The Bridgerton Eight

There's Nothing Like Living Down Expectations

Monday—November 23th, 2020

Gareth relied on four rules to maintain his sanity when the subject was his father.

One: They didn't talk unless absolutely necessary.

Two: All absolutely necessary conversations were to be kept as brief as possible.

Three: Should any absolutely necessary conversations last more than five full minutes, it was always best to have someone else present.

And four: For the purpose of achieving points one, two, and three, Gareth would spend most of his time away from home.

In other words, away from his father.

When he bothered to think about it, which wasn't often now that he had his avoidance tactics down to a science, Gareth thought that these principles served him well. And they served Angelo Guido, too, who liked his younger son about as much as his younger son liked him. Gareth wasn't quite sure when the relationship deteriorated. They never got along, he thought, but there had been a time when they could at least be civil to one another.

Before. Before Gareth became what Guido called a 'good-for-nothing.' Before Gareth started to disappear with a friend or two, in crazy one day long adventures, spending the family money and slandering the family name.

It was in one of such events that he was summoned to a meeting with his old man.

So here he was, pacing around the foyer of Clair Hall. He was nervous. Whatever his father wanted, it couldn't be good news. They had barely ever spoken in years. Guido had no expectations of his younger son and that was all good as far as Gareth was concerned—it was hard to disappoint someone who didn't expect anything from you.

There was nothing like living down to expectations, after all.

Gareth felt like a stranger in his own home as he waited for his father. He'd spent so little time here in the last nine years it was difficult to feel much in the way of attachment. To him, it was nothing but a pile of stones that belonged to his father. Nothing of the house, and nothing of the St. Clair fortunes felt like his, although technically it was more Gareth's, who'd been born half a St. Clair, than his dad's, who had only married one.

Gareth had few memories of his mother, who had died in an accident when he was five, but even he could recall her tousling his hair and laughing about how he was never serious.

"My restless bambino," she used to say, followed by a whispered, "Don't lose that. Whatever you do, don't lose it."

He hadn't.

The only good thing about coming home was seeing his brother George, but Gareth couldn't find George anywhere. What a bleak day.

"There you are."

Gareth turned around. His father was staring at him through cold gray eyes. He didn't look well, Gareth thought idly, which was strange—his father always looked well. Angelo Guido was fit and strong and gave the appearance of a man two decades younger than his fifty-odd years. But today he looked tired, old, with dark bags under his icy stare. Like something was terribly wrong.

Gareth considered saying, "Sir." He considered saying, "Here I am." He even considered uttering the word, "Father," but in the end he just slouched against the wall and crossed his arms.

His father looked unimpressed. "Stand up straight," he snapped and his voice sounded hoarse. "How many times must I ask you to behave?"

Gareth waited a second, then asked, "Am I meant to answer that, or was it a rhetorical question?"