Chapter 4
The window stood open a little. Cold came in and crawled across the floor. Richard sat at the table with his slate. He had finished the marks and wiped them away. Footsteps crossed the passage. They did not pause. A man passed the open door.
Richard knew the sound of those steps. They did not hurry. They did not drag. They went on. He did not look up.
The steps faded.
Someone stood in the doorway. Langston.
He filled the space without entering it. His coat was half-buttoned. He tapped his shoe against the wood. Again, and again.
Richard looked up. The tapping stopped.
“Who was that?” Langston asked. His gaze stayed on the corridor behind him, not on Richard.
“He went out,” Langston said. “I saw.”
Richard waited.
Langston turned then. “Why was he in here?”
Richard’s fingers rested on the gritty edge of the slate. Speak.
“He looks at me,” Richard said.
Langston frowned. “No one looks at you,” he said. “They look at me.”
Richard did not answer.
Langston stepped into the room. He crossed to the table and put his hand on it. The slate shifted a little.
“What does he do?” Langston asked.
Richard stood.
“He checks,” Richard said.
Langston’s mouth twisted. “Checks what?”
He stepped closer and touched the table without asking. Richard moved the slate back where it had been.
“That’s my place,” Langston said.
Richard shook his head. Once.
Langston reached out and closed two fingers above Richard’s wrist. He squeezed.
The pressure surprised Richard. He stepped away. Langston let go.
“What is wrong with you?” Langston said. He said wrong louder than the other words.
He turned away.
Richard did not answer.
Hands.
He looked down. The skin showed no mark.
Feet.
He shifted his weight. Nothing pulled.
Mouth.
He tightened his jaw. Opened it. Closed it.
Langston stood at the door, watching.
“You’re strange,” Langston said. He did not leave at once.
Then he went.
Richard sat again.
He placed the slate square. He rubbed the surface clean once more, though there was nothing on it. Only then did he lift his sleeve and look.
The skin showed pink.
* * *
Matlock House, May 1788
Richard stepped through the stable door and stopped where the aisle narrowed.
The bay filled the space ahead of him, flank broad, hide breathing under the brush.
A man’s back blocked the door; one side of it lay in shadow.
The comb rasped in counted strokes. Richard counted with it. Twenty. The comb changed hands.
The horse pushed into the work. The man made kissing sounds. An ear flicked and stilled.
Richard kept his boots squared to the boards. He did not go in. He watched the horse’s flank, not the man face. Heat rose from the horse. The droppings smelled.
The strokes ended. A palm pressed to the neck. Richard saw the hand pause there before the man looked down the aisle. One hand did not match the other; the light made it look darker.
“All’s well,” the man said to the horse.
The bay lifted its head. Richard followed the movement. Breath left the animal in a long release. The brush came down the shoulder. Richard did not step back.
The man bent. The hoof pick flashed dull. Weight shifted. The bay yielded. Richard watched the joint open and close. The hoof returned to the boards without sound.
“You can stand there,” the man said.
Richard inclined his head and stayed.
The man stepped towards him. Richard leant back a fraction and lowered his arms. The man halted. They waited.
“My name is Bill.”
Richard nodded. He kept his eyes on the rail, the height, the space it allowed.
“May I?” Bill gestured towards the gate door.
Richard measured the distance. He extended his arms.
Bill set him upon the rail. The wood pressed cool through the cloth. Richard took the height without sound. His hands found balance and held.
“Hold fast, master.”
He did.
The bay turned its head and breathed nearby. Richard did not reach. The horse’s eye softened and looked away.
“That’ll do,” said Bill. He turned back to his work. The rhythm returned. Richard sat where he had been placed. The brush kept moving.
Something touched the rail beside his knee. Hard candy. Richard waited. The bay shifted away. He took it and closed his fingers.
The work ended. Brushes set aside. Hands wiped. Richard slid down and took his place beside the stall door, clear of hooves and boards.
Bill nodded once and moved on.
Richard put the candy in his mouth.
Mint.
* * *
Richard left the stable with the smell of hide and mint still in his mouth. The yard lay open and pale; gravel held the sun. He kept to the edge, where the wall told him where to go.
“You were in there,” his brother said.
Richard stopped. He did not turn at once.
“With the burned one,” Langston went on. “The ugly one.”
Richard turned then. Langston stood broad in the light, clean coat, clean hands. He looked past Richard towards the stable door.
“His face is wrong,” Langston said. “Did you see it?”
Richard looked at his brother’s boots. They were too shiny.
“I brushed Castor,” Richard said.
Langston laughed, short. “He ought not be there at all.”
Richard shook his head once. “He counted.”
Langston frowned. “What?”
“He counted,” Richard said again. “Castor listened.”
Langston stepped closer. Richard did not move back. He kept the wall at his shoulder.
“You don’t have to like him,” Langston said. “You don’t have to look.”
“I looked,” Richard said.
Langston’s mouth twisted. “And?”
Richard set his jaw and tasted mint. He held Langston’s eyes.
Langston’s eyes widened a fraction. The stable door stayed shut. No sound came through it.
“You’re still strange,” Langston said at last.
Richard inclined his head. He turned and went on, keeping his line.
* * *
Matlock House, March 1790
Mr Burton stopped writing. He did not look at Richard’s face. He watched his hands. That was how it always began.
“Try closing your eyes. Allow your other senses to note any differences. Do not depend upon your vision alone.”
Richard closed his eyes, touching each finger to his thumb five times, then repeated with his left hand, the rhythm steady.
“Remember, it is your extremities that will alert you to an injury.”
Richard understood this part. Fingers and toes told first.
He nodded.
Burton set aside his quill. “Please remove your shirt.”
Richard stripped off his top without hesitation, folded the garment once, and set it upon the chair.
“I am going to examine you. This will be tactile. May I?”
Richard nodded.
Mr Burton slid his palms across shoulders and down each arm. He pressed his fingers into the hollows beneath each arm. Richard did not react. It was the same every day. Many times a day.
Mr Burton turned him. “Were you aware of this mark?”
He shook his head.
“Verbal, please. We are in protocol.”
“No.”
“Have you been in the schoolroom with your brother lately?”
“Yes.”
“Was this bruise from planned physical activity?”
“No!” Richard never planned with Langston. Langston did as he pleased.
Mr Burton paused.
“Be aware of your surroundings—especially those behind you. You will not sense them as others do. Consider the consequences when anyone stands there.”
“I will.”
“Such caution will serve you well at Eton.”
“I shall not attend Eton.”
Mr Burton studied him. “No?”
“No.”
Richard had nothing more to say.
“Your toes, please.”
Richard flexed his feet inside his riding boots, the movement slight.
“I cannot see the movement. We must remove them.”
“My batman is not here.”
“Your batman?”
“Yes. My batman.”
Mr Burton smiled. “Do you have a batman?”
“Not yet.”
“I will serve as your batman, Lieutenant Fitzwilliam.”
“Captain.”
“Captain?”
“Captain.”
“Very well, Captain Fitzwilliam. Sit and lift your leg.”
Richard sat. Mr Burton grabbed his boot and straddled the raised leg, his back to Richard. Richard snickered.
“This is how we did it in camp. Place your other boot against my buttocks.”
Richard pressed his booted foot against Mr Burton’s rear.
“Now push while I pull. More—excellent.”
The boot came free.
“Again, Captain.”
The second followed, the snicker giving way to quiet giggling.
“Place your ankle on your knee. Use either hand to push back each toe. Counter with the toe muscle—five times.”
Richard obeyed, right then left, the count kept silently.
“Excellent, Captain. Repeat whenever you are without boots. A damaged toe will end your stride—and your seat.”
“I understand.”
A throat cleared.
“Master Richard, your history tutor awaits.”
Richard gathered his boots, shirt tucked beneath his arm, nodded to Burton, and followed Smythe.