Chapter 11
The kitchen quieted the moment they entered.
Ron lifted Langston onto Cook’s table. The boy’s legs dangled as he cradled his linen-wrapped hand. Kitty stood stiff as frost to one side, gaze fixed on the boy. Fitzwilliam took the other side, arms crossed.
Burton hovered near the stove, hands behind his back. His eyes flicked to the hand, then to Fitzwilliam.
“We should clear the room. Tongues wag.”
Kitty’s hands cut single motion. Out.
Cook, two footmen, the scullery girl, even the footman who had carried the lemonade—all withdrew without a sound. The door shut. Silence pressed closer.
Explain.
Fitzwilliam drew breath, but she stilled him with one sharp wave.
Him, if you please.
“I did not think the viscount’s condition would pass to his son,” Burton said.
Kitty's fingers flew. What condition?
Burton met her eyes. “When your husband was an infant, I tested him. He showed no response to pain. Scratches, heat, a needle through the heel—nothing. No cry, no signal. He fed, even with wounds on his tongue from biting through it during teething.”
The memories struck hard.
The jar of needles.
The blindfold cloth.
His mother’s hand pressed to her mouth.
Her silent tears.
“Only his nurse saw the truth,” Burton continued. “Siobhan raised the alarm before he wasted away. That was the first sign.”
Kitty’s hands slowed. And Langston?
“By your leave.” Burton opened his kit.
Fitzwilliam took the boy’s hand. “This may hurt, son. Tell us how much.”
Langston’s eyes widened.
Mama.
His lips shaped the word. Kitty drew him close, understanding what no other mother could. Fitzwilliam saw the faint whisper of air, enough for her.
Burton draped a black cloth over the child’s eyes. The needle went in at the base of the thumb. Langston jerked once, breath hissing between his teeth. “It hurts.”
“Badly?” Fitzwilliam asked.
“I do not like it.”
Another stitch.
“And now?”
“It is worse.” His free hand gripped Kitty’s skirts.
Burton gave the faintest nod. “One more.” He tied the thread, then wrapped the hand. Removed the blindfold. “There. Brave lad.”
Langston looked to his mother. “I was brave, was I not, Mama?” He signed as he spoke.
Very much so.
Fitzwilliam set him down. “Ask Cook for a treat.”
The boy bolted off, quick as ever, feet thumping up the stair.
Burton allowed a thin smile. “As the earl once rewarded you.”
Fitzwilliam’s jaw tightened. “As he did.”
* * *
A single breeze stirred the curtains at the open window, carrying the faint scent of lilacs and damp leaves. Fitzwilliam sat in the chair by the hearth, elbows on knees, watching the last glow in the grate. Kitty stood by the window, arms folded, her profile silvered by moonlight.
You should have told me.
“I hoped it would end with me.”
Nothing ever ends with you.
He did not answer at once
Then he nodded. “I know that now.”
I have long known of your tolerance. I knew from Lady Matlock there had been precautions. I thought it was a strength. Not something… She waggled her fingers, saying nothing. Then she signed, not something broken.
He rose and crossed to the mantel. The soot-darkened bricks held his gaze. “Do you want details?”
I am his mother. Tell me all.
“As a boy, I insisted I would wear the scarlet. The earl retained a master—Captain Markov.”
The Prussian?
“Yes. My first lesson was when he struck me across the face, without warning. I took up a club and attacked him. He struck back—arms, ribs, neck. None of it deterred me. I felt little. I did not stop. Burton had to drag me off. I broke his ribs.”
The words still rang in him: Triage. Now. Thumbs to fingers. Fingers to toes.
Fitzwilliam shut his eyes. “I would have killed him. I did not know I was injured until Burton examined me.”
Kitty stepped closer.
“I was eleven when I sparred with a regular. He struck first. I nearly killed him. Only afterwards did I learn my ribs were broken, my tongue bitten through.”
He paused. “It was Legget.”
Her eyes widened. Legget? Our Sergeant Legget?
He inclined his head. “In Lambton, two years later, I found Cousin Maddie in an alley. Four boys on her. I thrashed them. One was Wickham.”
She wrinkled her nose, as if at a stable heap
“I had bitten through my cheek during the fight.”
She touched the faint scar with her fingertip. This one I thought from the peninsula. All these years, and you never said otherwise.
He reached for her. She stepped forward—but then pushed him back.
“What is it?”
You know.
He thought. The answer formed and settled. “Lydia.”
Yes.
He watched her eyes. Anger melted into something more vulnerable. She signed slowly.
Could she be?
“I have never heard of it reported in a girl.”
Is it possible?
“Anything is possible.”
She fell into his arms, trembling, fists knotted at his shoulders. He held her tight. She looked up at him.
What shall we do?
“We must have Burton test her.”
She is a babe.
“As was I.”
* * *
Kitty had risen early, the house still quiet about her. She meant only to fetch her shawl from the breakfast parlour, the faintest chill lingering in the corridors.
She pushed the door open.
The fire was lit. She had not ordered it so. Ash glowed red beneath the grate, the faint smell of singed wool drifting up.
And there, on the rug, Lydia lay curled on her side, one fist tucked beneath her cheek as though she had fallen asleep mid-play. Her lips were parted, breath soft, utterly unaware.
Kitty’s heart clenched. She rushed forward.
Lydia, she mouthed, kneeling fast, gathering the child close. The girl stirred, blinking, but did not cry, did not wail. She only looked up with those wide violet eyes, calm as a pool in summer.
It was then Kitty saw it.
The hem of the child’s gown had ridden high. Across the length of her small leg, from knee to ankle, stretched an angry burn, raw and blistering, the size of an adult hand.
Kitty’s own breath caught. She pressed her palm against her lips to stifle the cry that rose.
My darling girl.
She dared not touch the wound. She lifted Lydia instead, pressing her to her chest. The child’s skin radiated heat against her gown, and Kitty felt her own heart pounding as though trying to beat for them both.
The faint char-smell clung to Lydia’s curls, and Kitty smoothed them back with shaking fingers, desperate to erase it.
Still no cry, no protest, only a faint wrinkle of the child’s brow, as though something mildly disturbed her sleep.
Kitty ran through the kitchen, past Ron, Kale, and Cook, and into the stable.
“Bill!” she croaked, uneven thunder tearing through the mews.
He appeared out of the shadows, a scarred mountain that caused all to tremble but his employers. Kale slid to a halt beside her, concern at war with fear.
“Milady?” he asked.
Prepare an express rider. Immediately.
Bill and Kale looked at each other, mouths open. Fitzwilliam, Ron, Mr Clarke, and several footmen pounded into the yard.
“What has happened?” Fitzwilliam asked.
I want Mrs Ecclestone here. Now.
Fitzwilliam stared at her for a moment. “Bill, prepare a rider to Rochester. I will have instructions ready within the hour.” He looked to Clarke. “Ask Burton to join us in our sitting room.”
Kitty leant into the arm Fitzwilliam laid across her shoulders and let him guide her back inside.
Only when the door was closed did she sink into her chair, Lydia still in her arms, and allow her grief its full and terrible freedom.