Page 17 of Let Me Be Your Hero
Morsley was six and a half feet tall and had spent the past few years living on the frontier in Upper Canada. He was as strong as an ox and had a similar problem in that no one wanted to spar with him, either. And so, they began boxing together a few times a week. They were a well-matched pair. Morsley had the reach advantage, but Archibald was faster, and, most importantly,neither of them were going to fly into hysterics if the other one landed a blow.
Depending on the time of day, they usually went for a coffee or stopped in a chophouse for lunch afterward. Morsley was by far the most down-to-earth peer Archibald had met, and they had a similar disinterest in the pointless extravagance of theton.
They had become friends, and, as far as Archibald’s parents were concerned, befriending an earl, even a slightly odd one who preferred a log cabin in the Canadian wilderness to a glittering palace, was the best thing Archibald had ever done.
Archibald obediently followed his mother into the gallery. He found his father already inside, grinning broadly as he stood next to a life-sized statue of white marble.
“There you are, Archie, my boy!” his father exclaimed. “Look what arrived today!”
The statue showed a man in Roman-style armor with breastplate, sandals, and a plumed helmet. He was posed as if standing upon a mountaintop, front knee bent, sword at his side as he heroically surveyed his demesne.
“It’s Alexander the Great,” his father explained.
Ah, Alexander the Great. He could see that. But there was something off about the statue. Greek or Roman statues were usually old and weathered. This one was a pristine white and looked brand new.
That was when Archibald noticed that “Alexander’s” facial features were a perfect copy of his father’s.
“You—you’ve commissioned a statue of yourself as Alexander the Great?” he sputtered.
“Yes!” his father exclaimed. “Isn’t it marvelous?”
Marvelous was not the word Archibald would have chosen. His parents longed to be welcomed into the upper echelons of high society. Archibald received the occasional invitation because he was both obscenely wealthy and unmarried. He hadthe potential to be useful in the form of bringing an influx of capital into some debt-ridden family’s coffers.
But high society had quickly decided that it had no use for his parents. Meanwhile, they seemed to believe that the key to their entrée into thetonwas to demonstrate how rich they were through extravagant spending.
Archibald did not pretend to be any great expert on how to impress members of the upper echelons.
But he was fairly certain that commissioning a statue of yourself as Alexander the Great was not it.
His parents were beaming at him, eagerly awaiting his reaction. “It’s, um.” He cleared his throat. “It’s really something.”
“Isn’t it?” his father exclaimed. “My only regret is that I didn’t think to request a pose on horseback.”
“Oh, my sweet,” his mother cried, “would but you had thought of that!”
“I know, it’s a shame, isn’t it?” His father shook his head. “I’ll just have to commission another one.”
Archibald rubbed his brow.Dear God. He hadn’t thought anything could be worse than the time his parents had paid more than a thousand pounds for an Ancient Egyptian statue of the jackal god Anubis. It didn’t sound so bad until you saw that it was in a state of ruination such that the only part remaining was the arse.
That one was on display in the foyer, so that a statue of a man’s arse was the first thing you saw when you came into the house. Which made it awkward to host visitors, to say the least.
But even the Arse of Anubis was easier to explain away thanthis.
“I’m pleased that you’re happy,” Archibald said. That, at least, was true.
His parents might be the most gauche people in the British Isles. But they did love him, in a fumbling sort of way. And he wanted them to be happy.
“I’ve managed to secure an invitation to the Waldegrave ball,” Archibald announced. “I’d best go and change.”
His father laughed. “I’ll say. You can hardly walk into a ballroom looking likethat.”
Archibald bit back a sigh. If he was being honest, the comment rankled. Of course, his parents, whose dearest wish was to be accepted in lofty circles, despaired of the sight of him in all his dirt.
But at the same time, they wanted to live lavishly, and the thing that supported their ostentatious lifestyle was, ironically, the thing they hated the most—his work at Nettlethorpe Iron. Pleasing his parents was literally impossible. They didn’twanthim to be in trade, yet theyneededhim to be in trade. And it was crushing, sometimes, the knowledge that no matter what he did, it would never be enough, that they would never be truly proud to have him as their son.
He was stuck between two worlds, fitting in nowhere.
“Say, Archie,” his mother said, breaking his reverie. “Have you set your eye on any young ladies? Since things with Miss Chenoweth didn’t work out?”
