Chapter 41: Ashford

The Ashford Residence was larger and more imposing than the image Richard had pieced together from his memories.

The four-story stone house faced west, built from the limestone common throughout the Imperial Capital.

The entrance featured double doors of dark oak. Carved into the lintel above them was the Ashford family crest: an oak tree and a rampant lion, identical to the mark on their stationery.

A porter stood on either side of the doors. Staring straight ahead without a twitch, they looked no different from a pair of clothed stone pillars.

Three carriages were parked against the wall in the courtyard, along with an old-fashioned motorcar.

The car was even grander than the Alvis owned by Grey's family. Gold pinstriping traced its deep black body, the door handles were silver-plated, and the brass headlights gleamed.

Richard quickly committed his surroundings to memory.

This was an upper-class family of respectable scale. While they might not compare to the top-tier noble houses bound to the royal family by marriage, their accumulation of resources and connections was undoubtedly deep.

After his father paid the fare, the driver flicked the reins, and their carriage clattered away down the gravel road.

The family of four stood before the Ashford Residence.

The moment they set foot on the steps, his mother's expression changed.

The shift was subtle, but Richard caught every detail.

She dropped the relaxed manner she wore around her family and put on an entirely different face.

It was a mask she had been trained to wear since childhood. Once she stepped through those doors, the mask had to be firmly in place.

His father followed silently behind her. He pulled his right hand out of his pocket, then slid it back in, his thumb rubbing along the trouser seam.

In the factories of Briston, he was the respected engineer Rogers Williams.

Here, he was just "the man Margaret married."

Evelyn stuck close to her brother, tugging at his hem. "I don't like it here."

"Me neither."

A porter pulled open the oak doors.

A butler in a black formal suit stepped out from the side hall.

"Miss Margaret, the master is waiting in the drawing room." The butler stepped aside and gestured for them to enter.

The family of four walked down a long corridor. Portraits of past generations of the Ashford Family hung along both walls.

The figures in the paintings wore clothing from every era. From old aristocrats in powdered wigs and high heels to modern faces in tailored suits with walking canes, the generations lined up one after another.

An old man sat in the seat of honor directly across the drawing room.

His frame was gaunt, but even seated, his spine was as straight as a plumb line. From the crown of his head to his tailbone, his posture held rigid without the slightest bend.

"Margaret."

"Father." His mother offered a slight bow.

The old man swept his gaze over her. "You do not look well."

"The weather up north is quite cold. An old ailment flaring up again."

"Mm."

The stark difference in his attitude toward the family of four was unmistakable.

He showed a modicum of regard for his daughter Margaret—they were direct blood relatives, after all—but it stopped exactly there.

In his eyes, his son-in-law was no different from a roadside weed.

His gaze slid right past Rogers and landed on his granddaughter.

"Good afternoon, Grandfather," the little girl said, her voice crisp and her manner endearing.

"Evelyn has grown quite a bit." The old man's expression softened slightly.

Richard gave a similar slight bow. "Grandfather."

Gerard said nothing, his gaze locking onto his grandson.

A minter would balance a new coin on his fingertip and give it a flick, listening to its ring and weighing it in his hand to judge how much copper and silver was mixed inside.

The moment the old man's eyes fell upon him, Richard's first instinct was that he was being weighed just like that coin.

The ether seeping from the old man was intensely restrained. It was pulled in tight, its edges as sharp and clean as pages trimmed by a paper knife.

Yet the instant that ether lightly brushed against him, Richard felt as though he were standing directly beneath the floodgates of a dam.

A warm heat trembled violently in his chest. It felt as if an invisible hand had clamped down on both lungs at once, making his diaphragm spasm.

The crushing pressure vanished even faster than it had arrived—so fast he had no time to mount any defense.

The old man had already shifted his gaze away. The entire exchange had taken less than two seconds.

Behind him, his father was speaking in low tones with the butler to confirm where their luggage would be stored.

His mother had turned sideways to straighten a crooked bow on Evelyn's shoulder. No one had noticed what he had experienced in those two seconds.

"Sit."

Gerard gestured toward the sofas.

Having confirmed the test results, a measure of genuine regard appeared in his eyes.

Standing by the door, the butler took all of this in.

He had served in the Ashford Residence for thirty years. Reading his master's face was a skill he had mastered better than reading books.

If the master viewed someone as a weed, the butler treated them like air. He would offer every required courtesy without fail, but never show a shred of extra warmth.

If the master viewed someone as a pleasant potted plant, he would smile, serve tea, and keep up a thorough facade.

But when the master looked at someone and his back left the chair...

The butler silently moved the name "Young Master Richard" from the bottom of his mental list to a position near the very top.

Evelyn was oblivious to any of it. She merely felt they had been standing around for too long.

Her grandfather's drawing room was large, and there were plenty of sofas. Right now, she just wanted to find a spot to kick off her shoes.

Gerard watched his granddaughter's restless fidgeting and seemed to remember something.

He reached to the side and produced a rectangular gift box stamped with the mark of the renowned pastry workshop, Valentine.

The box had been sitting there all along—it had likely been ready from the start.

"Evelyn," the old man said, holding out the box.

The girl had been staring down at her toes. Caught off guard by her name, she jumped.

"Huh? Oh, Grandfather." She looked up.

Seeing the box he offered, she reached out, only for her hand to pause mid-air.

Evelyn glanced over at her mother.

Margaret gave a nod.

"Thank you, Grandfather!" Evelyn took the gift box, her smile genuine and free of pretense.

From listening to her school friends, she had a rough idea of what a box of these chocolates cost.

Even the cheapest Valentine gift box started at five shillings.

This one was wrapped in silk fabric with a gold-stamped clasp; its price would only be higher.

The old man nodded and instructed the butler beside him, "Arrange the guest rooms."

The butler bowed slightly and turned to the family of four.

"Please follow me. You may rest in your rooms for a short while. Dinner will be served at half past six."

As he turned to lead the way, his pace was a half-beat slower than when he had welcomed them at the entrance. Whenever they reached a corner in the corridor, he made a clear show of bowing.

Even Evelyn noticed it, though her takeaway was slightly different.

"Brother, he wasn't walking this slowly at the door."

"Maybe he has bad knees," Richard casually replied.

"Then why did they suddenly go bad?"

"He's getting old. Good days and bad days."

Evelyn seemed skeptical, but she didn't press the matter. Her attention was entirely consumed by the box of chocolates in her arms.