CHAPTER ONE. Amercian Royalty
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Content Warning: Brief Drug Usage
On the crest of the Rosethorn Hill, just below the coastal Valley of the Capes, nestled deep within Black and White Oaks, and a sparse set of Pitch Pines, is a grandeur home. With its clean-lined, rectangular silhouette and steeply pitched roof. It's the most beautiful abode Cape Iris has ever claimed.
There are more windows than you'd usually find in this cottage-packed town. The shutters are a fabulous shade of blue, a refreshing tone of simple intensity. Vines dance along stucco. A wide pergola covers the patio, which leads directly to a fathomless gunite pool.
The embellishment of the home is enough to draw eyes from passerby's on their Chris Craft Commuters. But it's not just the house that appeals, it's the family who lives in it.
The Chevaliers are American royalty. Almost more profound than the Kennedy's, if you can bear to imagine. They are close connections, the two families. John, whom Charles Chevalier—the Chevalier living heir—called often called "Jack" both attended Harvard University. Rest assured, they were close confidantes, even still.
Roosted at the edge of the acreage, the Chevalier's groundskeeper, a Mr. Jack Shepherd. He's more steel than man. With his hickory locks spilling along the nape of his neck. Wet and windswept. The man had two crystals for eyes. A stern, locked jaw. His rugged appeal is oftentimes overlooked, but not by a fair few. Especially the women on the grounds, of high status and low.
Another set of eyes fall upon him now, from above, with their body perched against the balcony railing. They belong to Josette Chevalier, the youngest of the band of four. Ever since her family hired the man eight years her junior to tend to their familial grounds, her eyes had always been drawn to him.
He makes note of it, but doesn't meet her gaze. He can't. It isn't appropriate. It would cost him everything and he already doesn't have much to begin with.
A clatter catches the man's attention. The set of french doors that lead out to the patio widen. Out steps a fellow draped in Dior. Khaki slacks are loose around his tanned legs, cuffed just at the ankle. A striped, loose-fitting shirt ripples in the faint, coastal breeze. Penny loafers pad against cement as the strong entity places a pair of Wayfarers against the bridge of his sharp nose, serving as a compliment to his chiseled jaw.
"Evenin', Cass." Jack greets cheerlessly before returning to his labor. Had it been any of the other family members, he would not have been so blasé, but Jack and Cassidy Chevalier had an understanding. They were equals. One and the same, no matter the heaviness (and lack there of) of their trouser pockets.
"How do you do, Shep?" the younger man says with a curt nod. He tears apart a piece of chewing gum between his molars, piece by tiresome piece. All he ever does is gnaw on the sticky substance.
Jack had addressed it as a habit of Cassidy's in the past, but Cass referred to it as a result from ennui. Jack didn't argue with him over something so trivial, just shook his head. It was the last he'd ever mentioned it, but he knows, even still, that the gum is a comfort of the tawny-skinned fellow.
"Fine," Jack answers. "And yourself?"
Cass places two single fingers against the sides of his Adam's apple, right in the soft, hollow area to detect his pulse. He flashes his canines, "Alive and well, sir, so I'd say considerably well."
"Very well, Cass." is all there is left to say.
Cass bids the man a farewell as he always does, with a clap to the back, and vanishes down the staircase leading toward an afresh dock. Josette disappears behind her salmon-hued, sheer curtains. When her lack of presence is felt, Jack lifts his eyes to the space she used to consume. He swipes a single bead of sweat from his brow bone and continues with his work.
At the entrance of the home, lying in waiting, is Madame Chevalier in her satin, floral-printed robe. At her wayside, the Head of the Chevalier Cobra, Charles Chevalier. She clings to his arm as she is supposed to, though her nails—an oval, molten red—burrow into his freckled forearm.
When she parts her lips, there's a hiss in her tone, "He was set to arrive several minutes ago."
Charles' timbre is indifferent, "There may have been a delay with the flight. Aircraft's can be rather fickle, Delilah, dear."
Delilah harrumphs. Charles has already drowned her out. He straightens when a Cadillac rounds the bend of the drive. He returns his attention to his fiery-haired wife. He slips his fingers into the pocket of his slacks. Next, he unlatches Delilah's fingers from his skin, which has become engraved by tiny crescent indentations, and seizes her wrist. Uncoiling her fingers, he then places a tiny white pill into her concave palm.
They lock eyes for a short moment, before Charles states firmly, "On our best behavior, dear. Yes?" It's not spoken as one would assume to be a question, it's an order rather.
Delilah nods stiffly, and with a terse smile, tosses the pill onto the base of her tongue. By the time it's swallowed, she is no longer the center of Charles' attention. Through sparkling eyes, she eyes the black vehicle as it rolls to a stop.
Within seconds, a man emerges. He is tall and quite lanky, but sizable in the shoulders. His eyes are bordering green and hooded around the lids. His features are youthful with very few markings, his nose slender but a bit bulbous at the tip. His cheeks are reddened from the sun, hair a crisp mahogany and well-kept. Handsomely arranged, so much so that Delilah begins to adjust her victory rolls.
He wears a cream-colored, knitted short-sleeve tucked into his brown pants, which strikes the patriarch as odd. It is a blistering summer thus far, but he assumes it's in the man's Anglian nature. He steps toward the couple with a polite smile and an outstretched hand that Charles is quick to latch onto.
Besides, this is the man that could be the Chevalier ruin. It's in Charles' best interest to be courteous.
"Mr. and Mrs. Chevalier, it's a pleasure." the man greets, his voice of the lower sorts. His accent is more quaint than the pair had expected, but thick nonetheless.
Charles' smile shines brighter than the searing sun, "Mr. Alcott, the pleasure is all mine. I'm a bit starstruck, I must admit."
Mr. Alcott smirks at the comment and turns his eyes toward the maiden. He reaches out for her and sweeps her hand up to place a soft kiss against her knuckles, evoking a flush on the woman's cheeks. He doesn't linger. Not that Charles would mind much. Everyone is entitled to their skeletons.
"I read Petulant Tides. It was a remarkable piece, I must say." Charles persists, fancying the man's sole attention. Mr. Alcott's emerald gaze returns to the older man, as politely expected.
"I do appreciate it greatly, Mr. Chevalier." he says, despite knowing the man hasn't so much as skimmed the pages of his bestselling novel. There was a deception speckling within his pupils that he couldn't deny. An aura surrounding him that would never intrude within the pages of such literary pieces.
"Oh, please!" Charles bellows kindly. His arms snake around Mr. Alcott, hooking around the crest of his shoulder. With a swift tug, they're tumbling toward the grand entrance, "Call me Charlie, son."
"Well, if we're on a first name basis, Charles, I fancy Killian personally." he replies with a smile. Craning his neck, he spares a glance in Delilah's direction, who remains rooted to stone, her eyes in quite a daze than Killian could recall just a few minutes prior.
"Killian," Charles repeats, oblivious to his wife's state. "It's got quite a ring to it. Peculiar, but in a fascinating way."
Silence stretches between them as they grace the top stair. When Charles discovers the reason for the irrefutable silence, he follows Killian's line of sight.
With a tense jaw, he calls out to his despondent wife, "Dear, will you be joining us inside?"
The woman straightens and turns back toward the men with a balmy grin, "It seems I've forgotten my midday nap. Apologies for my odd behavior. Surely you wouldn't mind my absence, Mr. Alcott?"
"Killian," he corrects. A smile emerges on his lips, dulling Charles' worries. "Your lack of presence will be patent, but please, do as you wish. Stay firm in your regimens. I would appreciate it if my own residence will be disregarded, as if I am not even here."
"That will be quite difficult considering you are such a leading light." Charles compliments, reigning Killian back into his direct eyesight. It was overkill, Killian admitted to himself inwardly.
"You flatter me, Charles," he acknowledges. He takes the man by the shoulder now and edges closer, his voice verging on a whisper, "But I must inform you that flattery has little, to no effect on my dissertation."
The man huffs a laugh, half-disbelieved and half-humored, "Oh, of course, Killian! I am just so honored for you to be here, buster. How about I show you to your quarters? I am sure you're ready for a quick rest as well after such a lasting flight."
"That would be quite helpful, Charles. I do appreciate it. I would like for you both to know that my being here should in no way disturb you, or your children for that matter." Killian clarifies as the three cross the threshold.
"I wouldn't dream of such a thing," Charles answers. He is the last to cross into the foyer, which allows for him to linger his sights on the fellow from behind. With a brief glare attached to the writer's back, it quickly dissolves when Killian meets Charles' eyes once again.
"Nothing can shake the Chevaliers, Killian, you'll find."
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