The gravel crunching in the driveway announced the arrival of a black town car. William stood on the steps of the Estate, watching as the driver unloaded four Louis Vuitton trunks.
Lady Beatrice stepped out. She looked different than the broken woman who had placed a rose on Alistair’s coffin. She was sober, sharp, and dressed in battle-ready tweed.
“Mother?” William asked, surprised. “I thought you were staying at the Hamptons house through the summer.”
“And leave Isabella to manage a twin pregnancy with only Malcolm’s help?” Beatrice scoffed, walking up the steps. “The man still thinks you burp a baby like a Tupperware container. I’m moving back in to oversee the nursery.”
She stopped in front of William, her eyes scanning his face. She saw the tension in his jaw, the shadow of the ‘War Room’ he was trying to suppress.
“Besides,” Beatrice lowered her voice, looking at the windows of the manor. “The house feels… exposed. I can smell ozone in the air, William. A storm is coming. And you need someone to watch the gates.”
She didn’t wait for permission. She walked inside, claiming her post as the guardian of the Dynasty.