The Beecham House

Maverick stepped inside the grand foyer of his childhood home, the familiar scent of aged wood and leather filling his senses. The house was impeccably maintained, every surface gleaming as if no time had passed since he had last walked these halls.

Edgar led him through the corridors, his pace measured, his demeanor as composed as ever. Maverick's heart thudded in his chest, a mix of nostalgia and unease stirring within him.

They finally stopped in front of his father's old workroom. Edgar opened the door and gestured for Maverick to enter. The room was exactly as he remembered it: the large mahogany desk, the towering shelves lined with books, the soft leather armchair by the window.

Maverick walked over to the desk and ran his fingers along the smooth surface, memories of his father sitting there, deep in thought, flooding his mind.

Edgar closed the door behind them, his usual calm expression darkened with something Maverick couldn't quite place.

"Young lord," Edgar began, his voice low and somber, "I never left this house since your parents' deaths."

Maverick sat down, turned to face the old butler, noticing the weight in his words. "I was told by Lawrence that he had taken care of everything here in Birmingham."

At the mention of Lawrence's name, Edgar's expression shifted from somber to one of barely contained anger. His lips tightened into a thin line, and his eyes flashed with indignation.

"Lawrence Beecham," Edgar spat the name as if it were a curse. "Poor judgment, lack of knowledge, and bad decisions! That man had no idea what he was doing. I had to step in and manage everything myself. Do you think this house would still be standing if I had left it in his hands?"

Maverick could feel the intensity of Edgar's resentment toward his uncle. He opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. Instead, he gave Edgar an awkward smile, not knowing how to diffuse the butler's fury.

"And another thing," Edgar continued, his voice rising slightly. "Lawrence's decision to take you away without consulting me… what was he thinking? You were just a child! How could he possibly believe he could raise you properly?"

Maverick's stomach tightened. He had known Edgar would be upset, but he hadn't expected this level of anger. Deep down, he hoped Edgar would never find out about the things that happened during his early years in Lawrence's care—especially not about the job he had taken up.

"I had written around hundreds of letters to him but he barely replied or replied only he is eager to." Edgar curse.

Seeing Maverick's discomfort, Edgar took a deep breath, composing himself once more. His expression softened, but his eyes remained sharp. "My lord," he said quietly, "it's time for you to inherit your father's title as Earl of Cardiff."

Maverick's heart skipped a beat. He had anticipated this conversation, but now that it was happening, he wasn't prepared. "I… I appreciate the offer, Edgar, but I must decline. The title—"

"Think about it first," Edgar interrupted, his tone firm. "It's not a decision to be made lightly. The responsibility is great, yes, but so are the benefits."

Maverick nodded slowly, feeling the weight of the conversation pressing down on him. "I'll consider it," he replied, though his voice was uncertain.

As silence settled between them, Maverick's mind drifted to the practicalities of running the manor. "How much will it cost to keep this house running?" he asked, reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out his bank book. "Here, take this. You can manage the finances as you see fit."

But Edgar shook his head, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. "There's no need, my lord," he said, pulling out a thick ledger and placing it on the desk before Maverick. "This is the family's account book."

Maverick opened the ledger and began flipping through the pages, his eyes widening with each turn. The sheer amount of assets, the steady income from lands, investments, and shares—it was far beyond anything he had expected. His father had left a fortune, and over the last decade, it had only grown.

Edgar watched Maverick's reaction with a shrewd, almost playful glint in his eye. "So, my lord," he said, his voice laced with subtle persuasion, "perhaps you might reconsider your decision regarding the title?"

Maverick felt a sudden surge of pressure, his mind spinning with the implications of what Edgar was suggesting. The weight of responsibility, the legacy of his father, the future of the manor—it all pressed down on him, triggering a throbbing headache.

"I need to rest," Maverick mumbled, closing the ledger and rubbing his temples.

Edgar's expression softened once more, and he nodded. "Of course, young lord. Take all the time you need. The house, and I, will be here when you're ready."

With that, Edgar quietly excused himself, leaving Maverick alone in the workroom. The silence that followed was heavy, filled with the echoes of memories, responsibilities, and decisions yet to be made. Maverick leaned back in the chair, closing his eyes, trying to quiet the storm of thoughts in his mind.

He suddenly thought of a word his uncle told him before leaving. "Live up to the legacy, huh?" Maverick laughs at the thought of it.

Usually it would be his uncle, Lawrence, who's going to inherit the title if the heir is still too young or incapable to inherit for the time being, but things are different when Lawrence is born from his grandfather's mistress.

Simply said, Lawrence didn't have the right to inherit the title except there is no one to pass on, and there's no other choice.

Beside the affairs, Lawrence does have a good relationship with Maverick's father and mother. They often meet up with him when they are in London, while Lawrence would visit their house in winter or tag along to the summer house at Dover. That's why Maverick has a close bond with Lawrence.

The dining room was bathed in the warm glow of candlelight, casting soft shadows on the rich wooden furniture. Edgar, dressed in his impeccable butler's uniform, moved with practiced grace as he served Maverick his dinner.

As Edgar placed the final dish on the table, he paused, looking at Maverick with a mixture of pride and emotion. "My lord," Edgar began, his voice thick with sentiment, "you've grown into a refined gentleman, just as your parents would have wanted. I must admit, Lawrence may have been a fool, but he didn't entirely fail in his duties. You are proof of that."

"Thank you, Edgar."

Maverick looked up, a small smile touching his lips at Edgar's praise. It was rare for the old butler to offer compliments, especially when they were accompanied by anything other than a grumble about Lawrence. But tonight, there was a sincerity in Edgar's tone that Maverick couldn't ignore.

Edgar's hand trembled slightly as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, dabbing at the corners of his eyes. 

"You look just like your late mother," he continued, his voice catching. "But you carry your father's authority. It's in the way you walk, the way you hold yourself. They would be so proud, my lord."

Maverick's heart ached at Edgar's words. The memories of his parents, their voices, their laughter, all seemed to flood back with a painful clarity. He watched as Edgar composed himself, the old butler's face a mix of sorrow and fondness.

After the dinner, Maverick excused himself and made his way to the bedroom Edgar had prepared for him. He hesitated at the door before pushing it open, a wave of nostalgia hitting him as he stepped inside. 

The room was exactly as he remembered it—his parents' bedroom, untouched by time. The large bed, the heavy drapes, the familiar scent of lavender that his mother had loved so much—it was all there, as if waiting for them to return.

Maverick walked over to the window, pulling the curtains aside to gaze out into the night. The moon hung low in the sky, casting a silvery light across the landscape. He sat down on the edge of the bed, running his hand over the soft quilt.

Memories of his mother reading to him by the fire, his father's quiet presence as he worked late into the night, all came rushing back. The room was filled with their essence, and it was both comforting and unbearably painful.

Meanwhile, back in London, Julius sat in a dark room, a glass of brandy in hand. The only light came from the pale moon shining through the window, casting long shadows across the room. He stared at the moon, his expression unreadable, lost in his own thoughts.

Suddenly, the sound of footsteps broke the silence. The door creaked open, and a figure stepped inside, their silhouette barely visible in the dim light. Julius didn't turn, his gaze still fixed on the moon.

"Where have you been these past few days, Your Highness?"