Chapter 27
Fitzwilliam inclined his head. Villiers stepped back and opened the door.
He found the earl and countess in the family parlour, tea at the ready.
His father looked up. “You are come earlier than we were told.”
“The Channel allowed it.”
“One never trusts the Channel. Sit, Richard. You look thinner.”
“Travel.”
“Tea first,” his mother said. “You may speak after.”
“As you wish.”
“Your letters were regular,” his father said. “That was well judged.”
“Prudent.”
“And brief,” his mother said. “I suppose that was also prudent.”
Fitzwilliam allowed a small smile.
“The continent always has something to add,” she replied. “If not improvement, then at least polish.”
“I return unpolished?”
“You returned,” his father said. “That is the essential point.”
“Indeed.”
“Sit closer to the light,” his mother said. “One cannot see a face properly at that distance.”
“I am as I was.”
“You were younger,” she said. “Do not contradict me.”
“Never.”
“You favour your father more than you did,” she continued. “It is an improvement.”
“Flattery?”
“He does not require it,” his father said. “But I accept the observation.”
“Tea,” his mother said. “You will find it properly drawn.”
“It is excellent.”
“You were always easy to please,” she said. “That trait served you well, I trust.”
“It saved time.”
“You had no lack of company?”
“Enough.”
“Enough is a curious word,” she said. “One hopes for more than adequacy.”
“Adequacy keeps one moving.”
“You speak like a clerk,” she said. “France did not do that to you, I hope.”
“France did many things.”
“Names,” his father said mildly. “You will have made the proper calls.”
“I did.”
“And were you well received?”
“As expected.”
“That sounds evasive,” his mother said.
“It is exact.”
“You always were exact,” she said. “It made you difficult as a child.”
“It makes him reliable now,” his father said.
“Reliable is not the same as remarkable,” she replied.
Fitzwilliam considered her words. “It is often safer,” he said.
“Safe is a word for the nursery,” she said. “Not for a man returned.”
“He is returned,” his father said. “That suffices.”
“For you,” she said. “I had other hopes.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“You were clear.”
“I was discreet,” she said. “There is a difference.”
“I did not miss it.”
“You were placed advantageously,” she said. “Abroad—”
“—was instructive.”
“And nothing more?”
“Nothing permanent.”
“That is a disappointment,” she said. “Though not a surprise.”
“Why not?”
“You were never easily persuaded,” she said. “Even when persuasion would have been kind.”
“I hope I was civil.”
“Civility is not commitment.”
“Nor should it be mistaken for it.”
“You see,” she said to her husband, “he returns armed with distinctions.”
“He returns,” his father said again. “Armed or otherwise.”
“And Vienna?” she asked. “Did it receive you with enthusiasm?”
“Vienna receives many things.”
“You have grown cautious in your answers,” she said.
“I have grown accurate.”
“Accuracy will not warm a drawing room,” she said.
“Nor will exaggeration,” he replied.
“You fence,” she said. “That is new.”
“He learned it young,” his father said. “He has merely improved.”
“Improvement ought to show,” she said.
“It does,” Fitzwilliam said. “In the right company.”
“Am I not the right company?”
“You are exacting company.”
“As I should be.”
“And you meet expectation,” his father said, lifting his cup. “In that, at least.”
“I learned to,” Fitzwilliam said.
“From whom?”
“From observing.”
“You always watched,” his mother said. “Even when one wished you would not.”
“It saved misunderstanding.”
“Or delayed it,” she said.
“Delay can be useful,” he replied.
“You speak as though time were yours to command,” she said.
“I have learned to measure it.”
“And what do you measure now?” his father asked.
“The interval before dinner.”
“You have not forgotten the gong,” his mother said.
“I have not forgotten the house.”
“Then we shall do very well,” she said. “For the present.”
“For the present,” Fitzwilliam said.
* * *
The music room door stood ajar. Sound escaped in orderly fragments—scales, clean and dutiful, repeated and begun again.
Fitzwilliam paused.
A hand faltered. The notes slipped. Silence followed.
“That was wrong,” Phoebe said.
“It was not,” Ellie replied. “You rushed.”
“You always say that.”
“Because you always do.”
Fitzwilliam stepped inside.
“You were both rushing.”
There was a beat—then chairs scraped back at once.
“Richard!”
“You have returned.”
“You weren’t meant to be here yet.”
“You didn’t write.”
“We were told Thursday.”
“You are early.”
“You are taller,” Phoebe said, already across the room.
“I am not,” he said, and was pulled into it anyway.
“Let go,” Ellie said. “I want to see him.”
“You can see him when I have finished.”
“You never finish.”
“I do.”
“You do not.”
“I will now.”
“Sit,” Phoebe said. “No—stand. Turn.”
“I will not turn.”
“You will.”
“I won’t.”
“Hold him,” Ellie said.
“Absolutely not.”
“Too late.”
Hands closed. His breath checked. Cold water. Cloth sealed. No air. Szárcza, a bucket in each hand. He shook his head. Once.
“You are terrible,” he said, as hands reached.
“You missed us,” Ellie said, tugging his chin.
“You are enjoying this,” he said.
“Immensely.”
“You’ve forgotten the rules,” Phoebe said. “That carries a penalty.”
“I never agreed to the rules.”
“You left,” she replied. “We revised them.”
“That explains everything.”
“Release him,” Ellie said. “You is smiling.”
“He always does,” Phoebe replied. “It is a trick.”
“I am wounded,” Fitzwilliam said.
“Good.”
“Sit,” Phoebe said. “We were practising.”
“Scales?”
“Properly,” Ellie said. “Until you interrupted.”
“You are welcome.”
“Play,” Phoebe said. “We shall entertain him.”
The bench filled; the scales began again—steadier this time.
Fitzwilliam leaned back and listened.
The gong sounded.
“I told you,” Ellie said.
“You did,” he replied.
“You will return?” Ellie asked.
“If I am allowed.”
“You are always allowed,” Phoebe said. “You just forget.”
“I will not,” he said.
* * *
Lady Matlock folded her serviette and deliberately placed it beside her plate.
Cutlery stilled. Footmen straightened. Fitzwilliam glanced at his father.
The earl was a statue.
Lady Matlock rose.
Fitzwilliam stood; the earl rose slowly. Both girls looked up at once.
“We shall withdraw,” she said. “Your brother and your father have matters to settle.”
Phoebe glanced at Richard, her mouth already forming a protest.
“Ladies,” the countess said.
Chairs moved back. The sisters stood.
Ellie hesitated just long enough to look over her shoulder. Her eyes met Richard’s. She smiled—quick, conspiratorial.
“Decorum, please,” Lady Matlock said, without turning.
The girls followed. A footman held the door. Lady Matlock remained a moment longer. She adjusted a fold of lace at her cuff, then turned her head slightly, just enough for him to see her profile.
“You are home, Richard,” she said. “That is sufficient for tonight.”
She left them.
The earl did not move.
Silence settled—not strained, merely complete.
Fitzwilliam stood where he was.
“You wished to speak,” his father said at last.
“I did.”
“Pray allow me a few questions.”
Fitzwilliam nodded.
“You returned short two men, a carriage, a matched pair.” He paused. “And your mount.”
“Yes.”
“Would you care to enlighten me?”
“Of which losses?”
The earl narrowed his eyes. “You are not your brother. From you, I expect answers, not subterfuge.”
“Very well,” Fitzwilliam said. “The losses occurred on the road to Calais.”
“After Paris?”
“Yes.”
The earl relaxed back. He tapped his lip with a forefinger. “I am not your enemy.”
“I agree.”
“You performed well,” the earl said.
Fitzwilliam sipped his wine. “I assisted in a matter of state.”
“As I said. You performed well.”
“I am not a spy. You have others for that.”
“You are of Matlock.”
“Yes, I am.” Fitzwilliam rose. “And this second son seeks to serve his king.”
The earl remained seated. “Fitzwilliam men do not wear scarlet.”
“What then?”
“You are choosing to force my hand?” His father’s tone was incredulous.
“I chose before Calais,” Fitzwilliam said. “Kingdom over name.”
The earl’s jaw tightened. He set his cigar down with care.
“You cannot.” He said quietly. “You will not.”
Fitzwilliam stared at his father. “And that is your final word?”
The earl inclined his head. “It is.”
Fitzwilliam paused. Not long enough to be defiance—long enough to measure.
Then bowed.
“Good evening, your lordship.”
He went out the corridor exit.
* * *
The Black Eagle, July 1806
He dipped his head under the Zum Schwarzen Adler sign and entered. Inside, the air still carried juniper beneath the smoke. Bread still lay on every table. Meat still steamed from a pot.
The room was silent. Men and women openly stared at him.
Fitzwilliam paused. Looked around. “Ich treffe jemanden,” he said.
Men lowered their eyes. A woman in a mob cap turned away.
A young woman gestured with her head towards the far wall. An open table—two chairs—stood empty.
He walked across the room and sat without ceremony.
A moment later, Markov slid into the chair opposite.
“You have returned.”
“You are speaking English.”
“When in Rome—” Markov said. He looked over his shoulder. Everyone had resumed their business.
Fitzwilliam waited.
Markov drummed his fingers on the table. It was a military order to march.
Fitzwilliam ignored it.
“I have not received a letter from Keller.”
Fitzwilliam remained silent.
“Will I?”
“No.”
Markov exhaled. “And the Hungarian?” he asked.
“If he can write.”
Fitzwilliam stared at him.
Markov smiled. All eyes and teeth.
Fitzwilliam did as well.