254. MARSHALL’S WILL

254. MARSHALL’S WILL
If this were before, the whole family would be in chaos by now. The mansion's rooms always used to feel small—even though each one is bigger than most London apartments. That's because spaces tend to shrink when you have more than one Houghton in them.

It should be like that now, especially with the entire family gathered in the library, sitting side by side on the leather sofas, watching the lawyer with an expression that’s surprisingly calm.

But as the slightly round man with graying hair carefully opens the black folder containing Marshall’s will, and his assistant—younger, broader—hands out copies to everyone, there’s no chaos. No dramatic sighs from Aunt Dorothy. No cousinly arguments.

The mansion's library, with its floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, still smells of aged varnish and old paper. But right now, a different scent fills the space—longing. And maybe a bit of Chanel No. 5, because Aunt Dorothy never skips perfume, not even for a funeral.

Mr. Hawthorne clears his throat, trying to break the heavy tension without actually doing it. He looks up over his thin-rimmed glasses and finally says, his voice deep and almost ceremonial, “Let’s begin.”

All eyes turn to him. No interruptions. No outbursts—just quiet focus... and a touch of curiosity.

“Marshall, the 12th Earl of Houghton, drafted a new and final version of his will just a few days before his death. Despite his declining health due to advanced cancer, two doctors confirmed his full mental capacity. This will has been legally recognized and registered according to the current laws.”

He pauses briefly, giving space for the weight of his words to settle. No one speaks, but Marianne shifts in her chair like she’s about to raise a challenge—or laugh. She stops herself when her mother shoots her a sharp look, daring her to keep going.

Then Mr. Hawthorne turns the first page and adjusts his glasses again—a gesture more habitual than nervous.

“I, Marshall Edward Houghton, being of sound mind and full mental capacity, declare this document to be my final will and testament.” The lawyer reads without lifting his eyes from the page.

“Throughout my life, I have accumulated titles, properties, financial assets, art collections, rare wines, and, of course, an extraordinarily... peculiar family. All of this, in some form, belongs to you. But not all equally.”

His eyes flick upward, scanning the room, waiting for muttering, complaints, or at least some discreet protests. But everyone remains quiet, listening with a kind of civility that feels oddly out of place for them.

“We’ll start with the properties.”

Mr. Hawthorne pauses again, just long enough to turn the page.

“East Houghton Manor, my lifelong home, along with the attached lands, shall be passed on to my son, Benedict.”

Finally, a reaction. A surprised gasp—coming from Benedict himself. He looks like he just took a punch to the chest, one that knocks the air out of him, followed by a second hit straight to the jaw. He's clearly stunned.

He definitely didn’t expect Marshall to leave the manor to him. That kind of property is usually passed to the heir. That’s how it’s supposed to be. But maybe my words that night really did have an impact after all.

I glance at Christopher and catch the confusion on his face. He looks at me, clearly wondering what’s going on, but the calm in my expression and the way I squeeze his hand are answer enough.

“On the condition that he keeps the house inhabited and operational for at least ten months out of the year. Upon his death, it will return to the estate of the direct heir.”

Benedict looks at Christopher, and behind his usual stern, rigid expression, his eyes are glassy with emotion I couldn’t name even if I tried. He gives a short nod—a subtle symbol of recognition and gratitude.

Mr. Hawthorne doesn’t linger. He continues reading in the same composed tone, as if each word were a piece of porcelain he’s carefully placing on the table.

“Rosehollow Estate shall be left to my niece, Marianne Houghton, with full rights of use, ownership, and sale, as long as it is not used to generate income for third parties, nor transferred to anyone outside the Houghton lineage—”

“Rosehollow?!” Marianne can’t help herself. Her sharp voice cuts across the lawyer’s reading. Her chest is puffed up and chin high as she lets out a triumphant laugh, slowly turning her head to look at me. “Grandpa gave me Rosehollow Estate!”

The family exchanges unsure and even confused looks, and I don’t blame them. I used to love that property. Grandpa even promised it to me. But I gave it up. I chose to live in London with Christopher instead of in that luxurious cage.

Rosehollow was once my nightmare nest, and Grandpa knew that. I told him. Giving it to Marianne, letting her do with it what she wants, is a deep, meaningful act of love—even if no one else understands it.

Mr. Hawthorne clears his throat, clearly unimpressed by the interruption or the childish way she flaunts a victory I willingly gave up. Then he keeps going, listing each estate and who it will belong to. Each of Marshall’s children and grandchildren receives one—every property just as luxurious and prestigious as the next.

“Now moving on to personal belongings, assets, and collections…”

The lawyer’s tone stays steady. He turns the page and continues:

“My personal library, including rare volumes and the family’s historical documents and records, shall be placed in the care of Christopher Houghton, on the condition that they are preserved, cataloged, and never sold or lent without the written consent of the other direct heirs.”

Christopher nods in silence, accepting the responsibility with a sense of duty—and even pride.

“The contemporary art collection, as well as the sculpture pieces, shall be divided among all my children, according to the curation and cataloging I personally completed over the past months.”

“The collection of Swiss watches and goldsmith pieces shall remain with Benedict, in recognition of his loyalty—and for the patience with which he endured this family, even when he shouldn’t have had to.”

Benedict’s face barely changes, but the slight crinkle near his eyes betrays the impact of those words. It’s more than acknowledgment—it’s almost redemption.

“The rare wines and spirits shall remain in the East Houghton cellar and be jointly supervised by Benedict and Christopher, who will be responsible for organizing, cataloging, and hosting one family tasting night per year, open to all who still bear the Houghton name—by blood or by choice. Please prevent Sebastian from continuing to sneak in.”

A muffled laugh escapes from William, and even Dorothy cracks a crooked smile, her hand going to the pearls around her neck to stifle a chuckle. Sebastian, across the room in his wheelchair, just shrugs with an expression that says he doesn’t regret a thing.

“Good luck stopping me… I’m even more unstoppable now.” Sebastian’s words land like a charming little curse, drawing stifled laughter and a few scolding looks—especially from Uncle Benedict, who clears his throat beside him.

Mr. Hawthorne just lets out a soft sigh—clearly used to the Houghton way of being.

“The family jewels will remain under the care of Dorothy and Charlotte, the Countess. They are to organize and catalog the pieces together, still under Houghton ownership.” He continues, “They will decide what is to be preserved, worn, or donated.”

I look at Dorothy, expecting that sharp glare, that fury of hers… but I don’t find it. Instead, her eyes are soft, misty, almost overflowing. She dabs at the corner of her eye with a handkerchief and nods toward me. The gesture is so unexpected that I just nod back, a bit stiffly.

“And finally, there is one unique item Mr. Houghton insisted be mentioned separately.”

A collective arch of eyebrows spreads across the room. William sits up straighter, something in him—instinct or intuition—clearly sensing what’s coming.

“The cigarette collection, including limited Cuban editions, unopened packs from the 1940s, silver cases, and a custom humidor, shall be left in full to William Houghton.”

William bursts out laughing, making his father’s head snap toward him immediately, eyes narrowing in disapproval. But Will keeps laughing, full and loud, until tears are streaming down his face. Could be from laughing too hard—but I know better.

“That Old Man…” he murmurs, laughter fading as he wipes his face with the back of his hand. “Even at the end, he knew exactly what he was doing.”

“Now, regarding the remaining financial assets, including international funds, private holdings, and unspecified reserves.” Mr. Hawthorne turns another page, his tone growing even more serious. “I will now begin reading the clauses.”