Chapter Eleven

It was all very well to ride away from his godfather’s offer in a righteous fury of heartbreak, but Richard was, by nature, a pragmatist. 

Before too long, he would have to deal with the problem of money.
Mr Rainworth had provided enough for Richard to reach Portsmouth in tolerable comfort. Generous, after his own strict fashion, it would pay for stables, clean bedlinen, and good dinners along his route, with an allowance made for ordinary accident and delay. 

Any attempt to make it last longer that would reduce Richard to circumstances very mean indeed. 

As to employment, the letters of recommendation and introduction – precious as they would have been had Richard any intention of starting a life abroad – would be no help at seeking employment in England. True, they provided him with a false name, and – with cautious alteration – might answer to the purpose of obtaining employment, they would offer precious little disguise in a country with post-roads, where references could be checked, and officers of the law had both Richard’s description, and knowledge of his line of work.

Besides, he was not seeking some steady, careful way to restore his fortunes. He was a desperate outlaw, focused solely on revenge. 

The thought gave him a pleasant frisson as he rode his steady horse along a lane that became more brown than green as the year listed towards winter. For all the wreck of his life, and hopes, he was inclined to count his blessings. After all, he was no longer a footsore vagabond, but was well fed, warmly dressed, and this evening, would be able to pay for a comfortable lodging in one of any number of respectable establishments. True, his funds would not last him forever, and he would need to shepherd them carefully, but one night could hardly hurt.

 Of course, there was a hard misery at the core of his being that would flare in to rage if he so much as thought of it, but Richard had grown used to that manner of devastating loss. In great measure, loss had defined his life: the comfort of his home when he was sent away to school; the privileges of a gentleman when his father had died a ruined man; and the loss of Serafina almost as soon as he had found her, knowing her father would demand a brilliant match.

At none of these humiliations or heartbreak had he had any recourse but to follow Mr Rainworth’s advice – to carry himself with manly dignity, to work hard, and live a proper, estimable sort of life. 

None of that would help him now. He had blown it all away in the single discharge of a pistol, and only compounded that loss by ignoring the letters in his pocket. For the first time, perhaps, in his life, Richard was alone, without guide, without expectation, without the pressure of another man’s principles shaping him.

That they were, or had become, his own principles was not immaterial, but neither was it strictly relevant. People could change. It was a bright, warm autumn day, he had food in his stomach and the road passing him by, and he could not help but smile a little at the thought he could give full vent to his feelings, could howl, weep, swear, and there would be no-one to judge, no one to reprimand him. 

Naturally, he would do nothing of the kind, but merely thinking it brought a little thrill of freedom, the pleasure of enjoying something he knew was transgression.

And in knowing that, the smile upon his lips died, for it lead his thoughts back to Valance again.