Chapter 7
Richard opened his eyes before Siobhan spoke.
She drew the curtains in the same order every morning—east first, then south—and hummed when she wanted him to rise.
He liked that she never changed the tune.
Words cluttered it; melody alone was tidy.
When she reached the final note, he was always standing.
A knock disturbed the morning pattern. He stopped mid-button. Siobhan’s hand froze on the wash-jug. The door opened before she spoke. Clarke stepped in.
Siobhan’s hand pressed between Richard’s shoulder-blades. “Good mornin’ to ye, Mr Clarke.” Her accent thickened.
“Good morning, Miss Siobhan.” His voice sounded softer than expected.
Richard looked between them. Siobhan’s eyes flicked once, then dropped to the floor.
“His lordship and her ladyship expect Master Richard to join the table this morning.”
Clarke’s boots turned precisely; Richard counted three steps before the sound stopped.
Siobhan knelt, fingers fussing with his coat though everything already lay smooth.
When she offered her hand, he hesitated. A summons meant he was to walk by himself. Her mouth trembled, and she lowered it.
He tugged her sleeve. “I will be fine. I have you and Clarke.”
She blinked fast. “Off you go now. Mind your manners.”
He nodded. When she kissed the pink spots on his hand, he did not pull away.
Clarke waited by the door. Richard followed, noting how the butler’s steps matched his own.
As he neared the dining room, his father’s voice carried through the open door. “A Fitzwilliam wearing the King’s scarlet—balderdash.”
His mother whispered, loud enough to carry, “He may hear you—”
“Master Richard.” Mr Clarke called. Both parents turned, eyes wide.
He walked the measured distance—seven tiles. He bowed first to his father. “Good morning, your lordship.”
He turned to his mother, bowed again, and drew himself taller. “Good morning, your mothership.”
Her laughter rose—light, clear, and bright as a chord. Richard closed his eyes and drank the sound. His father’s deeper laugh joined hers, a harmony most pleasing.
His father pointed to the chair beside him and reached for the spoon. The silver made a small clink that meant waiting. When the knife stopped moving, Richard sat.
“Your afternoon lessons are in arithmetic?” His father’s tone left no room for delay.
Richard nodded.
“You complete them before the hour, I hear,” said his mother.
He inclined his head.
The earl’s gaze sharpened. “I have had to retain another fencing master.” He paused. “Could you be a little less—decisive with your attacks?”
Richard looked up. He waited. Silence lengthened. Then— “Will my enemy?”
“Dearest,” his mother said, “you need not speak so.”
“They exist whether he names them or not,” replied the earl.
“I do not want to see him injured.”
“The surgeon sees to it that he is not.” His father turned to him. “Burton reports that you perform your triage drills daily.”
“I do.” Then, after a breath, “Why?”
His mother’s eyes flickered. His father made a face—eyes wide, mouth small. Richard pressed his hand to his mouth.
For a moment, the room felt warm—until his father stopped smiling.
“Your tutor reports you linger over the foreign campaigns more than your lessons.”
Richard nodded.
His father opened his mouth to say something more, but his mother rose. He beat his father to his feet.
“Adieu.”
She paused. She turned to him. “Bonne chance.”
She caressed his cheek. “Make us proud, my lovely boy.”
She kissed his brow. Then she was gone.
He still smelled lilies.
“Come,” his father commanded.
They crossed the corridor to the study. Two men waited. Mr Burton—familiar, careful. The other, unknown.
He matched Burton in height, though broader through the shoulders and narrower at the hips.
His clothes were plain but neat, cut more tradesman than gentleman.
His hair was dark, brushed flat. His face seemed carved too sharply, and the eyes—grey and unblinking—were like the ice on the Derwent that cracked but never melted.
“This is Captain Ivan Markov, from the Baltic provinces. He has seen service abroad and will prepare you for service to the King.”
Richard looked from the man to his father, then to Burton. Burton inclined his head, a small permission. “I shall observe your lessons, Master Richard.”
“Clarke,” called his father. “Escort them to the ballroom. Burton, continue your reports.”
“Yes, my lord.”
He followed Clarke.
The ballroom door opened; light flooded in. Oil and polish bit the air. Tall stands held rows of wooden rods and odd-shaped sticks, each set in perfect order. Chests marked with neat black letters stood along the wall. The words meant little to him, but the symmetry was pleasing.
The doors closed behind them. He heard Clarke issue instructions to Footman Jenkins. “No one enters unless invited in by Captain Markov or Mr Burton. There will be no exceptions, including the earl and the countess.”
Richard listened, then turned. Markov and Burton stood by the racks, watching.
“Please join us, Cadet Fitzwilliam.”
He crossed the floor. His steps rang against the marble, the sound carrying in the empty room. He stopped beside a rack of wooden shapes.
“The earl has retained me to instruct you in the martial arts—exercise, strength, weapons, survival. Do you understand?”
Richard stared at the Prussian. Markov looked at Burton—who raised his eyebrows but remained silent.
The hand came fast. The sound cracked. His head snapped sideways, then steadied. He gritted his teeth; copper spread along his tongue. He looked at the man’s hand and decided.
He reached for one of the wooden shapes. The Prussian moved too.
Wood struck wood—once, twice, thrice.
Blows landed on him—left, right—each one answering his own. A heavier strike caught the side of his neck; his balance shifted. He grunted, breath low, “Verdammt,” and saw the flicker of surprise in the man’s eyes—the opening that followed.
He drove the club into the thigh. The Prussian dropped.
Richard dropped down upon him, knees pinning wrists. His club rose and fell, faster each time, each blow heavier than the last.
Arms wrapped around him, locking his own. His feet left the floor; the room tilted.
He hit the table hard. The grip held. He drew his knees up and drove both feet into the body above him. Air burst out of it in a single rough sound.
Then Burton’s voice came, sharp and close.
“Triage. Now!”
Richard lay back and closed his eyes. He touched thumb to finger, right hand first.
Glass broke. The sharp scent of salts stung the air. A gasp, then coughing. He turned his head to see; his neck refused. He looked from the corner of his eyes. The man clutched his ribs. Burton steadied him, muttering, “You shall be quite uncomfortable for a fortnight, I daresay.”
The outline beside him grew larger. “Any degree two or three swellings?” came Burton’s voice.
Richard closed his eyes and shook his head, however little it moved.
“Verbal, please.”
“No.”
“Sit up.”
He sat.
“Neck turns, five each.”
He obeyed; clockwise easy, counter to that caught short.
“That is enough for today. Go to the infirmary. Have the nurse prepare cold applications.”
Richard smiled, the right pulling against the left. “May I also request ices?”
Burton’s mouth twitched. “Of course. Ask for brandy flavouring. Off you go—slowly. Bump nothing on your way there.”
Richard leapt off the table and turned to the Prussian.
“You laid your hand on me without leave,” he said. “If you do so again—”
He stopped. He looked at Burton.
“—there shall not be a third time.”
Markov stepped back, bowed stiffly. “Verstanden.”
“We begin anew at my discretion,” Burton said. He struck the door with his fist. “Open, Jenkins.”