Chapter 15
Argus breathed against his sleeve, warm air stirring the hair on his wrist. Fitzwilliam brushed his muzzle with the back of his hand. He nosed for his pocket, snorting when he held it shut.
“Greedy boy.”
He pushed at him once, stubborn as ever. He laughed under his breath, tugged the apple free, and let him take it. His teeth clicked against his palm. He steadied his forelock and pressed a cheek against his, breathing in the mingled scent of horse, hay, and leather.
He drew the brush down Argus’s neck, again, again—each stroke a hoofbeat. The sound took shape in his head: drums, the thunder of hooves, the boom of cannons. He watched his coat darken to a mirror’s gloss.
“You would do well on the Spanish plains,” he said softly. “Hot wind, open ground. Infantry to crush.”
Fitzwilliam worked the brush along his shoulder, slow, even strokes that brought up a sheen. The sound matched his breath—draw, release, draw. He watched the lines of muscle shift beneath the dark coat, the play of light across his flank.
Argus flicked an ear. A gust drifted through the open door, cool after the heat, carrying the smell of grass and distant rain.
He lifted his head, nostrils flaring.
Fitzwilliam stilled the brush. Closed his eyes. Listened.
Argus blew out a breath. He laid a hand on his neck.
Outside, boys’ voices rose.
“You were seen with Sally Holt.”
Darcy.
“Seen? Aye—and? She agreed to it. You’d think I forced her, the way the kitchen clucks.”
Wickham. Wretched Wickham.
“Indeed?” Darcy’s tone sharpened. “Then perhaps Mrs Wainwright also lies? She swears you have been too free with her niece, Martha. And what of Footman Christopher’s young cousin—the one in the laundry? Are they all inventing stories for amusement?”
“You’ll believe any gossip that suits your pious morals.”
Darcy will take a moment to rein himself in. Think of some literary phrase.
“Virtue stands firm though the world fall about it; you would trample it for a wink and a coin.”
Fitzwilliam rolled his eyes. Of course, Horace.
“What the deuce was that? Another of your grand speeches? Keep your fine airs to yourself.” Wickham’s voice turned harder.
Fitzwilliam caressed Argus once more and eased towards the edge of the stall.
Wickham’s finger hung inches from Darcy’s nose.
“Your father won’t always be here to keep you spotless, you know.”
Darcy held his ground, chin high.
“Take your hand down,” he said quietly.
It didn’t move.
Wickham’s mouth twisted. “Or what? You’ll have me thrashed?”
That was enough.
Fitzwilliam slipped from the stall. The leather lead hung on its peg; he caught it, twisted the strap once round his fist, the brass hook biting into his palm.
Argus stamped, breath snorting in rhythm.
One step. Another.
The strap whistled through the air and cracked hard behind Wickham’s knees. He cried out and dropped, hands clutching at the sting.
Wait—wait—please—
Fitzwilliam’s boot hit between his shoulders and held him down.
“Silence.”
Darcy met his eyes. A pause. Then a single nod.
He turned, took a broken shovel handle from the wall, and held it out.
Do what is necessary. I will keep the door clear, he signed.
He left.
Straw whispered. Wickham twisted, tried to rise.
Fitzwilliam shifted his weight, the boot grinding between his shoulders. Wickham stilled.
He balanced the club in his palm.
Legs first.
The first strike landed across the thighs. Wickham bucked and cried out.
Again.
Another blow. Then another.
He will not run.
The handle rose and fell in rhythm, measured, deliberate. Not rage—order.
He kicked his side; Wickham curled upon himself. Fitzwilliam struck his ribs once, twice. The third blow drove him sideways; his cheek caught the edge of the trough. Skin split.
He will remember.
Horses shifted. No sound but his own breath.
He tossed the handle aside, stamped on the left hand.
Wickham lay still; cheek marked with blood.
Argus whickered.
Fitzwilliam straightened his coat and walked into the light.
“Is the lesson finished?”
“It is.”
Darcy nodded.
Fitzwilliam looked towards the kitchen and tapped two fingers to his mouth.
Darcy’s grin was answer enough.
They broke into a run—over turf that gave, through mud that caught—grappling for advantage over the other.
They laughed all the while.
* * *
Matlock House, April 1804
Smythe opened the double doors. “My lord.”
The countess glanced at the earl; he extended his arm. She rested her hand upon his forearm and stepped forward. Fitzwilliam held up both his arms. Phoebe on his right; his left belonged to Ellie.
“Thankfully, we are not three,” Ellie whispered.
“Brother would need a third arm,” Phoebe said.
Ellie made a small sound and hid it at once.
A throat clearing—their mother’s—silenced them.
They entered the dining room. The earl seated the countess. Fitzwilliam seated his sisters, then sat between them. The round table was a novelty—Lady Matlock’s scheme, Lord Matlock’s constant rebuke.
The first course—soup—was served, then the footmen withdrew and left the table to family.
Ellie leant forward at once, eyes bright with excitement. “Will you truly see Paris first?”
Phoebe answered for him. “He will see Calais first. Then he will stare at the road as if it has offended him.”
Fitzwilliam lifted his gaze to her. “If it does, I shall forgive it.”
Ellie’s spoon paused halfway to her mouth. “Then Paris?”
Phoebe’s eyes lit. “He will. He must. Everyone goes.”
“Not everyone,” Lady Matlock said, quiet.
Phoebe turned at once, eager. “But we have read of it, Mama. The gardens. The galleries.”
Lord Matlock cut his meat, unhurried. “Paris contains many things. Your brother will choose what he means to notice.”
Fitzwilliam looked down at Ellie. “What do you want to know of it?”
Ellie’s cheeks warmed. Her eyes dropped to the soup. “Whether it truly smells as the books say.”
Phoebe gave a delighted sound. “Ellie!”
Fitzwilliam’s mouth moved—not quite a smile. “If it does, I shall forgive that as well.”
Phoebe set her spoon down with ceremony. “You must write to us.”
Lady Matlock inclined her head. “Richard will include a paragraph in his letters, specific to his sisters.”
Matlock looked up. “My dear—”
Her knife sounded against the china. The girls stiffened.
“Of course, your brother will write to you.” He patted his lips with his napkin. Then his brow.
“I shall,” Fitzwilliam said.
Phoebe lifted her chin. “You must tell us if French ladies truly speak as swiftly as they do in novels.”
Fitzwilliam pressed his lips together.
“Yes, you must,” Ellie said.
“Novels speak swiftly?” he asked. “I begin to suspect your novels are misbehaved.”
Phoebe lifted her chin. “écrivez avec exactitude.”
Ellie added, soft and sure, “Un paragraphe, comme vous l’avez promis.”
“Comme vous le désirez.”
Footmen reappeared. The soup was replaced by dark meat.
Phoebe’s eyes gleamed. “Ente,” she said.
Ellie added, “Gans.”
Fitzwilliam relaxed back. “Ihr habt etwas über Geflügel gelernt?”
Phoebe leant forward, caught Ellie’s eye. She shook her head.
“Library,” he said. “Mrs Barbauld.”
“Brother,” Phoebe said. “We read novels.”
“Yes,” Ellie said. “Novels.”
“As you should,” Lord Matlock replied. He glanced at Lady Matlock.
She nodded, then turned to Fitzwilliam. “I would have been pleased had you the time to see Florence.”
“He has not the time to—”
Cutlery hit porcelain. The earl’s mouth remained open, though silent.
No one moved. Footmen appeared, then stilled.
Lady Matlock nodded. Service was restored.
Syllabubs were placed. Glasses were refreshed.
Phoebe lifted her spoon. “Citron.”
Ellie glanced at her sister, lowered her chin. Her spoon remained on the table. Fitzwilliam leant close to her ear. “Zitrone,” he whispered.
She lifted her spoon, took a sampling. “Zitrone,” she announced.
Lady Matlock looked at him and smiled.
She rose.
The earl rose at once. Fitzwilliam rose as well.
Lady Matlock turned to her husband. “My lord—your study. You said you had business waiting.”
Lord Matlock blinked. “Did I?”
She inclined her head. “You did.” She paused. “Most urgently.”
His father stared at his mother a moment, nodded once, and departed.
The door closed.
“Richard?”
He hastened to her side. Offered his arm. She gripped his upper arm, squeezed, and glanced over her shoulder.
“Daughters.”
Fitzwilliam escorted the countess through the doors into the withdrawing parlour, Phoebe and Ellie reciting animal names in German.