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“No.” I said harshly, without thinking.
His face fell slightly. I sighed, taking a moment to collect myself.
Bedham House was my mother’s estate, a small, rural manor inherited from her father, the Earl of Maybrook, after his death. I did not care to think about it more than necessary.
The situation there was beinghandled.
“It is an astute observation, sir, and I appreciate you bringing it to my attention. I will give it some thought. But for now, Bedham House will remain as is.”
For now, and the conceivable future.
I left no room for argument, and the steward swallowed, his face slightly pale.
“Of course, my Lord.”
“Now, I must see to some other business.” I said, my voice curt. Other business being, well,drinking.“Good afternoon, sir.”
The steward bowed and took his leave, scurrying off to wherever stewards spent their time.
I poured myself a glass of claret from the liquor cabinet. The light liquid sloshed around my finely cut glass, its sweet smell filling the dim office. I downed it in one go, barely feeling it go down. Claret was nothing in comparison to the stronger spirits I was used to. Merely an appetizer.
My father’s office was paneled in dark wood. Even in the middle of a sunny day, there was barely any light in the room, thanks to thick, velvet curtains that hung limply from the ceilings, blocking out any sunlight the windows might have provided. Bookshelves, full of unread volumes, lined the walls.
The only other things of note in the room were the enormous, mahogany desk, littered with random papers and ledger books, a giant portrait of our family on the wall behind it, and the liquor cabinet. Years after my father’s death, it was still well stocked.
The room was exactly how I remembered my late father: cold, unfeeling, and, most often, drunk.
I raised my glass to the portrait, toasting him.
I was following in his footsteps well enough, wasn’t I? Drinking away my life.
Would he be proud?
Just then, I heard muffled laughter from the hallway outside. It was the laughter of young women. Either servants, or…
I set the glass down and strode out of the room, my curiosity getting the better of me. A few paces down the hallway, just as I had hoped, stood Cassandra Radcliffe. Amelia was just behind her, her light brown hair falling in messy curls around her face. They were looking at some painting on the wall, laughing.
Lady Radcliffe had made it clear to me that she wanted to leave my house as soon as possible, but the repairs on her carriage were taking longer than expected… and her staff were still beleaguered from the whole affair. Her granddaughter seemed to have convinced her that they could stay another day. I would have been happy to see them go… if it weren’t for Amelia.
For some reason, I wanted her to stay around just a little longer… but I wasn’t really sure why. Perhaps I was just nostalgic.
Seeing her in the hallway, her face lit up by mirth, brought back a sudden memory.
I was only eleven years old, not yet an adult, but quickly growing out of childhood. My parents had finally returned from a year long trip to the East Indies, and I had been eagerly awaiting their return. Though I might have fancied myself as mature, I was still a young boy… a young boy, like any, who missed his mother, and wanted nothing but to impress his father.
But after their arrival, my mother hadn’t desired to see me. She was occupied elsewhere, my father told me coldly, before criticizing my lack of growth. Indeed, it wouldn’t be until years later, at Eton, that I would finally have a growth spurt – a growth spurt my father would never see.
After months of anticipating their return, I had been sent away by my father, dejected. I had even cried, the tears made worse by shame. But, leaving my father’s office, in this very same hallway, I had run into little Amelia Allen.
My best friend, the steward’s daughter.
She had pinched my cheeks, chiding me for crying. We’d chased each other through Rosehill until my tears were gone, and I’d altogether forgotten about my absent family.
Amelia had turned the memory from one of deep sadness and abandonment into something beautiful. Bittersweet. She had always been able to make me laugh when no one else had cared.
And now, she was back… but she was no longer the plucky little girl I remembered.
She was a woman.
