Chapter 4
Amelia had discovered the Second Table fourteen months before her death.
Before the diagnosis.
Before hospitals.
Before Beatrix understood the word sick.
She never told me.
At first, that angered me.
Then I found another page.
You will want to crush them immediately.
That was absolutely true.
Don’t.
Also irritatingly true.
Find out what they believe they are protecting.
My wife knew me too well.
The Second Table was not originally a coup.
That distinction mattered.
Percival formed it because several older allied families believed I had concentrated too much authority after my father died.
They missed the old Whitcomb structure.
Too many dinners.
Too many cousins giving opinions.
Too many men saying “family consensus” when they meant veto.
I dismantled most of it.
Decisions became clearer.
So did accountability.
Some hated that.
Percival offered them another room.
Unofficial.
No formal authority.
A place to coordinate resistance before approaching me.
Then resistance became identity.
Identity became ambition.
By the time Amelia photographed them, they had begun discussing a permanent “balancing table” that would stand beside me.
Beside.
Always the first lie.
Nobody builds a second throne because they enjoy symmetry.
Cordelia’s role was different.
She had access to our home.
To Amelia.
To Beatrix.
She became the bridge between family politics and private vulnerability.
That was why Amelia watched her most carefully.
One line in the note hurt:
Cordelia resents how Beatrix changes you.
I looked away.
Beatrix had changed me.
Of course.
I left dinners earlier.
Refused meetings during bedtime.
Stopped allowing arguments in rooms where she played.
Some men called it softness.
Amelia called it proportion.
Apparently Cordelia called it opportunity.
If the Second Table could prove I was emotionally compromised by fatherhood, they could justify “sharing” authority.
And what better demonstration than humiliating my daughter publicly and measuring my response?
Too violent?
Unstable.
Too restrained?
Weak.
Perfect trap.
Except Cordelia had made one mistake.
She touched the rabbit.
May you like
Amelia had expected politics.
Cordelia’s jealousy made it personal.
