“I wonder what that’s all about?” Gwen whispered at hisside.
Before hecould respond, the old man reappeared with a brochure in his handand presented to Crispin. “What the heck is this?”
“It’s the place you’re looking for,” said the old guy. “A tenminute drive south on the road you just drove in on.”
“But all we saw were fields,” Gwen said with a frown as Crispinstudied the curious brochure. When he then handed it to Gwen, shetook it and realized that Harlow Manor was apparently a populartourist magnet, a historical Manor House. You could even buytickets to visit and take guided tours.
“You must have missed the sign,” said the old man.
Crispinscowled around the pub, tired of being the object of such obviousscrutiny. “What may I ask are you staring at? Have you never seen aGoth before?”
“Are you kidding?” said a guy off to the side, sending hisfriends laughing. “You do realize you’re in England?”
“So then, what’s the problem?” Crispin insisted, knowing damnwell that the modern day Goth culture originated in England in the80s.
Gwen wasshocked and surprised to hear the exchange. She had all butforgotten that Crispin’s eccentric style of dress might throwpeople off and more surprised to hear Crispin speak out about it.He must be stressed, she realized. The old man came around to whereshe stood holding the brochure open. He took it from her hand andshowed them both the back.
“This is why we’re staring at you. Have a look foryourself.”
“Oh, my!” Gwen gasped, seeing a picture of a portrait of theowner and current resident of Harlow Manor.
“What?” Crispin asked, confused. All he saw was an old paintingof some guy with long blonde hair, looking like any other paintingsthey’d seen so far. Why was Gwen now looking back and forth fromhim to the brochure with the same expression as the rest of thepeople in the pub?
“Crispin… you don’t you see the resemblance?”
“Oh, come on, he has long hair and wears black. What’s yourpoint?”
“Thanks for your help,” Gwen said to the man and the othersbefore taking Crispin outside, away from the gawking onlookers. Bythe arm, she led him to a sunny spot by the car and held thebrochure out for him to have a better look.
“What exactly are showing me?”
“Crispin, this is Piers Harlow. The P. Harlow who wrote you theletter.”
“So?”
“He’s the spitting image of you, but for the colour of yourhair, and the fact that he’s a bit older.”
“Give me that.” Snatching the brochure, he studied it closerand frowned at the realization that it was true. The longer helooked at it the more he felt as though he’d seen this man before,only it was his own reflection staring back at him. “Well,fuck…”
Gwen watchedas he crushed the brochure within his hand and rested his head onthe car. His reaction confused her but she wasn’t quite sure whatshe should have expected. This must be all so overwhelming. Fromwhat she read on the brochure, Harlow Manor was right around thecorner from where they stood and apparently, the immense propertywent on for miles. The Harlows were a wealthy family with ties toroyalty. Piers Harlow was son and heir to the sprawling estate andthe last of the line. According to the brochure, on occasion, hestill resided there.
Without sayinga word, Crispin got in the car and waited for Gwen to join him.When she was safely seated and buckled in, he tore off down theroad in search of Harlow Manor. Knowing now what to look for, theyfound it right away. They hadn’t thought to stop there earlierbecause neither were expecting to find Crispin’s long lostrelatives in such a grand place. Why would a family with so muchwealth have reason to abandon him? Gwen didn’t have the answers andshe was reluctant to voice her thoughts at that moment. When theydrove up to the gates, they found themselves in line behind a fewcars of people buying tickets for parking.
If not for thecars lining up behind them, judging from the scowl on his face,Gwen was sure Crispin would have turned the car around. “What thefuck crazy shit is this all about?” he scoffed after reluctantlypurchasing a ticket and parking the vehicle.
“I have no idea,” Gwen said, looking past the majesticmanicured landscape to the impressive house at the centre of it.“But we’re here. We should go in and find out.”
“This is bullshit,” he declared and started the car up againbefore Gwen could unbuckle her seatbelt. “It’s a joke. It has tobe.”
Placing a handover his, she attempted to calm him. “Listen, we should go in,check it out like these other tourists. We don’t have to tellanyone who you are or about the letter just yet.”
“Why the fuck would I want to do that?”
“For the sake of your sanity!” she shouted at him, stirring himout of his rage. “For closure. Surely, you want to know whathappened.”
“Fine,” Crispin huffed. “We’ll grab a tour, stay in thebackground, and see what we can learn.” He gave his head a shake,convinced this was a mistake or more likely a joke. That lettercould very well have been sent as a prank by any number of thelittle pricks from his years in foster care.
“That’s the spirit, Crispin,” Gwen said, taking hishand.
Chapter 32
None of it madesense, thought Crispin. As he and Gwen followed the small group ofsightseers and their appointed tour guide through the great halland many ornate rooms of the stately home, the more he wasconvinced the whole thing was a farce. At a certain point, he gaveup looking for any evidence that he had come from such a lineage asthe Harlow family. From the antique furniture to the multitudes ofvases and paintings that decorated every inch of the place, he feltmore and more a fool for even coming here. As much as he would haveloved to make a connection, if only for the sake of closure, or atleast, for Gwen’s peace of mind, since she appeared so invested infinding a connection between him and this Piers Harlow person, hedidn’t feel anything but disconnected from such a place.
But thatdidn’t stop Gwen from absorbing every little bit
