Chapter 16
The fire burned low in the withdrawing room, shadows stretching long across the carpet. Kitty sat near the window, embroidery in her lap, though her needle had stilled long ago. She watched the men by the hearth, their heads bent together, words slipping past her like water over stone.
Her eyes darted between their mouths—Fitzwilliam’s measured lips, Burton’s quick ones, the earl’s clipped syllables—but it was like chasing a dozen streams across the rocks. She caught fragments: Windsor, regimen, burden. None filled the silence in her chest.
Her fingers clenched against the linen. Lady Matlock, seated beside her, laid a calming hand on her wrist.
“They discuss tutors,” she murmured. “And the journey.”
Kitty nodded, but her heart thudded. When Burton shifted to face the fire, she seized the chance to study his lips. “Precautions… thresholds… exertion…” The words landed like heavy stones.
She rose swiftly, clapping her hands. He is not an experiment. All heads turned.
Fitzwilliam’s eyes flicked to Burton, warning in them like drawn steel. The surgeon bowed his head and stepped back.
The earl’s cane tapped once against the floor, claiming the room again. He shaped his words slowly, clearly, so she could not mistake them. “The boy requires care, yes.” He turned to Lady Matlock. “But he is not his namesake.”
Kitty’s breath caught. Not his namesake. Not the elder brother Fitzwilliam had lost before she ever came to Ashdale. The one whose blood ran freely, whose smallest hurt proved fatal.
Her Langston had been tested. Burton had assured her—he was whole. Not broken. Yet her heart never trusted as easily as the medico’s assurances.
Lady Matlock inclined her head. “No, he is not.”
“But he also requires room to become what he must be—heir, master, man. We will protect him, yes, but we must not shelter him into weakness.”
As you did my husband at that age? She regretted her outburst the moment she lowered her hands.
A look of hurt crossed Fitzwilliam’s face. His jaw tightened; he drew a slow breath through his nose before resuming his equanimity.
“That was by my choice. I was a second son” He paused. “Langston is the heir. His standing requires him to attend Eton.”
The earl’s cane tapped once, drawing their eyes.
“It is not the same path your husband walked, my dear. Fitzwilliam wore solitude as armour. Langston is cut from other cloth—sociable, quick to laughter, already a leader among boys. To keep him cloistered here would cripple him more than any hidden ailment. At Eton he will be tested in company, not in confinement. And your sister Elizabeth’s son—his cousin Bennet Darcy—is already there. He will not stand alone.”
He signalled to Kale, who opened the door. A distinguished man, greying at the temples, entered and bowed. “Mr Draper, at your service, milords.”
Kitty observed everyone’s looks of satisfaction. She would have agreed with them if it was not her son displacing himself more than one hundred and fifty miles away. She caught the man’s lips moving but paid them no heed. Reciting his qualifications, no doubt.
All eyes seemed to be upon her. She rose again. Seasoned, yes, but no surgeon.
“Thank you, Draper,” Fitzwilliam said. He turned to her as the door closed. “He is not new to the post. He has taken three lads to Eton before, all well-recommended, and the college deans themselves spoke his name. He will see to Langston’s discipline, his order, his place among the boys.”
“That counts for something, does it not?” the earl asked, looking at her.
Her hands moved of their own accord, her frustration and powerlessness pouring energy into her limbs. And if there is a medical need?
Her hands trembled as she signed it, more fiercely than she intended.
Langston will not be here. The medico remains at Ashdale for Lydia. Who tends my son if need is greater than discipline?
Faces blurred before her—eyes wide, mouths shut. She felt them gape as though she had shouted in the street.
Burton bowed his head. “That is true, milady. I must remain at Ashdale.”
Fitzwilliam shook his head, blinking several times.
“Kale will accompany him. He has trained under Burton these past six months. He can bind, clean, and stitch if needed. More, he will know when to seek help. Both he and Draper have been given introductions to physicians near Windsor. They are prepared to attend him at once.”
Kitty studied Kale in the corner. His stance never wavered, but when his eyes met hers, he gave the smallest nod. Trust me, milady, he signed. That steadied her more than any speech from Fitzwilliam or Burton.
The earl tapped his cane once. “There it is. A valet for his order, a sentinel for his health. The boy will be served.” His gaze swept the room, landing at last on Kitty. “He will be guarded, yes—but not stifled. He is not his namesake. He must be free to run, to stumble, to rise again.”
The men closed ranks and she abandoned further efforts to discern their conversation.
Kitty pressed her lips tight, steadying herself. A rock, she told herself. She must be a rock.
Lady Matlock leant close, voice softened for her alone. “You will bear it, my dear. As all mothers must.”
Kitty breathed the words back, barely a whisper. As all mothers must.
* * *
Langston’s chamber smelled of lavender soap and leather.
His trunk lay open at the foot of the bed, shirts folded in sharp squares, breeches stacked like ledgers, his riding boots polished to a dull gleam.
Draper, already at work, moved with the calm precision of a man who had done this for others a dozen times before.
He lifted each garment, inspected it, and set it in its place without waste of movement.
“Best not crease these too tightly, my lord,” Draper murmured. His voice carried a low assurance, seasoned like his hands. “Eton masters are particular.”
Langston nodded, though the word master rang uncomfortably in his ears.
On the table near the window, Kale checked through a small lockbox Burton had pressed into his hands that morning: clean needles, a flask of vinegar, rolls of bandage, a jar of salve. Kale’s fingers moved steady, no trace of hesitation, as if he had always kept such tools.
Langston tightened his grip on the bedpost. “Do you expect me to fall apart every day, Kale?”
The sentinel looked up, expression unreadable. “I expect you to live. The rest will follow.”
Draper’s lips quirked faintly, the ghost of a smile, before he bent back to his work.
Langston turned away, throat thick. They spoke as though he were fragile glass. He was not. He would prove it.
The door creaked softly. Lydia hovered in the threshold, her gown of pale lavender trailing on the carpet. Her eyes looked too large for her face, violet shadows against skin gone pale.
“May I come in?”
Draper bowed and stepped back. “We’ll see to the remainder later, my lord.” He signalled Kale, who shut the lockbox and followed. The door closed behind them with a firm click, leaving only brother and sister in the quiet room.
For a while, neither spoke. The tick of the mantel clock seemed louder than usual, and Langston thought he could feel the weight of the house pressing in—every portrait in the corridor outside, every ancestor watching to see if he would falter.
Langston tried for a smile. “Well, magpie, come then. Sit.”
She crossed quickly and perched on the edge of his bed, her hands knotted tight in her lap. For a long moment she said nothing, only stared at the open trunk as though it were a coffin.
He sat beside her. “You’ve not spoken all evening.”
“You spoke enough for us both,” she said, her voice low.
“About Windsor? Tutors? All that?”
Her lips pressed thin. “I don’t care about Windsor.”
He let the words hang. Lydia never lied to him, never softened what she felt. That, he treasured most.
“You care about me leaving.”
Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. “Mama says I must be calm. Grandmama says I must be poised. Mrs Ecclestone says I must listen. But…” She clenched her hands tighter. “I cannot be any of those things when you have chosen to leave me.”
Langston drew a breath. He had prepared himself for his father’s stoicism, his mother’s pale eyes, even Burton’s endless caution. But Lydia’s voice, small and certain—that broke him more than anything.
“Fitzwilliam men go to Eton. It is expected.”
“Papa did not.”
He took her hand. “I am not Papa.”
She put her hand to his cheek. “No one is.”
He laid a hand over hers. “Listen to me. With them—be calm. Be poised. Be whatever they need. But with me—” He leant close, his voice rough. “With me, you may be Lydia. Only Lydia. You never have to hide it.”
His chest ached. “I will see her. Every letter you send, every line you write, will be her. And I will write back. Each week if I can.”
Her chin lifted. “I would like that.”
“On my honour as your brother.” He smiled faintly. “And as the future Viscount.”
She made a face. “I shall never call you Hopton.”
He laughed softly, grateful for even that small crack in her sorrow.
The silence grew again, heavier now, filled with everything they could not speak. He wanted to tell her he was afraid too—that leaving Ashdale felt like tearing the ground from beneath him. But he could not. He must be the strong one.
She slipped her little finger towards him. “Then seal it.” Her hand was small, faintly smudged with slate-dust, her nail filed down short.
He stared, then raised his own and linked it with hers. The same gesture they had made years before, in blood and secrecy after the badger in the orchard.
Her voice was scarcely more than a whisper. “Promise you’ll come back.”
He swallowed. “I promise.”
The sound of footsteps echoed down the corridor—Draper returning, no doubt. Time had fled too quickly.
Langston pressed his forehead to hers. “When I go, be a rock for them. Mama will need it. Father, too, though he’ll never say.”
The latch turned. Draper entered quietly, bowing again. “The carriage will be ready at dawn, my lord.” His gaze flicked once to Lydia, then away, respectful, discreet.
Lydia slipped her hand from Langston’s, drawing her poise around her like a cloak. She rose, smoothed her skirts, and curtseyed, violet eyes serene once more.
Langston watched her go, his chest tight with pride and grief together. She carried herself with a poise beyond her years, but only he knew the child she still was inside.