The People v. Eleanor Warwick

Henry pours himself a tumbler of scotch out of the entire bottle he brought up to the library with him.

He takes a seat and nurses the crystal glass. After minutes of silent drinking, he pours another. “It’s not fair, you know.”

The empty library has no answer for him.

“It was bad enough you left me the girl to raise. You got all the nice things like first steps and finger paintings. I got puberty. Ridiculous.

“And then there are all the secrets. The skeletons in this House’s many closets. I know the plan was to tell her about them eventually, but you have to understand. I expected the girl to be a jaded, weary, miserable bastard like you,” he says with a half-smile.

“But she wasn’t. She turned out to be an idealist. She bought into all the House Warwick propaganda. She thinks you were saints. How could I tell her? About the torrent. About House Crane. About Arkshire. Well, she knows about them now, but it’s not over, is it? There’s so much more.”

Another swig empties the tumbler. He stares at the glass as if he expects it to refill itself. “She’s falling in love, I think. With an absolutely intolerable woman. That’s right. Woman. You can relax. Such a thing isn’t as taboo anymore. A Blackwell, no less. The woman, I mean. If she only knew how ironic that was. But she never will. I mean, how could I tell her now? She would never be able to look at her the same way.”

Leaning back in the chair, he turns his eyes upward. “I don’t know how much longer it’ll all stay hidden. What can I do? What will she do when she finds out about her grandparents? You tell me that.” Henry sits forward in the chair, resting on the edged. “What do I tell her when she finds out why her mother isn’t in that portrait with you?”

The ornately framed portrait of Gordon Warwick has nothing to say.