Chapter 10
Cooper swung up to the box. Tanner took the jump seat beside him and settled. The traces lay straight.
“Ready, sir,” Tanner said.
Villiers turned and passed his hand knife-like across his throat.
Tanner nodded. He lifted two fingers and closed them. Cooper matched the sign.
Villiers raised his hand, palm angled. He held it.
Richard rode past the carriage, guiding Argus to the left. Villiers brought Maréchal forward and fell in beside him.
Five lengths on, Villiers lifted his hand—two fingers, down and forward. Reins snapped. Wheels creaked.
Maréchal dropped back to Argus’s right flank.
Richard waited until the ground evened. He reached inside his coat. The letter came free. He did not open it at once. He breathed once, measured, then unfolded the paper.
He read as Argus held the road.
My dearest Richard,
Langston has at last consented to place himself wholly in the care of his physicians, and he will be absent some months. The house has grown oppressively solemn, and I find I cannot bear it so.
I shall therefore bring the girls to Ashdale, if you will have us. We will stay a little while—perhaps as long as half the year—long enough for you to know them properly, and for me to see you without the weight of perpetual vigilance.
Let us imagine, for once, that the world asks nothing of us. Let this be a season of ease and kindness, with no demands beyond affection and good order.
If such a thing may be promised, I offer you fair weather.
Your loving mother
Richard folded the paper and returned it to his coat.
* * *
The ash tree still marked the bend. One limb lay lower than it had last year. The wall beyond it had shed a stone. The gap showed white.
Argus took the turn without cue.
The road ought to have sounded as it always did—wind in leaf, leather, wheel.
It did not.
A sound carried.
High. Brief. Unchecked.
Argus flicked an ear.
Richard’s hand shifted once on the rein. Two fingers lifted, low.
Villiers eased back a length.
The sound came again. Nearer.
The ground dipped where it always dipped. Argus took the fall without change of stride. The field opened below, broad and green, the pitch falling away cleanly.
Figures resolved in order.
A footman first—still, set apart. A woman in pale linen bent once, then straightened. A cap sat low; a spill of red showed beneath it. Two smaller forms moved without pattern, one circling, one dropping to the grass and rising again.
Richard kept the line.
Another figure stood beyond them.
Darker cloth against the green. A wide brim held steady. A parasol angled, its colour close to the gown, neither bright nor dull.
The fall of the ground brought her clear.
Lady Matlock.
Richard raised his hand.
The parasol shifted.
Argus’s ears flicked. His pace held.
The two small figures turned at once. They crossed to her skirts and pressed close.
Lady Matlock lowered herself. Her skirts pooled. Her arms encircled the children; they dipped their heads as her lips moved.
She looked up. Her mouth curved—not wide, but real.
She straightened.
The girls broke from her and ran. Their voices carried, high and excited.
“B’ruther!”
Richard halted Argus and dropped to the ground.
* * *
Divine Songs for Children lay open across Richard’s knees.
Phoebe sat at his left, her back straight, her head inclined toward the page. Ellie leaned against his right shoulder, one foot tucked beneath her, the other swinging.
Richard read.
“How doth the little busy bee
Improve each shining hour.”
Phoebe reached up and took his chin between her fingers and turned his face toward her.
“Why does it have to be busy?” she asked.
“To not waste the day,” he said.
She considered that. Her hand fell away.
Richard read on.
“And gather honey all the day
From every opening flower!”
Ellie caught his chin with both hands and pulled his face the other way.
“What happens if the flowers do not open?” she asked.
“They will,” he said.
She smiled and let him go.
Richard turned the page and continued.
Phoebe leant in again. Ellie followed.
“How skilfully she builds her cell!
How neat she spreads the wax!”
* * *
Steam lifted from the soup tureen as Hobbes dipped the ladle. Clear broth filled Richard’s bowl. Mace rose first; something green and sharp followed. Richard tasted, swallowed, waited.
Lady Matlock lifted her spoon.
“I am glad,” she said, “that we dine alone.”
Richard looked up.
“You need not guard yourself at table,” she continued. “Not here.”
Hobbes removed the bowls. Fenwick set the fish—river trout, pale flesh breaking beneath the fork. Lemon cut the butter. Richard ate neatly, eyes lowered.
“I do not see you until the sun stands high,” she said. After a moment, she added, “and when I do, you smell of horse.”
“At which hour would you wish me presentable?”
She smiled then— the line of her mouth easing.
“At any hour that is yours,” she said. “I only wish to see you.”
Richard inclined his head. He did not look away at once.
Clark entered and placed the express at her elbow.
“You indulge your sisters,” she said. Her tone gentled. “You give them ease.”
“Why would I not?”
Lady Matlock did not answer. Fenwick refilled the water. The clock marked the quarter.
Hobbes returned with the joint. He set down the mutton, well roasted, the fat crisped and salted. Richard cut and chewed. The meat required attention.
Hobbes cleared the plates. Fenwick removed the cutlery.
Lady Matlock set down her napkin. She took up the paper. Broke the seal. Read.
She folded it once, then rose.
The servants stilled. Richard folded his serviette, placed it beside his plate, and pushed back his chair. He offered his arm.
They crossed into the receiving parlour. The door closed behind them.
Lady Matlock lowered herself onto the settee and patted the cushion beside her. Richard sat.
She raised a brow and extended her hand. He accepted it into his.
“We return to London,” she said. “Your sisters and I will depart in the morning.”
“You may stay longer,” he said.
She reached towards his face. Her hand paused. He leant forward a fraction. She cupped his cheek.
“Your father calls us back.”
Richard inclined his head. His hand tightened once in hers “Thank you for seeing me, Mother,” he said. He stood, assisted her to her feet. “I wish you and my sisters a safe journey.”
He bowed.
* * *
Ashdale, October 1794
Oil and polish met him as they always did.
The scent belonged to the room. It settled him.
The ballroom floor answered his step—firm, predictable.
He crossed without thought. He knew where it rang hollow and where it held.
The racks stood where they had stood for years.
Rods straight. Sticks paired. Chests lettered in the same hand. Nothing had been disturbed.
That mattered.
Markov waited to the left. Burton beside him.
Richard noted them as part of the arrangement, no different from the stands or the wall. A smile surfaced out of habit—left over from boyhood. It did not belong to this version of him.
It left.
Markov spoke.
“Cadet Fitzwilliam. Today we train without weapons. Circumstances will arise where nothing is at hand. You must still vanquish your enemy. Is the objective clear?”
Richard had heard variations of his objective, but vanquish was new.
The word lodged—defeat had changed to vanquish. Clear meant allowed. Clear meant finished only when ended.
“Yes.”
The word fitted the space.
Markov stepped forward with the leather. Richard raised his arms. The straps crossed familiar paths over his ribs. The buckles tightened where they always tightened. The pressure aligned him. Burton’s presence registered without sight. It always did.
Richard turned his head, one brow lifting.
“I am here,” Burton said, “because this is a trauma engagement.”
The phrase did not surprise him. It explained nothing. It permitted much.
Movement shifted behind the weapons rack.
Richard turned toward it as he had turned a hundred times before.
Ready, not rushed.
The first strike came wide. Too much shoulder. He rolled with it and felt knuckles scrape bone.
The man stepped in. Lean. Confident. Expecting resistance.
Richard let him take the arm.
He spun into the hold, securing the wrist. Grip. Pressure. Alignment.
The joint yielded as joints always did when asked correctly.
Bone cracked. The sound rang sharp in a room that remembered it.
The man cried out.
Richard drove forward—chest to chest. The man’s breath faltered beneath his collarbone.
He lifted, locked, and threw. The impact shuddered through his knees.
Air left the body beneath him in a hard rush. The arm came again—blind, untrained.
Richard checked it and drove his head forward. Something burst. Warmth streaked his brow. Blood slid toward his eye.
Again.
Again.
The count imposed itself, unwanted but exact.
Three.
Resistance drained away. The body slackened. The room went still. It always did at this point.
“Enough.”
The word cut cleanly through him.
Richard released at once.
He rose. The blood reached his lashes. He blinked it clear.
His breath steadied. His hands obeyed.
Markov spoke again. “Cadet. Explain.”
Richard pointed at the body on the floor.
“Enemy.”
“Why did you continue?” Markov asked.
The question required precision. He gave it.
“You said vanquish,” he said. “Not defeat.”
Burton stepped forward, linen in hand. “We do not strike the enemy when he is defeated.”
Richard set his jaw. “Defeated is not vanquished.”
He rose. Wiped his hand across his eyes.
“Vanquished does not rise.”