Radcliffe stood in the hallway for a minute longer than necessary, struck anew by this strangeness. One did not get used to it, he thought wryly. He had entered this door a thousand times – a hundred thousand times, perhaps – knowing both his parents could be found inside. And now he was to accept that it was no longer true? It felt impossible. Of course, had his father been alive, he would no doubt already be berating Radcliffe for something – reminding him of a task that should have been done, but hadn’t, or a misdeed he shouldn’t have performed, but had. Or would he? Radcliffe supposed he could not be sure. His father had been incensed by his son’s refusal to return to England when war broke out again – more furious even than when he had first sent his son away for the uncertain crime of his frivolous living. Radcliffe had hoped this stance would eventually soften. What to his father had been another grievous failure of family duty had to Radcliffe been the only honourable action he could take, and he had thought his father might one day see that, too. But they had never had the chance to speak further after Waterloo. His father had died before Radcliffe had returned home. And so, Radcliffe would never know if fighting in a war had redeemed him in his father’s eyes – finally proving him a worthy son.
‘My lord?’ Pattson’s voice interrupted his reverie, and Radcliffe came back to the present with a start. The direction of Radcliffe’s thoughts must have been plain in his face, because Pattson’s expression of cool professionalism softened infinitesimally. It was a change not many people would register – but then, Radcliffe had known Pattson quite as long, and quite as well, as any member of his family.
‘The rest of the family are in the dining room,’ Pattson said quietly, watching him with kind, knowing eyes.
‘Yes of course, I’ll head that way.’
As he passed, Pattson pressed a hand briefly upon his shoulder – a very rare trespass of propriety that he would not normally allow himself. Radcliffe placed a hand over his without looking up and they stood there silently for a beat, before he moved on without speaking a single word.
‘Happy birthday, Archie,’ Radcliffe clasped his younger brother’s arm warmly. Archie squeezed his hand back, grinning – though a little weakly. He did look, Radcliffe thought, rather pale.
‘Are you all right?’ he could not help asking in a quiet aside.
‘Yes, yes,’ Archie said, with a wan smile that quickly slipped off his face. There was a pause and then, he went on abruptly. ‘You were right about Miss Talbot, you know.’
‘Ah.’ Radcliffe felt a pang of guilt. He had quite forgotten that Archie might be smarting from the Miss Talbot affair – though at least, he thought with relief, it was nothing serious bothering him.
‘Yes, she’s quite forgotten me now,’ Archie said with uncharacteristic bitterness. ‘Setting her cap at everyone but me, it seems. Thank goodness for Selbourne, he’s—’
‘Are you sure you do not want a party, Archie?’ Lady Radcliffe interrupted, gesturing impatiently for her sons to take their seats. ‘It is not too late, you know. After all, coming of age is an important moment – we all want to celebrate!’
‘I don’t,’ Lady Amelia said sourly. ‘Why should I celebrate Archie coming into his inheritance?’
‘No, Mama,’ Archie said firmly, ignoring his sister. ‘I am quite sick of – I mean to say, I am quite tired. This has been a … busy Season already.’
Radcliffe eyed him a little suspiciously. This seemed unlike Archie, who had historically always loved his birthday, the Season, and really, any excuse at all for a celebration. But perhaps that was no longer true. Radcliffe shrugged it off and before long the usual hubbub of the family overtook matters. As dinner was served, Archie seemed to regain his colour, looking and sounding more like his usual self, and Radcliffe was pleased to see it.
By the second course, Lady Radcliffe and Amelia had resumed their old argument as to when Amelia should be allowed to attend her first ball this Season.
‘Next year,’ Lady Radcliffe was insisting. ‘You are still very young.’
‘All of my friends are attending at least one this Season,’ Amelia complained loudly. ‘Not coming out – but just dipping their toe. Really, I shall be considered quite frightfully green if I’m the only one who hasn’t. Just one, Mama, surely there is no harm? After all, I’m only a year younger than Cecily and she’s been to heaps of them.’