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Dawn came chill with mist and a dampness which seeped into the bones. Draggled, in a dark barn, Richard counted the marks he had kept in his pocketbook, and when he was done, counted them again. 

It was the 23rd. It must be. 

He stood, hands busy trying to force his hair into some sort of order, to make it lie flat despite the way the rain had washed the pomade from it weeks before. There was mud on his trousers, at the knee, the seat, the cuff. More, they were frayed, shrunk, rumpled from being slept in. His fingers were cold, bone-white at the tips. 

He could not remember the last time he had felt warm - truly warm, not just the stifle of September sun over weeks of dampness and hunger. 

The village was not far. He had arrived some days before, and spent the last week moving his camps back and forth between stands of woodland, empty cottages, the haylofts and barns of outlying farms. 
It would not do to be late.

He rose and walked. The sun was just making itself known and the church clock was striking the quarter, as Richard found himself in the busy, prosperous little place. Farmers drove carts, and shop boys called their wares. Women walked, both wives and servants, picking up fresh fish or meat from the butcher’s shop. 

After so many weeks of creeping through fields and rabbit trails, to be among so many people was a body shock. Richard twitched at every slight noise, flinching when people came too close to him. There was no hope that he might walk among them, a gentleman, respected and unremarked – he was jostled, shoved, berated and ignored. To keep his head high would only draw further attention, but neither would he be served by skulking like a thief, his eyes down. Around him, respectable matrons bustled, pulling purses and shopping baskets closer to their hips, men glared, hands tight on walking canes, ready to drive him away.

At least no-one offered him alms.

He made his way to the Red Lion, which was a large, handsome coaching inn, great windows glinting on the street, and much frequented by respectable sorts. Avoiding the front door, Richard went round to the yard at the back, where he loitered, ignoring the suspicious glares of the stable hands and pot-girls. Soon, he knew, he would be forced to answer for his presence here, would be taken for a rogue or criminal of some kind – but he knew attempting to hide would only make him more suspicious. 

After several minutes, a barefoot adolescent with wild, straw coloured hair approached him. He spat out a stem he was chewing, and asked, “You Richard?”

It took everything in not to reprimand the boy for the use of his Christian name. It was merely caution – many men were called Richard, while the name Thornton was rare enough to catch a passing ear. 

Mr Rainworth always thought of everything.

Knowing his voice would give him away, Richard nodded.

“Mr Rainworth says for you to come up.” 

The boy led him through a back door and up the service stair to a private parlour. The boy knocked upon the doo, said, “You’re to go in,” then made himself scarce. 

Richard waited to be summoned, and pushed open the door. 

The room was cosy, well appointed, and graced with a fire that blazed with a heat which, after so long in the wild, was almost too much to bear. Richard’s fingers burned, his breath caught in his throat, but he stood tall, and looked to where his godfather sat staring in to the roaring fire.

He was a trim, respectable-looking man in late middle age, one hand gripped around his gold-topped cane, who did not look up as he said, “Richard.”

Richard bowed, “Good morning, sir.”

There was a long silence. The heat of the blaze wormed its way through the wet wool and linen or Richard’s clothes. He did his best not to shift on his sore feet, to show any nervousness or impatience. 

Mr Rainworth’s head might be bowed, but he never missed anything.

When he eventually did look up, his gaze took in Richard’s height, his wet hair, torn clothes, tired face. Having not seen a mirror in some weeks, Richard had no idea exactly how bad the effect was, but the weight of the stare conveyed some of it. He felt every fraying in the wool, every fleck of mud.  

He wished to hide like a child, timorous and afraid.

He did not.

After a long, cruel time, Mr Rainworth nodded. “So, this is how you repay me.”

Richard did not look down at the floor.  “I can only apologise, sir.”

“No doubt you have some manner of explanation?”

“It was a duel, sir. Someone informed the Watch.” He knew better than to lay blame. Rainworth preferred to reach his own conclusions as to culpability. “My gun misfired.” An excuse, but he ploughed on, insisting on that version of events. “A man was killed. I should have given myself up but I panicked.” He raised his eyes and met those of his godfather. “The rest you have no doubt read in the broadsheets.”

Mr Rainworth surveyed him, unmoved and unmoving. After a long pause he said, “You’re a damned fool, boy.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What business do you have duelling, eh?”

Richard kept his hands locked behind his back, and said nothing.

“Well?”

“The honour of a lady was at stake, sir.”

“And what had that to do with you?”

“It was the young gentlewoman of whom we have spoken, sir.”

Mr Rainworth nodded with no expression on his face, his gaze never dropping from its harsh scrutiny of Richard’s face. “You have the gun?”

Richard took it from inside his coat and passed it over without a word. 

Mr Rainworth turned it about in his hands, showing neither appreciation nor distaste. He examined the silver tooling, the dark wood, the coat of arms. He did not say the obvious things - that this was not Richard’s gun, that those were the Forthenby arms – although no doubt he noticed them. Instead, he said, “Manton’s, eh? These don’t look the type of gun to misfire.”

“No, sir.”

Again, that look, boring into his skull, piercing his evasions and lies.

“The trigger, however, is very light,” Richard said.

Another nod. “Percussion caps,” Mr Rainworth replied, with just enough inflection to let Richard know precisely what he thought of pistols of that kind. “It is needless to say that this is not your weapon. Had you ever fired a pistol like this before?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you not have your own guns?”

And at that, like a schoolboy, he was looking at his boots. “I did, sir, but…” a pause that he forced himself to curtail. Hesitancy was another of the things of which Mr Rainworth disapproved. “I’m afraid that the seconds pronounced there could not be fair play with them.”

“You prefer flintlocks.”

Which was to say that he could only afford flintlocks, and old, half-useless ones at that. “Yes, sir.”

Another nod, slow, considering. “You have sense in that, at least. Won’t hold with this modern nonsense. Unsporting. Well. Your best alternative is to leave the country. I’ve found you a situation. India, or Barbados - take your pick.”

Richard said nothing.

“I need not tell you that neither is so comfortable those that I once offered you.”

Still, Richard did not speak.

“I have expended much effort and solicitation upon your behalf.”

“For that, sir, I thank you.”

“But you hurl my offer back at me.” His voice was impassive, without anger or reproach. 

Richard felt, however, the dangerous depths in the words. He forced himself to think of Serafina, and of her alone. “I am afraid I cannot leave the country, sir.”

Better to be friendless than to betray her.

Mr Rainworth leaned more heavily upon his cane. “I once had great hopes of you, Richard.”

“I am sorry, sir.”

“And I warned you against the influence of this friend of yours, this Forthenby.”

Richard bowed his head. “You were right in every particular, sir.”

“Hm,” Mr Rainworth turned back towards the fire. “You will need a horse. Burgis at the blacksmiths will be able to supply you with one, if you give him my name. And there are some more suitable items of clothing in that bag.” He nodded to a small case, resting against the chimney piece. “It’s the girl you’re staying for, of course.”

“Yes, sir.” 

It was a relief not to have to explain it.

“Then you’re twice the fool I thought you.”

Again, Richard did not speak.

“You know she’s going to marry him. Forthenby.”

In the room around him, there was a sudden, ringing silence.

“Had you not heard?”

Richard’s knuckles ached where he had clenched his hands around each other.

Mr Rainworth nodded. “So, you’ll take the ship, then. Barbados? Or will it be Peshwar?”

He could not breathe. 

His heart was slipping back and forth against his chest with uncomfortable, palpitating motions. He heard a voice, surely too hoarse and strangled to be his own, say, “You’re wrong.”

Mr Rainworth held out a paper, but Richard’s eyes were too blurred to see it. He was weeping. In front of his godfather, he was weeping.

“There are plenty of girls, you know, out among the plantations. Plenty of boys, too, I suppose.”

But none like her, none like Serafina. 

He tried to reach his hands out to take the paper, to see the dreadful incrimination upon it, but could not control his fingers. It had been a full day since he had eaten, and the roaring in his ears grew only worse, stronger. 

And then he saw nothing.