Chapter 6
Lady and Lord Matlock went out first. The glass doors opened.
Richard followed and stopped at the edge of the stone, where he always stopped.
Gravel sounded beneath their shoes. He set his feet square and did not move them again.
The hedges stood straight ahead of him. The house behind him made no sound. He looked behind him. No one followed.
“We wished to walk with you,” Matlock said. “A decision has been made.”
Richard looked at him.
“It concerns the household,” Matlock went on. “And your brother.”
Richard continued to look at him.
Matlock paused. He looked to Lady Matlock.
She lifted her hand. Richard shifted back a pace.
Her hand stilled, then fell. Her fingers closed once, empty.
“You will go to Ashdale,” Matlock said. “For a time.”
Richard looked at his mother. Her purple eyes were shiny. He touched the skin beneath his eye.
“Richard,” she said, very quietly. Her lips turned downward. She did not touch her eye.
He set his jaw. He raised his bandaged hand.
His mother covered her mouth and turned away.
Richard did not move.
* * *
Ashdale, September 1790
The door stood closed. Richard halted. The footman opened it at once.
Richard crossed the threshold and went straight to the desk. Two stacks waited where he had left them. One leaned wrong. He stopped. He turned to the doorway.
“This room admits no one but me.”
The footman inclined his head and stepped back.
Richard sat.
He slid Kriegswissenschaft aside; drew Caesar towards him and opened Aelian beside it.
He laid a clean sheet between them and began to copy:
The Hun doth not hold the field, but breaketh it: he draweth forth the host, then turneth, and in turning passeth through them, so that ere order be called, order is spent.
He paused at turneth. He looked back to Aelian. He struck through breaketh and wrote unmakes.
He checked Barnet. He marked the margin. He added a second mark beneath it—auflost.
He returned to the page and finished the line.
He set the quill down. The door breathed.
A trace of bergamot reached him—clean, deliberate, out of place. He turned.
A stout man stood just within the doorway. Light hair, neatly kept. Pale eyes, steady upon him. Skin clear, unused to weather. His coat lay smooth and well cut, the cloth lighter than the house preferred.
He rocked once—forward to the balls of his feet, then back again. He did it without breaking eye contact. He did it again.
The scent reached Richard a second time—bergamot, faint and exact.
The man waited.
Richard stared at him.
He did not speak. He did not order him out.
The man lifted one hand. He touched two fingers briefly to his chest. He opened his palm and moved it forward, slow and exact. He extended two fingers and dipped them towards Richard.
He held the shape.
Richard did not blink.
The man rocked forward, then back. He repeated the motion.
Richard looked down at his own hand. He raised it. He touched his chest. He opened his palm. He hesitated—then dipped his fingers.
The man inclined his head.
“I am pleased to meet you as well,” he said.
* * *
Ashdale, December 1790
Richard knocked. Once. Paused. He knocked again.
Burton opened the door himself.
Richard stood bare-headed, his riding coat unbuttoned. The chill held to him. His breath no longer steamed.
Burton stepped aside.
Richard entered.
“Close the door,” Burton said.
Richard did so.
Burton watched him. “How long were you out?”
“Four hours.”
“Wind?”
“Yes.”
“Snow?”
“Yes.”
“Did you dismount?”
“Once.”
“Into the snow?”
“Yes.”
Burton nodded. “Remove your gloves.”
Richard obeyed.
“Hold your hands out.”
Richard did. His fingers lay straight; the colour dulled at the tips.
“Close your eyes,” Burton said.
Richard did.
“Begin.”
He touched each finger to his thumb. Once. Twice. He slowed at the fourth repetition.
Burton waited.
Richard completed the fifth.
“Left,” Richard said.
“Describe it.”
“A delay.”
“How much?”
“A one-count.”
Burton reached for his watch. “Again.”
Richard repeated the motion. His left forefinger lagged.
“Temperature,” Burton said.
“Cold.”
Burton nodded. “Your boots.”
Richard sat.
Burton opened the door, poked his head out. “Tomkins.”
Tomkins entered, nodded once, and took position at the chair.
Richard lifted his leg. The first boot came free at once. Then the second.
Tomkins knuckled his forehead and departed.
“Stockings as well,” Burton said.
He did so.
“Ankle to knee.”
Richard complied.
“Begin.”
He pressed back each toe. He reached the fourth and paused.
“Verbal,” Burton said.
“Third and fourth.”
“Awareness?”
“Yes.”
Burton knelt. “May I?”
“Yes.”
He laid his hands over Richard’s feet. He pressed, released, pressed again.
“Colour returned late,” Burton said.
Burton straightened. He took up his quill and wrote. “Did you warm yourself on return?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I came here.”
Burton stopped writing.
The pause held.
He set the quill down. Carefully.
“You will not do that again,” Burton said.
“I understand.”
Burton picked the quill up once more. “Stamp your feet.”
Richard did.
“Hands together.”
Richard rubbed them once, then stopped.
“That is sufficient,” Burton said. “Dress.”
Richard pulled on his stockings and boots.
“Next time, you will warm first, then triage. Then you will come to me,” Burton said. “You will not measure cold by feeling. You will measure it by time.”
“I understand.”
* * *
The schoolroom door stood ajar. Richard entered. The footman withdrew without sound.
Richard crossed to the nearer table. He set his book down square. He sat.
He set his left hand to the edge of the desk. He tapped the surface once. Twice. Thrice. He opened the book. He placed his finger at the margin and held it there.
Friar Perry entered a moment later. He came to a stop opposite the table.
Perry lifted his right hand, palm forward.
Richard answered at once, the same sign returned, precise.
Perry curved both his hands inward, then opened them—lesson. A single finger marked the space between them—now.
Richard nodded once. His finger did not leave the page.
Perry’s eyes travelled the books. He signed—both hands flat, moving parallel—many. One hand separated—choose.
Richard closed the book and slid it aside. He reached to the right and drew out Cruso’s Military Instructions for the Cavalrie. He opened it to the plates and turned it outward.
Perry waited.
Richard tapped three points on the page. Front. Rear. Interval.
Perry signed—two fingers walking forward—tell. He drew them back to his mouth—without voice.
Richard shook his head once. He did not lower his eyes. He lifted his hands.
His left hand flattened between them—palm down—ground.
His right hand rose, fingers together—man.
A second. A third.
He paused.
He moved his middle figure forward a fraction. He held the others still.
Perry’s hands stopped.
Richard lowered the centre. He brought all three back into line. He turned the rightmost outward.
Perry signed slowly now. Palms down, drawing apart—space.
A fist, set firm—hold.
He inclined his head.
He crossed to the rear table and returned with the slate. He set it beside Richard’s book. He placed the chalk next to it.
Richard took the chalk and tapped it against the slate once. Twice. Thrice.
He began to draw.