Chapter 330: This Is My Granddaughter

Chapter 330: Chapter 330: This Is My Granddaughter

"Quentin..."

Evan wanted to say more.

Quentin said coldly, "I know perfectly well whether Claire told you or not. If you’re willing to take the blame for her, I won’t pursue it. After all, everyone among the Yeats knows about Estelle’s identity and her relationship with the Yeats Family. You’re the only one who didn’t know. You really can’t blame Claire for not telling you; it’s your own fault for not paying attention to your sister who is about to come home.

"Reflect on it yourself. Estelle, let’s go."

The surrounding crowd didn’t dare to stay and watch Mr. Yeats make a fool of himself, so they hurriedly dispersed. But what they were thinking as they left was another matter entirely.

It didn’t take long for the rumors to spread among the guests—that Claire had concealed Estelle Lockwood’s identity, that Claire had egged Mr. Yeats on to target his own relative, and that Mr. Yeats had publicly declared the returning young lady of the Yeats Family was an outsider. For a time, both Claire and Evan were pushed to the forefront of the gossip.

Only after the crowd dispersed did Claire run out from a corner, her face covered in tears. "Evan, are you okay?"

Evan hadn’t noticed that while he was being lectured by Quentin earlier, Claire had been hiding nearby the whole time without showing her face. It was only now that people had scattered that she emerged from the shadows.

"Evan, I’m sorry. It’s all my fault," Claire admitted first. "Mom and Dad did tell me about Estelle’s identity and warned me not to offend her. But it was so late at the time, and I didn’t hear them clearly, so I didn’t tell you. It’s entirely my fault."

Evan snapped back to his senses.

Just a moment ago, he had been wondering how, even if Estelle Lockwood was out of line, Claire was so kind—if she had known, how could she not tell him and just let him embarrass himself? It turned out Claire had simply forgotten.

Evan consoled her, "Forget it, it’s fine. Let’s go in."

Claire gritted her teeth. "Evan... I’ll go apologize to Estelle later. She’s about to be officially recognized as the young lady of the family; she’s your and Quentin’s biological sister, and Grandpa dotes on her too. If I... It’s fine if she holds a grudge against me, but I’m afraid she’ll hold it against you."

Evan’s heart immediately ached for her. "Claire, you don’t need to wrong yourself to this extent. I’ll go talk to Estelle Lockwood. You don’t have to apologize. Don’t worry. Even if Estelle Lockwood is back, you’re still the sister I dote on the most."

Claire offered a gentle smile.

In her heart, however, she was incredibly disgusted. She thought, "What use is your doting? You have no power or influence in the Yeats Family, nor any right of inheritance. You’re nothing but a hollow artist propped up by the Yeats Family’s money. What good does your affection do me?! What I want is the affection of Old Mr. Yeats, the Family Head, and Quentin!"

Inside the banquet hall, Quentin said, "I originally wanted to announce your identity on a more formal occasion. I didn’t expect to announce it so hastily right at the door."

Estelle Lockwood tilted her head. "Oh? Since it’s going to be made public anyway, what effect does Young Mr. Yeats think a more formal occasion would achieve?"

Quentin gave a slow, light chuckle. "To achieve a blockbuster effect?"

Estelle was amused.

Quentin continued, "Estelle, you don’t have to call me ’Young Mr. Yeats.’ On the surface, this banquet is a small gathering for the Yeats and our friends, but it’s actually for you. However, it’s not formal enough, nor is it held in Capital City, so it doesn’t count as an official recognition banquet. It’s just to introduce you to everyone officially."

When the true young lady of the Yeats Family returned, the Yeats Family would host a recognition banquet that definitively achieved the "blockbuster" effect Quentin mentioned, and it strictly had to be held in Capital City.

Estelle crossed her arms and leaned against the table. "I understand."

Quentin asked a waiter for two glasses of red wine and handed one to Estelle. "Once the banquet starts, walk around with me."

Only a true member of the Yeats Family could be led around and introduced by Quentin; this was an unspoken rule.

Estelle’s gaze suddenly shifted. Nathaniel Sloan raised an eyebrow playfully. "Young Mr. Yeats, what about me?"

Quentin clicked his tongue. For some reason, he felt that this brother-in-law was completely superfluous.

Fifteen minutes later, the banquet officially began.

With Old Mr. Yeats’s status, just showing his face for a minute at the banquet was already considered giving everyone plenty of face. Old Mr. Yeats, the Family Head, also rarely made appearances, having handed over almost all matters to Young Mr. Yeats; this was a sign of a gradual transfer of power.

But today, both Old Mr. Yeats and the Family Head personally attended, and they took Estelle Lockwood around to toast with several elders of the Yeats Family. The branch members of the Yeats Family and the other guests looked at one another, reading the same message in each other’s eyes: Even though this Miss Lockwood did not share the Yeats surname, she was truly the apple of the Yeats Family’s eye. She was completely different from a branch family member like Claire. Estelle Lockwood shared an unbreakable bloodline with the former Family Head, the current Family Head, and the next Family Head.

"Estelle."

Old Mr. Yeats cheerfully called her over. His table was located at the very center of the banquet hall. As Estelle walked over, everyone’s eyes followed her.

Estelle was poised and elegant, neither haughty nor humble. She gave a slight nod. "Grandfather."

"Oh, haha! Right, speaking of this." Old Mr. Yeats had Estelle sit beside him and immediately began showing her off to several old friends he hadn’t seen in years.

These old friends were rooted in Crestfall, but decades ago, they had been good brothers with Old Mr. Yeats and had done business together. Meeting again now, there probably wasn’t much genuine sentiment left between them, but it was obvious he was trying to hold the stage for his granddaughter, so these old friends all put on looks of great interest.

Old Mr. Yeats was well aware that at his age, finding "true friends" was already impossible. He wasn’t looking for their blessings either. He simply wanted everyone to know—he wanted these old geezers in Crestfall to know—that Estelle was under his protection and they were not to make things difficult for her in the future.

So he continued, "Estelle grew up in Crestfall. You all know that the customs here in Crestfall differ from those in Capital City. I told her she could just call me ’Grandpa,’ but she said that over in Capital City, it’s customary to use ’Grandfather,’ so she addresses me as Grandfather too.

"Tell me, isn’t this child just so good and filial? Sigh, whenever I look at Estelle, I think of Eleanor. I raised Eleanor single-handedly; she wasn’t my biological daughter, but she was even closer than one. You all understand, right?"

How could those old friends not give him face?

"Old Yeats, you sure are lucky. Who wouldn’t want a sweet and gentle girl? You had Eleanor before, and now you have Estelle."

"That’s right. Estelle respects your customs. The child has suffered in the past, and now that you’ve found her, you have to spoil her a bit more."

Old Mr. Yeats’s goal was achieved.

In a corner not far away, Third Aunt Yeats wore a sinister expression. "Who does Estelle Lockwood think she is? Look at how Old Mr. Yeats protects her like a precious treasure. What gives her the right?! She’s just a piece of thrown-away trash. Even if she’s back now, a pheasant can never pretend to be a phoenix!"

Third Aunt Yeats glared at her husband, her anger flaring up out of nowhere. "Say something, will you! Are you just going to watch our Claire get bullied? That old fogy has completely forgotten about Claire. My poor daughter!"

"Dad, Mom," Claire said with a light smile, interrupting their complaints.

Just then, Evan walked toward Old Mr. Yeats, holding a small box.