, I’m sure you’re aware that Silvia has pulled away from our family recently?”

Hugh nods.

“Did she tell you why?”

He tells her that Silvia didn’t talk much about it, only to say that they’d had a disagreement about her career plans.

Mrs. Ransor bursts into laughter. “Her career plans?”

“I didn’t press her on it ‘cause it seemed like a sensitive subject…”

“Oh my.” She cradles her chin in her hand, then with thumb and forefinger touches the corners of her mouth again—a nervous habit of checking her lipstick, Hugh decides. “We’ve been extremely supportive of Silvia’s interest in law. In fact, we planned to pay all her law school expenses until she announced she wanted to go it alone, which still strikes me as an odd way to rebel. But she felt very strongly about it.” She eases herself back on the sofa now. “In any case, for the past few years, she’s grown more, outspoken, in her political views.”

“Sounds like Silvia…”

She smiles vaguely, as if Hugh’s reply summoned fonder memories of her daughter. “Well, things grew so tense that we got into arguments nearly every time we were together. After a lot of soul-searching, her father and I decided to give Silvia the space she wanted, hoping she’d eventually become more tolerant of others’ views. After that, we followed her lead on how much she wanted to be in touch—which turned out to be very little…”

“I’m sorry.”

“What I’m trying to say, Hugh, is that Silvia has a pattern of distancing herself from people she loves—especially when there are ideological differences involved. She did that to some of her university friends as her political views developed, and she moved on from you and Tommy for similar reasons. I just didn’t want you to think you did something wrong.”

Hugh purses his lips. He hadn’t expected to have it confirmed that Silvia had, in fact, moved on. Nor does he appreciate being lumped together with Tommy—of all people.

“I always thought that Sil and I were mostly on the same page…”

Mrs. Ransor draws her legs closer to her. “I think she felt the same way. Evidently she came to believe the two of you were moving in different directions, however.”

“Because of my ancestry claim?”

She nods. “That, and what she saw as a lack of interest on your part. She also mentioned you were involved with a social media influencer…”

Hearing Tullia described as an influencer makes him shudder. He’s tempted to protest that he didn’t know about Tullia’s online fame until Silvia pointed it out, and that they never moved past flirting. But he realizes he’d only sound defensive.

“Of course, we’ve had to piece all these details together,” continues Mrs. Ransor. “Silvia is so secretive about her private life. We only learned about her infatuation with you through some oblique references she made…”

“I didn’t know about it, either,” he replies.

“How could you? She’s so mysterious about everything. I’ll admit we were surprised to hear she’d developed such a fondness for you—that she’d fallen in love with you, really. From our perspective the two of you don’t have a great deal in common, professionally speaking. And, had you reciprocated, there would have been the obvious social conventions to consider...”

“Social conventions?”

His question appears to surprise her. “Well, you must know it’s a very old tradition in Bressen for children to marry people from…similar backgrounds.”

“I thought that was just a founder thing.”

Mrs. Ransor opens her mouth to speak, then catches herself. “Oh my,” she sighs, not to Hugh but to herself. “Did Silvia tell you she’s a figan?”

“Well, not outright,” Hugh replies. “You’re saying she’s not?”

“No,” affirms Mrs. Ransor. “She is not.”

Hugh looks across the living room at the rain pelting the window and exhales heavily, reproachfully. “I can’t believe I didn’t see that coming.”

She watches him for a moment, then replies, “Silvia invests a lot of energy in hiding her ancestry, Hugh. Don’t feel bad.”

“Which family?”

“The Ransors are part of the Abra clan.”

“Loistávis was an Abra…”

“He was,” laughs Mrs. Ransor. “And our elders will never let you forget it.”

“Well, that explains a lot,” replies Hugh.

He’d always wondered, in fact, why Tommy’s family had no objection to his dating a figan. Tommy must have thought he’d hit the jackpot—finding a beautiful, insanely earnest law student who just happens to come from one of the most venerated families in Bressen. It also explains why Silvia seemed so comfortable with Tommy, and why she ultimately had to leave him. If Tullia was slumming with Hugh, Silvia—in her own ironic way—was doing the same thing with Tommy. Neither attachment was even remotely tenable.

“Silvia is a complicated young woman,” continues Mrs. Ransor. “She has this extraordinarily clear sense of right and wrong, and she expects everyone to see things the same way. I do think she’s learning to be less dogmatic, but until she comes to terms with her ancestry, she’ll be at war with herself. In the meantime, the rest of us will be collateral damage.”

“I guess so,” says Hugh, dazed by all the memories he must now revise. “You were right—about shedding light on Silvia’s behavior. I think I get it now.”

“I’m glad if I helped a little.” Now Mrs. Ransor glances at her watch. “Goodness, I think I’ve overstayed my welcome.” She rises and gestures at the boxes stacked by the door. “Help me lug these down to the car, would you?”

Chapter 36: Chale House, January 2022

The trip to Devrank will take a half-hour by metro, another 12 minutes by Uber—if he can find a car so far from the city center. At first, Hugh passed the train ride by listening to an audio book, but he is too apprehensive to focus, so he turns to watching the dun-colored landscape slide by his window. Very soon, the train will pass the ruins of Linna Motas, on the southern promontory of Rulhol island. It’s been years since Hugh toured the castle with his mother; today he will only glimpse the ruins through the denuded beech and oak trees along the train tracks. Here, in the eastern outskirts of Bressen, the low, forested hills summon for him visions of another time, before the Roman legions arrived, when the Gallic tribes tended their fields in the floodplain of the river valley. There is a wildness to this landscape, a fierce indifference to the passage of time.

After several minutes, the train moves underground, and the world outside goes dark. When at last the conductor announces the next stop as Staneart West, Hugh rises, phone in hand. As he waits to exit the car, he orders an Uber, checking an earlier text thread for the address.

7 Old Chale Road, Devrank South

His Uber arrives quickly, and within minutes his driver is negotiating the winding roads on the outskirts of Devrank Village. The entire area is heavily wooded, the dense thickets interrupted here and there by a driveway or dirt road. For much of the way, the road follows a little creek on the right that occasionally dives into a culvert, then reemerges a few meters later. Eventually the car turns onto a narrow asphalt road flanked by tall hedgerows, proceeds a half-kilometer, and slows to a stop at a gated entrance on the left.

Hugh freezes at the sight of the gate.

The driver glances back at him. “Chale House, jim. Drop you here, yeah?”

“Yeah,” says Hugh, suddenly questioning his decision to come. “That’s fine.”

Once outside the car, he texts i’m here, then goes to stand by the wrought-iron gate. As he waits for a reply, it occurs to him how utterly still the countryside is—no crowds, no honking cars, just the wind rustling dry leaves and the distant haw haw of a raven.

Beyond the gate, the gravel driveway bends to the left and disappears behind a grove of cedar trees. There is no sign of a house or outbuildings.

Just then his mobile pings: Be right there

He hears a click and then whirring of an electric motor as the iron gates swing inward. A moment later, he sees Silvia approach from around the bend, wearing a shaggy fleece pullover and a knit cap.

She smiles, waves, jogs a step, then walks again.

The smile is good. He didn’t know what to expect—especially after Mrs. Ransor told him she had moved on. But that was a month ago. Now Silvia is back from London and anything seems possible.

As she draws closer, Hugh sees that her hair is longer now, hanging loose at the shoulders. Though it’s only been a couple months since he saw her, she seems subtly different: warier, perhaps, or more subdued. But she is also more striking than he remembers, and more formidable.

“You came,” she says, hugging him in a way that feels tentative.

“Of course I did.”

“I’m really glad,” she replies. Then she looks him over approvingly, “Come on. I made coffee.”

“Are your parents here?” he asks, taking in his surroundings as they walk.

“They took Newman to the dog park.”

“Ah.”

“You might see them when they get back.”

As they make their way around the bend, Hugh gets his first look at the Ransor family home, an English-style, red-brick manor. Chale House is large, but not as extravagant as mansions he’s seen in Old Town, nor as sprawling as some estates in Kasabresan. The place has a benevolent, dog-eared quality that makes it less forbidding, hidden as it is behind a gated entrance.

“It’s beautiful,” says Hugh as they near the house.

“Thanks. I loved growing up here.”

“How old is it?”

Silvia looks up at the structure—three stories high with a steep, red-tiled roof and at least a dozen white-framed windows looking out over the driveway. “It was built in 1672—which is actually before the Anglishing. But the story goes that one of our ancestors was friends with the English architect Christopher Wren, who designed it for him. It’s been in the family ever since, and restored a bunch of times over the years.” Now she points to a low, red brick building in the distance to her right. “That’s the stable over there, where I used to keep my horse. We have riding trails all through these woods.”

“Your horse Lord Lapis?” asks Hugh.

“Yes!” replies Silvia. “He was my last horse before I left for university. I absolutely adored him.”

By this time, they have reached the front entrance of the house, a columned portico adjoining a covered porch.

“Brilliant entrance,” he observes as they mount the steps.

“I used to play out here as a little girl,” says Silvia. “But the porch drives my father crazy because barn swallows nest up there all the time.”

Silvia leads Hugh inside the front door, into a high-ceilinged center hall paneled in dark wood and lighted by a vast chandelier. Covering much of the wide-planked floor is an enormous oriental rug, at its center a carved wooden table, two meters long, with an extravagant flower arrangement in a Chinoiserie vase.

Hugh follows Silvia to a doorway at the rear of the main hall, down a narrow corridor, and into the kitchen. A cooking hearth takes up much of the far wall, around which three upholstered chairs and an ottoman are arranged. Beyond the seating area is the kitchen proper with a center island, all modern. Unlike the entrance hall, the kitchen is airy and bright, the brick walls having been painted white to match the cabinetry.

Silvia goes to a coffee maker on the counter and pours them each a cup.

After they sit down, Hugh asks, “When’d you get back?”

“J-term wrapped up Friday; I came back on Sunday.”

“London was good?”

“Good, but cold,” she replies. “You said Maggie and Dory are doing better?”

He assures her that they’re both fine and happy to have the Propago threat behind them.

“I’m so incredibly relieved,” she sighs.

Now Hugh smiles his best conciliatory smile. “So, everything turned out okay, yeah? After some bad plot twists.”

At first Silvia smiles as well, but then she furrows her brow and turns toward the window. “You think so?” she asks. “That everything turned out okay?”

Here again is one of her test questions, and he wonders if perhaps he came across as glib when he was trying to sound encouraging.

“Well, in a lot of ways,” he says. “With Maggie and Dory being okay...”

“Right.”

“But in other ways…” he begins.

“Do you hate me for disappearing like that?” Silvia suddenly asks.

“God, Sil. Of course not.” he stammers. “You’re the amazing Silvia Ransor…”

“Please don’t say that, Hugh.”

“Why not?”

“Because that’s your way of damning with faint praise,” she replies, not angrily but with conviction, as if she has contemplated this failing at length.

“How do you mean?”

Silvia leans forward and looks hard at him. “I know you used it as a compliment, but it always sounded like you were saying I was special, but not special enough for you. Like that time you were going on and on about Tullia’s wardrobe, and I tried not to show how much that hurt my feelings. I remember asking if you thought I dressed too casually, and you said, ‘Oh, you’re the amazing Silvia Ransor,’ like that’s the consolation prize for the keener law student who gets good grades but never gets the guy.” Here her voice trails off and her eyes begin to well.

Hugh opens his mouth to speak but she interrupts him.

“But I don’t want to get sidetracked, because I asked you here so I could apologize,” she continues. “I got so caught up in my personal issues that I handled your situation badly—with the ancestry claim and Maggie and all you were going through. I can be so ridiculously intense sometimes, you know? I’m really sorry—for everything.”

Again Hugh begins to speak, and again she cuts him off.

“I was just so jealous of Tullia, you know?” She wipes away a tear with the back of her hand, then continues, her voice wavering. “Then, for whatever reason, I started seeing Tommy, you know? I was so confused about everything, and he seemed like an easy decision, which must sound weird to you.”

“Nah,” replies Hugh. “I get it.”

“I think maybe my self-esteem was really low after being obsessed with you for so long. He made me feel good about myself, you know? And then him being from a family felt kind of normal and safe, even though it bothered me intellectually.” Now she laughs. “And my parents thought they had it made with Tommy…like I was finally okay with being a founder.”

“Are you?”

Silvia looks at the ceiling and sighs. “No. But I also can’t change my ancestry. And I realize it’s not fair to punish my family for my political views. It’s so weird, Hugh, growing up loving my family so much—which I totally do—but then coming to realize that I’m part of this awful kleptocracy. It got me so twisted around I didn’t know myself anymore. And then I started acting out with my parents, which wasn’t fair at all because they’re like the most grounded people I know. But we’ve had some good talks since I got back from London, and we’re in a better place now.”

Hugh nods and sips his coffee.

“Anyway, I took it out on you, too,” she says. “And I wanted to say I’m really sorry.”

“It’s okay, Sil,” he assures her. “I’ve got my share of the blame.”

Now Silvia sits back and considers Hugh from across the ottoman. “So, what’s up with my arch-nemesis Tullia Bruggen? Or do I dare ask?”

Hugh shakes his head and laughs. “Nothing’s up with her, actually. I’m fully recovered from that bout of temporary insanity. ”

Silvia begins to smile but catches herself. “Really? And you’re okay with that?’

“Oh, yeah,” he laughs.

“And with dropping your claim?”

“That, too,” he adds. “I think I was just the dog chasing the car. I had absolutely no idea what I’d do if I caught it. I’ll actually be relieved to sign the claim termination.”

Now Silvia smiles. “Well you know I’m relieved.” Then, perhaps feeling a need to elaborate, she continues, “I said some really awful things about your claim, Hugh, and I’m so sorry. It’s just that I liked you the way you are, you know? And I was terrified you’d discover this whole new life, and then Tullia would move in on you like a shark, and that would be that. I’ve seen privilege ruin so many people, Hugh; it’s one of the reasons I hate the class system here.”

Just then, Hugh hears a door open in the back of the house, followed by the sound of canine feet skittering on stone floor tiles. Seconds later, a large puppy—mostly black, with a white stripe running from face to chest—bolts into the kitchen trailing a leather leash. Before Hugh can react, the puppy jumps up on his legs, then begins running frantic laps around the kitchen.

“Oh my god, Newman!” screams Silvia. “Dad!”

Now Mr. Ransor hurries into the room, wearing a field coat and clutching a gray fedora in his hand. He looks a bit older than Hugh remembers, and less intimidating, with a round, nearly bald head and ruddy cheeks. After briefly chasing Newman around the room, Mr. Ransor manages to stomp on the leash, which brings the puppy to an abrupt stop. “Bloody maniac,” he laughs. Turning to Silvia, he smiles apologetically. “Lost hold of him again.”

As Newman settles down panting and grinning, Mr. Ransor strokes the puppy’s head. “Beg your pardon, Hugh. We’re still working on our manners.”

Now Mrs. Ransor enters the kitchen as well, and begins removing her coat by the side door.

Hugh rises and offers his hand to Silvia’s father.

“It’s good to see you again, Mr. Ransor.”

All of That

Founder, Installment 18