“Yes, I agree,” Matthew answered, his anger having faded. “But I see you were going somewhere, so I will not keep you. Goodbye, Lydia.”
“Goodbye, Matthew,” she answered, though he had already turned and walked away.
* * *
Matthew made his way home by hackney, then stood looking up at his family’s immense London home with dread. The doors to Paxton Hall might as well be those that opened into Newgate for all he cared. On the other side lay a life of service, not to the merchant business and his family name, but rather to the pretense of appearances and the vicious tongue-wagging of the ton.
“All a man has in this world is his good name,” his mother used to chirp at every turn, “and if he should lose that, he is truly a wretched pauper.”
But in his parents’ esteem, one’s good name could be ruined by all manner of things. Failing to dress properly for dinner, failing to be visible in a church pew on the Sabbath, failing to yield the most bountiful harvests from one’s tenants, failing to dance with the fairest young ladies at the most sought after social events… such were the sources of shame his parents dwelt on.
Matthew climbed the wide front steps and rang the bell, uncertain as to what the proper procedure for returning to one’s own home might be. He waited until a footman appeared, a man Matthew did not recognize and who clearly did not recognize him.
“Alms and bread may be given at the rear of the house only,” the footman barked before attempting to close the door in Matthew’s face. Matthew’s hand shot out and he caught the door, then looked the footman squarely in the eye.
“I am Matthew Walsh, otherwise known as the Earl of Paxton. If you could be so kind, I should like to enter my own house,” he said slowly.
The footman took only a moment to think over what he had done, and the ramifications of his actions humbled him greatly.
“My Lord, my deepest apologies! Please, do enter now!” the servant said, stepping back and throwing the door open wide before bowing low. “Does My Lord have any bags that I might bring inside?”
“Not at the moment,” Matthew replied, stepping through the doorway and looking around at the house that he had not seen since he was a boy of five-and-ten.
Nothing had changed.
It still felt foreign to him, as though he was intruding in a sanctuary that wasn’t intended for him, but as he slowly turned in one circle and then another, the familiarity began to return.
“Ah, Lord Paxton,” the butler Williams said, coming forward at the sound of the door. “Welcome home, My Lord. Shall I go and inform your mother you are here?”
“Certainly, Williams,” Matthew said absently, somewhat amused by the butler’s lack of surprise or urgency. It was as though Matthew had been gone a matter of days rather than years. “And I should like to go to my room.”
“Of course, My Lord,” Williams replied, bowing slightly. “Your chambers have not yet been moved, however. I can have that done immediately if you should like to retire to His Lordship’s appointed chambers.”
Matthew paused in his gawking at his home. It had not occurred to him that he was now the Earl of Paxton and as such, his chambers would be the main suite. He had envisioned his own rooms, small though they may have been yet more spacious without the presence of the governess in an adjoining room.
“No, that won’t be necessary. Thank you all the same, though,” he answered, still standing in the foyer.
“Shall I have your trunks brought from the ship, My Lord?” Williams asked, and again Matthew was at a loss.
“Um, certainly. That would be helpful.”
“Very good, My Lord. I will inform your mother of your arrival at once, then you can let me know if you need anything. Again, welcome home, My Lord.” Williams bowed slightly and left to fetch the Dowager Countess, or at least leave word with her.
Matthew stood for a moment, wondering what he might do next. In truth, even reaching this point was more than he had prepared himself for. This house had represented only disregard and hurt in his memories, and he felt nothing welcoming about being trapped once again inside its walls.
He slowly climbed the main staircase, looking at the chandeliers and portraits covering the walls as though seeing them for the first time. As a child, they had been commonplace, the sort of adornments that surely every family had in their homes. After having lived abroad for all this time, Matthew wondered at what prompted someone to hang spirals of gold and hand-cut crystals from their ceilings, or to hire an artist to paint a gaudy rendition of some great-aunt’s visage.
“My Lord,” Williams stated, meeting Matthew on the staircase, “your lady mother is now aware of your return and bade me give you this.” The butler held out a piece of paper, which Matthew took and examined. “Do please let me know if you have any instructions for the cook or the housekeeper as to your household preferences, and simply ring if you wish to be awakened at any given hour in the mornings. Your father’s valet, Mr. Simon, is still in the family’s employ and I will happily send him up to assist you if you like.”
“Thank you, Williams,” Matthew said absently as he read over the paper, and the butler stopped short for a moment.
“If I may say so, My Lord, you sounded exactly like your father just now,” Williams said.
Matthew looked up at him sharply only to see that the butler was smiling kindly.Oh, he meant that as a compliment, Matthew realized.
“Thank you, Williams,” Matthew said again before realizing he was repeating himself, “I strive to be like my father, of course.” He held up the piece of paper and said, “Tell me, how did my mother have time to write this out?”
“I beg your pardon, My Lord? Time?” Williams asked, genuinely puzzled.
