Chapter 12
Gravel spat beneath the horses’ hooves. Fitzwilliam eased his mount to a slower gait. “Keep up, Villiers.”
His man drew alongside, chest heaving. “Aye, Captain. Thought you meant to ride clear to Scotland.”
“Only Derbyshire.”
“His lordship’ll lay the blame at my feet for your not having been at the survey.”
“Permit him the indulgence.”
Villiers grinned. “He seems to find more merit in scolding you than moving your mind.”
Fitzwilliam’s snort was short and dry. “Well met.”
Villiers pursed his lips, glancing sidelong.
“Speak freely.”
“His displeasure is routine.” Villiers adjusted his reins. “Her ladyship’s, not so much.”
Fitzwilliam’s grip on the reins eased. “No. It is not.”
Villiers said nothing. Wind stirred the hedgerows, bringing the scent of hay and forge smoke. For a while, there was only the sound of hooves on packed earth.
Then Villiers said quietly, “Pemberley’ll be a calmer ground, sir.”
Fitzwilliam gave a brief nod. He followed a cloud’s slow shadow over the hills. “Mind Renault.”
Villiers laughed under his breath. “Aye, and no end of chatter from him. Says Mr George Darcy and Mr Darcy are out with their tenants—and that new steward riding with them.”
“Wickham.”
“Aye. The father.”
“Not the son?”
Villiers’s answer came flat. “No. Not the son. I’d not wish him on anyone.”
Fitzwilliam said nothing more. They crested the hill; Lambton lay below, a silver line of roofs along the water.
Fitzwilliam’s stomach rumbled. “Fancy a bite?”
“The Crown’s just ahead,” Villiers replied.
The road curved into Lambton’s main street. Shop shutters half-drawn, the air thick with yeast and horse sweat.
Villiers nodded towards the inn yard. “Full as ever.”
Fitzwilliam swung down, handed his reins to a boy who ran forward, and brushed the dust from his gloves.
Inside, warmth and smoke. Voices at every table, pewter flashing in the lamplight. A serving girl darted past, balancing a tray of ale.
Villiers found them a place at the rear. “Better corner than company,” he murmured.
Fitzwilliam sat, back to the wall.
For a while, they ate in silence—bread, cheese, the taste of salt.
Then Villiers spoke behind him. “That lot by the door. Four of ’em. Look like lads short of work and long on mischief.”
Fitzwilliam did not turn. He tracked the scrape of boots, the lull in laughter, the space opening around the table.
“Drunk?”
“Not yet. Watching.”
A burst of laughter came from their table. One thrust out a boot, forcing the maid to stumble. She caught herself and kept moving, chin high.
Villiers muttered, “Reminds me of the pack at school. All noise till one of them smells blood.”
A young woman crossed the common room, a woven basket on her arm. Her gown was plain beige muslin. A bonnet shadowed her face, but a strand of dark hair had come loose and shone bright on her shoulder. She moved quickly, head bowed, intent on the door at the back.
Wood scraped. Laughter dropped.
Four rose as one:
Broad shoulders, smug tilt of the chin. Leader.
Tall, broad, brown waistcoat. Tree.
Ratty cap pulled low. Paddy.
Short, pale-haired. Boy.
Fitzwilliam marked them. Teeth clenched, he tasted iron.
The girl slipped through the door.
Leader shifted first, the others following.
Fitzwilliam moved. One.
At seven, he was through the door.
Light and air. Gravel beneath his boots.
Leader had her by the arm. The basket swung and dropped—apples rolling into the dust.
Eight—he drove a boot into Paddy’s groin. The man gasped, folded, fell.
She struck out, clawing Tree’s cheek.
Nine—Fitzwilliam slammed an elbow into Tree’s kidney. A scream, then collapse.
Leader shoved her. Her head struck stone.
Ten—he seized Boy, wrenched him round, smashed his nose with a head-butt. Eyes rolled back.
Leader turned, startled. The girl lay at his feet.
Eleven—Fitzwilliam’s hand closed on his throat. He squeezed.
Leader fell to his knees, clawing at Fitzwilliam’s wrist, his features purpled with strain.
“Captain—” Villiers’s voice broke in behind him.
Fitzwilliam did not stop. He drove his thumb into Leader’s eye.
A wet sound, a strangled cry. “Mercy—no—”
The voice—high, breaking. Not a man. A boy.
The body sagged. Breath tore.
“Captain—it’s young Wickham.”
The name struck.
Silence.
Blood on his sleeve, on his hand. The face beneath him—young, but nowhere near innocent.
He relaxed his grip.
Wickham’s hands flew to his face, one pressed over the ruined eye.
“Run,” Fitzwilliam said.
Wickham staggered back, stumbled, then was gone.
Fitzwilliam flexed his fingers. Quickly touched fingers to thumb.
He surveyed his work:
Paddy lay in the dirt, curled tight, hands clamped over his groin.
Tree gagged, choking on dust, both palms pressed to his back where the blow had landed.
Boy lay still, blood streaking his cheeks, eyes rolled white beneath half-closed lids.
“Remove them.”
Villiers pulled up Boy by his lapels and slapped him in the face until he sputtered.
“Take your friends and leave.”
They limped away, clutching each other.
Fitzwilliam crossed to the girl and sank beside her. Her bonnet lay crushed, dark hair across the gravel. She did not stir.
He placed two fingers at her throat. Pulse. Faint, steady.
“Fetch a woman from within,” he said. “Tell her the girl’s been hurt.”
Villiers disappeared through the door. Voices inside, then the scrape of shoes on stone.
An older woman appeared, apron dusted with flour, breath short from haste.
“Oh, the poor lamb—struck down right in the yard, was she? And in this heat—Lord preserve us, what’s the world coming to—” She stopped when she saw Fitzwilliam. Her hands twisted in her apron. “Beg pardon, sir. I thought—”
“She lives.”
She bobbed a quick curtsey. “Aye, sir. We’ll see her right, we will. There’s a small room near the stairs, quiet enough—if you’d—” She faltered.
Fitzwilliam rose, gathered the girl, and stood. “Lead the way.”
The woman curtseyed again and hurried ahead.
Fitzwilliam spoke over his shoulder.
“Bring the basket.”
* * *
They passed through the kitchen to a narrow stair. The woman opened a door to a small, close room smelling of soap and lye. A narrow bed, a basin, nothing more. Fitzwilliam laid the girl upon the coverlet. Her head lolled to one side, bonnet ribbon loose at her throat.
The woman fussed with the shutters, muttering about clean water and vinegar. She glanced towards Villiers. “Be so good as to fetch Sally from the kitchen. Tell her I’ve need of her here.”
Villiers nodded and left.
The woman wrung out a cloth from the basin, laid it across the girl’s brow, and murmured, “Poor thing, she’ll come round soon enough.”
Moments later Villiers returned with a younger maid—red-cheeked, apron fresh, eyes wide.
“This one will stay and see to her, sir,” said the woman. “She’s a good girl, steady-handed.”
The matron bobbed a curtsey and departed.
“What ‘appened, sirs?” asked Sally, barely above a whisper.
Fitzwilliam put a finger to his lips; she lowered her eyes.
On the bed, the girl stirred. Fingers twitched. A faint sound escaped her lips—murmuring, broken.
“She’s coming round, Captain,” Villiers said quietly.
Her lashes stirred.
“Captain Bennet,” she breathed. “You came back.”
Fitzwilliam straightened. “Who is Captain Bennet?”
No answer. Her brow tightened; a soft sound caught in her throat. Then her eyes opened.
Violet.
Only Langston women bore that colour.
“You are Madeleine Lambert.”
She flinched, colour draining from her face.
“I am Richard Fitzwilliam,” he said gently. “My mother—Lady Matlock—was Audrey Langston.”
Her hands twisted in the coverlet. Tears welled.
“You are safe.”
She nodded, pushing herself upright.
“How old are you?” she asked.
“Does it signify?”
She giggled. “I think not.”
“Shall I see you home, then?”
Her eyes narrowed. “My home is nearby.”
He caught the careful phrasing. “Of course. Where?”
“The bookstore.”
“May I escort you?”
She hesitated, then nodded. “You may.”
They stepped into the street. He allowed Miss Lambert to set the pace. Villiers followed at a short distance, the basket on his arm.
The girl glanced at him. “Did those boys strike you?”
“No.”
“Your mouth is bleeding.”
He touched his lip. His finger was spotted crimson. “It will mend.”
His attention returned to the name she had spoken. “Who is Captain Bennet?”
She looked down. “The one who saved me—when my father and mother were killed.”
Fitzwilliam absorbed the words. “I see.”
“Do you know of him?” she asked.
“Not yet,” he said.
She glanced up at him, uncertainty flickering across her face.
“But I soon will.”