Content warnings can be found here

She was brought food that evening, but found she had no appetite for it. Otherwise, the door to her chamber remained locked. Her behaviour pitched and turned moment by moment - sometimes calm and despairing, sometimes furious. She threw all the books upon the shelf by her bed across the room, slammed her palms into the shutters until they stung, and then, sickened by the childish display, wept silently for some time. 

When her throat was stiff with it, her head aching, she stood, and stumbling, placed the volumes back upon the shelf again. 

Why should she destroy her own things? She had lost enough already.

Hours passed slowly. She could not rest, could not sit immobile, but pacing up and down the space allowed her brought only more gushes of fruitless rage. She would take up a book, or her work basket, or even a pen, but then would slam it down again, wondering if even now Richard were being seized upon by armed men, if he were being beaten, chained, thrown into some dark gaol. 

Or perhaps he was still at liberty, hiding somewhere low, lonely and afraid. 

She should write to him, pour out her heart into some burning epistle, telling him of her love, her devotion, her helplessness. Swearing endless faith. But even were she to do so, there was no hope that he would ever read it. 

No. It would only give her father something else to hold against her. 

She wondered if she had the strength to die for love.

After many, many, hours, she slept.

She woke to find the shutters open, and her mother sitting upon the end of the bed, running worried fingers through her daughter’s hair. 

Serafina sat, mouth open with a hundred questions, but her mother held up a hand in warning. “Child,” she said, “I am permitted to speak to you only on the understanding that I will try to make you see sense.”

“What news of...” but she could not end the sentence, not with the black and red markings of bruise and injury that crossed her mother’s face. 

“Lord Forthenby is quite well,” her mother said, in a low, clear voice. “And appears to be remaining in Town.” Again, Mrs Tooting held up her hand, forestalling the interruption. “The man who attacked him has not been apprehended. From the rumours I have heard,” she looked about herself, towards the door. 

It was ajar, and beyond it, the shape of her father’s valet could just be seen. 

“Your father does not believe it is fitting that you be told the full circumstances of what occurred yesterday morning, but I have managed to persuade him that it may help convince you to understand the situation in which you find yourself. Do you comprehend that, Serafina?”

And at once she was awake, cold. “Yes, madame.”

“The facts, then, are these. After leaving us, Mr...” Mrs Tooting put her hand to the bruises on her face and gave a short exhalation. “Some hours after leaving us at the opera, Lord Forthenby was challenged to a duel. However, someone - perhaps a member of his household - summoned the Watch. They arrived at the appointed place and…” Again, she paused. “…and as they attempted to apprehend the assailant, he shot a constable of the Watch, killing him.”

Serafina swallowed.

“There are several witnesses to this.” Her mother seemed to stumble. “Including the surviving constables. The killer is now a fugitive from the law. He has taken another man’s life. And rather than behave like an innocent man, he has -”

“These are lies.” The words flew from her, unable to bear any more.

“If they are lies, child, they are widely believed.”

“And you suggest that I believe the calumny of the world when -”

“Remember our talk upon virtue and propriety.”

Serafina choked upon the sob that was in her throat. 

“If... Had the killer surrendered to the law, then he would have stood trial. There was some talk, it seems, of his gun misfiring, of the death being an accident. In the dock, he could have dispelled the doubts that cloud his name. By fleeing, he appears to have admitted his guilt.”

“No.”

“A man is lying dead, Serafina. All the wishing in the world will not undo it.”

The sunlight still slanted through the windows in the same fashion it always had, the day was still as clear and beautiful, yet it seemed as though nothing would ever bloom or grow again. 

“The things you told me before, mama, about how a gentleman might clear the board, if the play does not favour him?”

Her mother reached out and touched Serafina’s clasped hands. “If,” she began slowly, “a gentlemen proves himself capable of behaving in so base a manner as that towards a supposed rival, then there is the matter of your own safety to consider. I hope that you understand me.”

A great scream seemed to build within her. 

“We must be grateful that, thus far, your name has been kept out of it.”

“How so, mama?”

“Because you are not yet ruined. Not yet lambasted in the press, not yet blamed for this. This quarrel is much spoken about, and although some believe there is a woman at the root of it, more claim it is over some ancient animosity between the two gentlemen. This is fortunate.”

Unable to help herself longer, Serafina gave a low cry.

“No. Daughter, please. You cannot afford weakness. This is better fortune than you have any cause to hope for, given your actions, your marked partiality, your…” Mrs Tooting’s shoulders shook, and again she brought her hand up to the bruises upon her face. “Your foolishness, child.”

“Mama...”

“I understand,” her mother said with a terrible, forced calm. “I do. You will say that your happiness is ruined, that your life is no longer worth living, that there is no hope for you. But daughter, I say to you, if the truth of your conduct is ever publicly confirmed, your father will not forgive this. You must salvage what you can from this wreck.” 

Mrs Tooting held herself stiff and resisting, as though beneath her composure, some terrible storm was raging and that she must contain it utterly, or else she would seize her child in her arms, never stop weeping.

Serafina’s own face was soaked with tears. 

“Lord Forthenby,” Mrs Tooting began, only going on with more vehemence at her daughter’s flinch, “is well liked in his own country, although they say that he is wild. Among his household, he inspires great loyalty from his staff. In light of your fears about the man, I have made enquiries, and their answer is this: he is liberal with his dependents, and indeed all others. His fortune is one that would permit most follies without bringing ruin. He has no debts, and is not given much to gaming. At his estate he spends much time out of doors. In town, he is often in the company of other gentlemen. He has little taste, it seems, for the home life.”

“Mama,” Serafina begged, reaching for her mother’s sleeve, wishing for this to be stopped. 

“As far as it is known, he has no natural children. His relationship with the Lady Charlotte Valance, and the dowager Lady Hartell are more than cordial. Both, I hasten to add, are women of impeccable virtue and charity.”

“Please -”

“It is worth knowing these things,” Mrs Tooting insisted, “which is why I took the trouble to discover them. If my own dear mother had lived, I am sure she would have done so for me before my own wedding.”

And that stopped the tears in Serafina’s throat, although she felt as though they might strangle her. 

Her mother leaned in and kissed her cheek. “I would not force you to do anything,” she whispered, “but I would show you how the deck is stacked.”