The man still stared at her, his eyes clouded by his cap, his smile or frown indiscernible beneath the long growth of beard. His serge trousers were muddied, as though he had walked a great distance to arrive at the cemetery, and his hands were stuffed awkwardly down into the pockets of his heavy woolen coat.
For a moment, Lydia felt a pang of fear. What was this shabby man doing in the cemetery amongst these particular graves? Earls, dukes, and other members of the peerage were interred here, and she briefly worried that this man might have some sort of malicious intention. She looked quickly down the hill towards the waiting carriage, wondering if Uncle Julius could hear her from this distance if she cried out.
“I must be going now,” Lydia said politely, gesturing to the path where the man stood blocking her way. He looked around for a moment as though not understanding her intention to move past him, then stared back at her once again. She sought to offer her assistance so that he might move on, saying, “Are you looking for a particular grave? Perhaps I know which one it might be, as I spend a good deal of time here.”
“Lydia?” the man said, and she took a step back instinctively.
“How do you know my name, good sir?” she asked defensively, looking towards the carriage once again as though to be sure it had not left her.
The man only stared at her without speaking, and though it discomforted her greatly, Lydia looked back at his face too. The parts of skin that were tanned and visible beneath his longer hair and beard could not obscure his most notable feature, piercing blue eyes the color of the sky.
She knew him at once as the memories of her childhood came rushing back at her, threatening to take her breath.
“Matthew Walsh?” Lydia asked, her voice quiet with disbelief. “But… how? What has happened to you?”
Matthew looked down and realized his appearance was deceiving. “I have been at sea,” he answered weakly. “With my father’s company.”
Lydia shook her head. “I cannot imagine seeing you here. How did you come upon this place?”
Matthew gestured towards the grave beside him. “I have not paid my respects before now. When my father passed—”
“Yes, I remember learning of it much later,” Lydia interrupted. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” he said quietly. “I was not at liberty to come home when it happened. Mother never told me he was sick, or I would have left my position and returned to him. I only learned of his death some months later, long after his burial.”
“That is awful,” Lydia said, cringing with sadness. “To have lost your father and not learned of it for so long?”
“And what of you? You were placing flowers on two graves there. I remember your mother died shortly after I left for school, but the other?” Matthew asked. His expression told Lydia he already knew the answer but feared the worst.
“My father,” she admitted, looking down at her hands. “It was an accident a year ago, he was out hunting with my uncle.”
“Not your father too, Lydia I’m so sorry!” Matthew said, his voice cracking. “So much pain and hurt, it’s not right.”
Neither of them spoke, and when several seconds had passed in silence, Lydia instinctively stepped forward and put her arms around Matthew in a comforting embrace. Several moments later, his arms encircled her as well, holding her closely.
Suddenly, Lydia stepped away and apologized, embarrassed by her display of emotions. “I’m so sorry, Matthew. That was untoward of me. I cannot imagine how uncomfortable that must have made you feel.”
“No, it’s all right,” he replied, though he did not sound convincing to Lydia. He appeared to flounder for the proper words to say before finally demanding, “I only… Lydia, why did you stop writing to me?”
“I’m sorry? What are you—oh, the letters, you mean,” Lydia responded. “I only… I don’t know,” she managed to say before looking very uncomfortable.
“It hurt, a great deal in fact.” Matthew’s expression turned bitter. “I relied on your letters to bring me any source of comfort, and you abruptly stopped writing to me. Why is that?”
“And what of you? You hardly ever replied, and when you did, it was nothing but complaints of school, a place I never had the luxury to experience,” Lydia shot back. “Did you even bother to write when my mother died? If you are unable to remember, let me help you recall: no, you didn’t.”
“That’s because I did not know of it until weeks later when you wrote again,” Matthew argued. “I’m sorry you never got to go to school, but you had a loving family instead. Do remember that the reason I went away is because my parents did not care for having me underfoot. My parents wrote to me exactly twice a year, both times to inform me that I would not be coming home at the holiday. The only time I ever heard from anyone was when you wrote, and you even stopped doing that much.”
“I was glad to write until the day I learned that you would not be returning here,” Lydia confessed, angry tears pricking at her eyes. “I had to discover it through servants who’d spoken to one another at the market that you were leaving for the Far East the moment your school term ended for the last time. You left me here in my grief and loneliness, after we swore we would always remain friends.”
Matthew started to reply but he stopped short. He pondered his answer so as to not say something unnecessarily unkind. “I had to leave, Lydia.”
“Why? Answer me that much,” she demanded, her green eyes burning with hurt.
“I could not come back here. Even though my years at Eton were a never-ending misery, at least they were away from the constant torment of parents who thought I would never be good enough. My every waking moment in their presence has been nothing but goading and cajoling and correcting. Everything from how I stand to how I sit to how I hold a spoon was under constant scrutiny. Should I ever do anything correctly, that only meant there were other things I had done wrong.”
Lydia looked away, embarrassed at the painful confession. Matthew pressed on. “It was very difficult to convince my father to let me enter into his company, and no matter how hard I worked, how much money I made, how vast the family’s empire grew under my labors, there was never a single utterance of gratitude or compliment. I am only now returned because I am the Earl of Paxton and I once again have no choice.”
“I’m sorry,” Lydia said in a low voice, dropping her gaze in both shame and humiliation. “I know it must have been terrible for you. It appears as though we both have had our share of burdens to bear, on shoulders too young and narrow to carry such a great weight.”
