Dear Future Husband

28. Bon Appetit!

20 July 1891

Maximilian stood on the doorstep of Redmond Flynn's house, unsure of whether he should knock on the door or wait for the man's butler to open it. Despite the small amounts of time he had spent in the presence of nobility thanks to his time in London working for the Wakefield's, he still felt uneasy around the upper classes. Thus, in his hands was a bottle of good quality mulled ale, to ensure that his presence as a guest would be welcomed if only for what he brought to the table, quite literally.

He raked his fingers through his hair, wishing he had one of those small mirrors that fine ladies carried around so he could ensure his appearance was not too similar to that of a street ruffian. Finally, he pulled the knocker, which was shaped like a wolf's head, not one with snarling jaws but calm yet formidable. It rapped heavily against the door once, then twice. After a moment, he heard the scurry of footsteps as someone rushed to the door.

"Welcome to the Flynn household," said a man clad in fine livery, a silvery handlebar mustache protruding from both sides of his thin face. "I am Redmond Flynn's butler, Fitzpatrick. You must be our esteemed guest–Maximilian Walker, correct?"

"Yes," he said, then, remembering the bottle of ale, thrust it outward awkwardly. "I brought a gift, for the host."

"Ah," the man said. If he felt Max had committed a faux pas, it did not show on his face, which somehow made Maximilian feel worse than if he had been openly contemptuous. "I am sure Mrs. Flynn will appreciate the addition to her meal. Allow me to take your coat, Mr. Walker."

Straightening, he shrugged out of the light outerwear and passed it to Fitzpatrick. "Thank you."

After he had hung up the garment in a coat closet, Fitzpatrick gave Maximilian a tour of Redmond Flynn's house. They passed by the hothouse, filled with lilies and azaleas, which Fitzpatrick pointed out had plenty of flowers at this time of year. Then, for Fitzpatrick to give the bottle of ale to the cook, they made their way briefly by the kitchen, from which many delicious aromas emanated, making his mouth water. Finally, he followed Fitzpatrick into a small but well-furnished room.

"And here is the parlour, where the guests will be entertained until the supper bell is rung." Fitzpatrick opened the door, gesturing for Maximilian to enter.

Before Maximilian could speak or thank him for the tour, or even ask him where Redmond Flynn was, the man had vanished, likely disappearing into a servants' corridor. To be invited as a fine guest into a good home was odd. He felt as though he ought to be in the lower halls, averting his gaze when the manor's lord looked at him, not lounging on the expensive furniture and tracking dirt onto the man's Persian carpets. A small crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, two floral-patterned sofas situated next to one another. The wallpaper glimmered faintly with gold jacquard, the ceiling vaulted and the furniture made of ornately carved oak.

"Ah, Maximilian! Thank you for choosing to accept my invitation to dinner," came Redmond's booming voice. He walked slowly into the parlour, dressed in a well-tailored suit that made Maximilian feel underdressed.

He had worn one of the few sets of attire he owned that would count as dinner wear: a three-piece suit that Edgar had reluctantly purchased for him so that he could fit in at balls where they lifted money and jewelry alike from the patrons. Though he doubted he could regale the dinner party with such stories. "Thank you for inviting me, Mr. Flynn."

"Oh, such formalities are far too stiff, don't you think!" Redmond chuckled. The chain of a monocle disappeared into the breast pocket of his vest, where a neat little pocket square in deep red had been tucked in. "Please, call me Redmond."

He nodded, trying not to allow his gaze to dart around the room as though appraising the cost of each item. Such habits, once formed, were difficult to break after almost a year in Edgar's employ. "If you insist, Redmond."