Translucent

Chapter 31: A Young Man's Dream

CORNELIUS
April 1913

I was merely twenty when I realized that my privileged life was made of lies. I might be born as the son of a rich Scottish businessman, lucky enough to have owned the Haywood estate and acquired a number of other properties in the Highlands.

Despite bearing no noble titles–Earldom and such, Thomas Haywood was a proud man who was lucky enough to be the fourteenth descendant to inherit the property in Aberfeldy. For over fifty years, the Haywoods had run this area and everything went well. My father was sure an ambitious man, passionate in the property business that he had run for years now. All the sum he collected was enough in keeping the estate running. As of 1901, the Haywood estate had had over ten bedrooms, two drawing rooms, and more than eight bathrooms. We never ran out of staff. In short, my family is the richest in Perthshire, or probably even in Scotland.

Papa's obsession in his investment and property business came with a price. Bridget, my twenty-five-year-old sister and I had never had a father figure. After I finished secondary school two years earlier, Papa had always kept me busy. He had always mentioned sending me to Edinburgh to enroll in the university to study business, learning the ropes of it before the business could fully be handed to me. I had been helping Papa around with the business, occasionally following him in partner meetings or taking his place when he was out of town or read the newspaper to keep up the latest stock market. Mama would help too, although she'd rather spend her afternoon sewing quietly in the attic, which had been modified to look like her own sanctuary. To Papa, I was like a mere employee. The same way he treated Mama.

Papa's relationship with Bridget was especially always rocky. A man of his upbringing was convinced that women should not get an education. He proposed that Bridget had to be married and settled down. But that was not what she wanted. Bridget was a quite modern woman for someone who lived at the turn of the century. She had ideas and she spilled them into writings. We lived in the world of change, she said. When she revealed the movement that happened in London, Father was enraged, saying a world with women full of ideas would be a threat to the country.

Quarrels were inevitable. There was tension in the house and ideologies collided. As strong as Bridget was, she'd sometimes break down and cry. The only time Bridget she when the letter from some stranger in America arrived. It served her as a remedy.

"His name is Patrick Rouse." Bridget shared with me one day after I demanded her to tell me why she looked quite odd these days. "He recognized me from the newspaper, from the report. Oh, Nell, you won't believe me this, but today, I just received another letter from him and a picture of him. He's tall, handsome, blonde, just like what I've imagined."

"Don't call me 'Nell'," I said bitterly, but teasing me was always her fondness.

Other than Mama, my sister and I had the closest relationship. She was my other half. We thought alike. We confided in each other and even in our younger years, we used to cover for each other's mishaps–hers mostly. Her being unable to keep still always got her into trouble.

Bridget showed me the picture of Patrick. He was just as Bridget described–a man in his late twenties looking very proud.

"You're in love with him," I told her.

She said Patrick had always wanted her to come to New York, promising her the ultimate American dream.

"...where opportunities await. Better than this dull place." she continued. "Come, Nell. You'll be happy there with us. You'll find yourself a nice American lass, or work in one of those fancy car companies in Michigan."

America had indeed sounded rather appealing. I thought of having the opportunities to work in blooming companies like Chase or Ford, just as I read in one of those magazines in the library. But I had a duty here, a dream to pursue.