"You really don't need to trouble yourself, sir."
"That's alright, James. I'm sorry about all this. I… I've… well, today has just been a bit of a roller-coaster ride, that's all."
"I can well imagine, sir."
There followed a lull in the conversation as the tidying was done, although James sensed that their talking was not quite over, just yet. He was right.
"Er… James?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Why did my father hate me so much?"
What a question. James paused, the half-sorted documents in his hands temporarily forgotten. There was an appreciable silence before he spoke, and his tone was kind.
"Your father always maintained the highest hopes for you, sir."
He immediately returned to his task and Matthew realised that this particular conversation was over, at least for now.
Later, as shadows lengthened and the sun began to set once more, Charles, with his mission anything but accomplished, re-emerged from the depths of Heston Grange into the more frequented areas of the house; and, in due course, came and sat in the dining room at a long wooden table, which could have accommodated twenty people quite comfortably, and awaited the arrival of one of Mrs Gillcarey's delicious home-cooked dinners. He had made a point of ensuring that two places should be set, although whether Matthew would actually appear and join his new rival for the meal was perhaps another question. At the far end of the room a large fire blazed cheerfully in the hearth around which two Chesterfield sofas and several high backed chairs were arranged.
Charles sighed and gazed at his distorted reflection in the base of the silver candelabrum that stood on the table, with a tiny, tapering flame atop each of its deep red candles. For a moment his thoughts drifted back to the moment when he finally realised he was no longer engaged. Maybe he had been neglectful in some way? Certainly, having never known his own father he felt to some extent that he was having to navigate uncharted waters without a guide, as it were. But why? The question boomed and reverberated through his mind. Why had she left him? Everything had seemed to be going so well…
His reverie was interrupted by the sound of the dining room door opening. He glanced up, expecting to see Mrs Gillcarey make her entrance but it was, in fact, a rather crestfallen Matthew who came in. They made eye contact and Charles gave a slight nod. Matthew stayed where he was and looked at the floor. After a few moments he looked up and said, quietly, "Erm… may I join you?"
Charles smiled and indicated the vacant seat at the table.
He slowly made his way across the room and sat down.
"Would you care for a glass of wine?"
Charles held up a bottle of a particularly fine Barollo, rich and full bodied, which James had uncorked some thirty minutes ago to allow it to breathe. Matthew managed a slight smile and held out his glass. The crackling fire in the hearth, the flickering candles and the beautifully delicate sound of the vintage wine as it left its bottle and softly splashed into the cut crystal glass would have made a perfect moment in other circumstances. They clinked their glasses and sipped in silence, savouring the smooth, fruity liquid as its palette of flavours broke over their tongues. Matthew cleared his throat.
"Er… Mr Seymour, I owe you an apology."
"You do?"
"Well, yes. My outburst earlier on was quite uncalled for. It won't happen again."
"No need for an apology, Mr Willoughby, but since you have offered it, it would be most un-gentlemanly of me not to accept."
"That film was… well… it just gave me a bit of a shock."
"To be quite honest with you, I'm not surprised."
"You see, the thing is… "
He stopped speaking as the door opened and James entered. He walked over to the dumb waiter, slid open the door and, reaching inside, began to pull on the ropes.
Some distance below stairs a beautifully cooked leg of roast venison began to ascend from Mrs Gillcarey's kitchen, its delicious aroma sufficient to win over even the most fastidious of vegetarians. On arrival, James lifted the silver platter with its steaming joint from the hatch and carried it to the table. Setting it down precisely, with practised ease he proceeded to carve several slices, all uniformly thick. By the time he had added the garlic mash and roast potatoes, chipolatas, mange tout, carrots, peas, sage and chestnut stuffing and a generous helping of Mrs Gillcarey's rich onion gravy, made according to her secret recipe, the meal had become a veritable work of art.
"Thank you, James," said Charles. "This looks magnificent! Please pass our thanks to Mrs Gillcarey."
He nodded. "Very good, sir."
He turned and left the two men to enjoy the meal, the presentation of which was surpassed only by its taste. They both ate with enthusiasm. Old Lord Alfred was clearly accustomed to doing himself well, and he had managed to find the perfect housekeeper in Mrs Gillcarey.
After the meal, they adjourned to the armchairs in front of the fire, where they sat for a while, just staring into the flames. Then, as he refilled their glasses, yet again, with the ruby coloured wine, Charles spoke.
"You were saying…?"
"Sorry?"
"Just before James came in to serve dinner, you were about to tell me something."
Matthew paused and set down his glass.
"Yes. I just wanted to explain… " His voice tailed off and his fingers fumbled against each other as he sought to find the right words.
Then, all at once, he suddenly seemed to find his stride.
"When I was growing up, I so desperately wanted to be like my father. He was so successful, admired and respected by everyone."
"There's nothing wrong with that. Plenty of boys want to be like Dad."
"Yes, only it seemed that whatever I did to try and impress him was never good enough. Trying to get praise out of him was like trying to get blood out of a stone. But at the same time, he would be openly critical of anything I did that was even slightly imperfect, pouring scorn on everything — even in front of other people."
Charles eyed Matthew as he poured out his heart and soul and felt a pang of sympathy for him. How could he feel otherwise? His mother had raised him by herself and flatly refused to discuss his father on those occasions when Charles had been brave enough to broach the subject. "You have me," she used to snap, "and I'm all you need."
"On top of that," Matthew continued, "whether I was just imagining it I don't know, but it seemed to me that all my friends got on with their dads really well. And no matter what I tried to do… " he faltered and looked down. "I… I just found that it was difficult to talk to him about things that mattered to me; and a sort of void developed, an empty hollow. And now he’s gone…and I…I can't help feeling as though there's a piece of the puzzle missing."
In his professional capacity, Charles had heard variations on this theme time and time again. Was it preferable, he wondered for the hundredth time, to not have a father at all, as in his case, or to have a father — but one who did not display the affection and acceptance which every boy needs? A pointless question, he concluded, since no-one can change their situation in that regard. They just have to soldier on and make the best of it, with whatever hand they've been dealt. But he was starting to see the young man from a different perspective, he realised.
"And now," he continued, morosely, "with all this farcical business of having to solve the clues or inherit nothing… I just feel like it’s one last kick in the teeth."
Just then, James entered carrying a tray, bearing a decanter of tawny port and two glasses. He placed a glass of the nectar in front of both Charles and Matthew then moved to the table and began to clear away the remains of the dinner. During this pause in the conversation Charles ran through the extraordinary events of the last few days in his mind and silently reached a moment of decision; he leant forward in his chair and said, "Matthew, I have an idea."