Chapter 13
“Her condition is real,” Mrs Ecclestone said, voice even, resonant. “She bears her hurt without outward sign. This will require vigilance. We must provide what nature has withheld.”
Kitty held Lydia tighter. She had wanted denial. It was not to be.
The earl leant upon his cane.
“Clarke.”
He entered.
The earl continued. “Mrs Ecclestone will direct this endeavour. Whatever she requires—staff, alterations, expenses—grant it. Ask no questions.”
Clarke bowed once. “As you command, my lord.”
Mrs Ecclestone departed with him. The door closed. Kitty would have sworn she heard the latch click shut.
Lady Matlock grasped her free hand. Burton stood before her, alone. Fitzwilliam had gone off to keep Langston occupied.
Do not speak to me of tolerances or thresholds, Kitty warned him, her hands slashing the air like a blade. Say only what you must, and say it plain.
Burton bowed his head. “She feels something. But not enough.”
Kitty rose. This must remain within these walls.
Lady Matlock stood and faced her. “We know what you are feeling, daughter.”
The earl entered and lowered himself into the chair next to her. “How are you, my dear?”
She signed again, more sharply. Promise me. This must not pass beyond the house.
The earl smiled. Cold.
Much like Fitzwilliam’s when he chose to act without mercy.
“My dear, trust me on this—”
Bootsteps rang in the passage. Doors opened, shut. Voices called across courtyards. Carts rumbled down the drive. Ron and Kale appeared in the drive, looked up at her, and disappeared through the entrance.
* * *
That evening at dinner, before the dessert course, the earl commanded the room emptied and the doors closed. He drew himself upright, taller than she had seen in weeks, gaze travelling the longboard until silence fell.
“I have summoned Bennet and Hurst to join us for the nonce. They will oversee what must be done.”
Lady Matlock’s brow arched, her voice even. “Are they to act as they did before? I have never forgotten how quickly they identified disloyalty and cut the rot from the branch.”
“Yes,” replied the earl, “Except we have no hidden enemy. This endeavour will be more nuanced.”
I do not understand.
“My dear Kitty, in those earlier days, a vengeful relation sought to do harm. Your father and Sir Reginald will ply their skills this time to… identify servants who may not be as circumspect as we require.”
Kitty’s hand hovered over the table linen. Are the children in danger?
The earl shook his head, slow and measured. “No. Our servants are not disloyal.” His gaze swept the company. “But loyalty is not enough. We must have discretion. What has befallen this family is not for gossip, nor is it for whispers.”
Kitty caught Fitzwilliam’s eyes; he dipped his head, and it steadied her.
“It is not Richard alone this time, but both your children—and with them, the future of Matlock. My grandson must take his seat in the Lords without the faintest breath of suspicion. His name must never be carried upon servants’ tongues or sullied by idle talk.”
Mrs Ecclestone broke the following hush. “The danger will not come only from men, my lord. It will come from women—and from maids with too much time on their hands.”
“Agreed, madam,” the earl replied. “A careless word can undo generations of service. A whisper can outlive a man. I will not have it so with Langston—or with Lydia.”
Lady Matlock inclined her head; light seemed to kindle her eyes. “Then let Bennet and Sir Reginald do as they must.”
Kitty turned to Fitzwilliam. Why do I feel there are things not being said?
“Because this is a novelty you have never faced before.”
Lady Matlock laid her hand on Kitty’s arm. “I understand your reticence. That is why we have asked specifically for your father. Who in the kingdom is more trustworthy than he?”
Kitty nodded. Outside of our family, none.
* * *
Four days later, the carriage lurched to a halt at the top of Ashdale’s drive, gravel scattering beneath the wheels.
Hurst stepped down first, stiff from the miles, adjusted his coat and stepped aside.
A footman before offered a hand to Bennet.
His old companion accepted it with a grunt, boots landing on stone.
Ashdale’s facade loomed above them, proud and broad-shouldered, though the air about the house carried a tension he could almost taste. The Earl of Matlock himself stood waiting at the door, cane in one hand, Viscount Hopton beside him, Lady Matlock and the viscountess just behind.
A family on guard.
Courtesies were exchanged—bows, handclasps, murmured greetings—and then the party moved inward. The air grew warmer, the smell of woodsmoke and wax replacing the sharp bite of the outside wind.
In the withdrawing room, glasses were pressed into their hands. Port for Hurst, brandy for Bennet. He sank into a chair, the weight of travel giving way to the comfort of old habit. Bennet was already chuckling, his shoulders loose, as if the years had dropped from him in an instant.
“Seems a long while since we last rode in together,” Hurst said, lifting his glass.
“And longer still since we chased shadows in Town,” Bennet replied. His grin was easy, but his eyes were sharp. “I trust this business will prove less bloody.”
Hurst allowed the corner of his mouth to tilt upward. “Bloody, no. Tedious, yes. Our first interview, once the family is properly seen to, should be with Bill.”
Bennet raised his glass. “Indeed. The stables hold as many secrets as any scullery.”
The thought pleased Hurst—Bill Steele was a man who kept his ears open and his tongue shut. That would do for a beginning.
He turned his head slightly, lowering his voice. “And Reeves? I half-expected to find him here still, watching the door like some carved sentinel.”
Bennet shook his head. “No longer at Longbourn. He stayed until Jane married—and then he vanished. Said he would return home.”
“Home,” Hurst repeated, the word dry as tinder. “Seven Dials, more like.”
Bennet’s brows rose. “Most likely.” A pause. “And if so, then Roark as well.”
Hurst swirled the port in his glass, watching the dark liquid catch the light. A name from the alleys, sharp as broken glass. Roark and Reeves—the Hammer and the Anvil. He remembered enough whispers from London to know better than to dismiss them.
“That pair,” he said at last. “I’ve no doubt I’ll be hearing more of them before long.”
Bennet inclined his head in agreement.
Hurst drank deep, letting the port steady him. Ashdale would need scouring, but it was not just servants’ chatter that concerned him now. Shadows stretched further than a stable yard. And some names, once spoken, had a way of returning on the wind.
They made no speeches. No explanations. From steward to scullery girl, they questioned each one in turn. Polite, even genial—but unyielding. No servant was spared save the Fitzwilliams themselves.
For a se’nnight the house moved as if under review, eyes sharp, tongues clipped. By the fortnight’s end, the stable yard emptied, the kitchen thinned, and the parlours grew quiet.
And then new faces appeared. Men and women long on experience, very short of words. They moved through Ashdale with the stillness of stones, deferential to the Fitzwilliams—and to no one else.
Some bore scars along jaw and knuckle; others moved with the stiffness of old wounds.
The men were of salt and earth, weathered by years rather than softened by service.
The women spoke in accents that carried across the Channel or from the far reaches of Cornwall—French, Flemish, Cornish—voices seasoned by travel and toil.
All had hands practised in binding wounds, mixing draughts, and easing fevers.
None volunteered more than a word when addressed. A quiet “Yes, milord,” or “Yes, my lady,” was all they offered. Their eyes watched, their ears marked, but their tongues held still.