“What of Miss Carraway? She seemed rather interested, and as the daughter of a general, she must have some common interests?”
Matlock rolled his eyes in exasperation. He had lost track of the numerous faces and names, but Rose Carraway would be forever in his memory. Or shall he say, the smell of her. Did the woman never bathe? Having suffered close quarters on many a battlefield, he knew what a stink the human body could acquire after several weeks without the benefit of soap and water. It was something that no amount of fine silk and lace could hide, but he tried to be polite for Elizabeth’s sake.
“I am afraid not. Miss Carraway is quite a far cry from being anything like a rose.”
“Hmmm...I have heard that about her, but rather hoped it had merely been gossip. What about Lady Hetty Templeton?”
“Which one was she? I am afraid last night is still a bit murky.”
“Auburn hair, tall..., wearing a turquoise gown.”
“Oh...now I remember...and no... she talked too much. I can understand someone wanting to make conversation, but all the dear girl spoke of was her cat.”
Moving on, Elizabeth held back her own amusement as he found one flaw after another, or worse, held no opinion at all, before reaching the end of her list. Last upon it was a bit of a surprise, for she never expected him to take Lady Gloriana Westlake as a partner. In many ways, she was worse than Caroline Bingley. Uttering the name as a question, she waited patiently as Matlock fought for the right words.
“Gloriana Westlake? Whyever did you dance with her?”
Suddenly, Matlock felt his flesh crawl, as if insects had set upon him. A spider, that is what that woman reminded him of, and he was the fly. If not careful, he would be caught in her web, waiting to slowly have the life sucked out of him. During the sole dance they shared, each time his arm was grasped, fingernails, sharp as talons, dug into his flesh, despite the gloves she wore and the cloth of his coat. Shaking his head, Elizabeth merely sighed, for having already met the lady, she was glad Matlock had taken no interest.
“Well, that leaves only Miss Talmadge, Miss Lucy Ayersby, Lady Matilda Albright, Miss Angelique Robinson, and the mysterious Mrs. Blackpool as potential candidates, but not to worry, there will be at least a dozen more balls, and an equal number of dinners. I have limited our engagements to but two a week, allowing for some respite and an opportunity to regroup, so to speak, if necessary. And that does not include teas, gallons of tea will be drunk during this process, but it is the only accepted way for a person to get to know relative strangers. Naturally, I will accompany you, for if you call upon anyone alone, it sends a clear message of serious intentions....”
Elizabeth Darcy continued on, reiterating the numerous rules that society demanded everyone follow, but she suspected that her pupil was only half listening. Having but little sleep, he nodded appropriately, but his attention wavered as his mind wandered, but eventually, in exhaustion he spoke.
“How is anyone to remember all of this? I know it is foolish to find someone so quickly, but I had never expected such...tedious misery!”
It was a harsh assessment, but one to which Mrs. Darcy laughed and tried to provide reassurance.
“One does not remember everything, but merely tries to avoid dangerous mistakes. Unfortunately, mistakes are most often made before the rules are learnt, resulting in hasty and regrettable unions. As the Earl of Matlock, it is expected that you marry, but no one can force you. Some may try, by trickery and deceit, of course, relying on your sense of honor to prevent scandal, but in the end, the decision is yours.”
Somewhat relieved, Matlock smiled, and rose.
“I believe I shall retire to my chamber for a bit; it seems that I am more tired than I thought.”
It was an excuse, but Elizabeth too, found herself suddenly fatigued. Matchmaking was hard work, a realization that had come strangely, for with it, was a sympathy for her own mother. She had but one to fret over, Mrs. Bennet had five, and no money on which to rely upon. Richard Fitzwilliam was an earl, with an estate and sizeable fortune, but that seemed to only complicate matters. However, today held no engagements, and they would spend the time at home, where peace and quiet reigned.
~Seventeen~
But by the next morning, that peace had all but vanished with the arrival of the day’s newspapers. Among them, and much to Darcy’s disgust, were several of those publications whose content was limited to society gossip. Of Elizabeth’s insistence that valuable information was gleaned from such refuse, he could not agree, but nor, would he deny her a bit of amusement.
“At least the maids can use it for kindling afterwards,” he muttered, handing his wife her copy of the ‘London Whisper’ before hiding behind his own papers.
Elizabeth was long used to this gentle ribbing, and paid her husband no mind, eagerly scanning the pages for any report on Lady Drummond’s ball. There had been several that same evening, but the debut of Ariana Talmadge earned the second page, behind only the newest fashions worn by Her Majesty, Queen Charlotte. At first, Elizabeth was pleased by the review, as it noted the elegant dress and manners of Miss Talmadge as well as her proficiency in dancing. But after additional compliments to the décor and refreshments, the article got down to the sort of gossip that half of London drank in like fine wine. Unfortunately, and not altogether unexpected, the Earl of Matlock was directly mentioned, and it was hardly charitable. If anything, whomever it was that provided the fodder was decidedly holding a negative opinion of Richard Fitzwilliam.
“Oh dear...this does not bode well, and poor Caroline! Oh! How she must be raging!”
“What is it?” Darcy inquired, lowering papers enough to peer over at his wife’s sudden exclamations of distress. Readingaloud, Elizabeth repeated the distasteful words, glad that Lord Matlock was absent from the house that day.
“It seems the new Earl of Matlock has a penchant for old maids and married women...Has no one told him that the season is for marriage, not mistresses? But then some of the attendees may be agreeable to such arrangements as they now in their tenth season without success, but what is a husband when one possesses a hideous orange gown? Surely, the consolation must be adequate....”
“Caroline was the only person present wearing that color. I too, had thought it unflattering, but you know how she is, and try as she would, he managed to avoid dancing with her.”
“Indeed, I do know, and there is no help for that, but Richard need not see that rubbish, toss it in the fire and be done before he returns,” Darcy suggested and believing it to be the end of the matter, returned to his reading.
But it was already too late, for Lord Matlock had already heard. Having accepted an early luncheon with Lord Cavanaugh to discuss his first Parliamentary session, it was with considerable delight that the old man informed him.
“You are making quite a stir, young man, but I do hope that is the extent of it. Your brother’s reputation, God have mercy on his soul, was less than discreet.”
“I have no intentions of being fuel for the gossips, but if my choice of dance partner is cause for talk, all of London must be suffering from extreme boredom,” he had replied, and hastily changed the subject to the troubles with Ireland and France. Unfortunately, his mind continued to dwell upon the unkind words. Even his snub of Miss Bingley had been noted, was there no limit to the cruelty? And had he danced with her,then what? At least Moira Blackpool had not be a direct target, for of her, the mere memory of her fingers innocently touching his...well, that too, was an exaggeration. Taking his leave from Lord Cavanaugh, Matlock had no desire to return to the confines of the Darcy townhouse. Although finely appointed, with every comfort that money could buy, he simply was unaccustomed to spending so many hours inside. Even when suffering the unpleasant annual visit to his Aunt Catherine in Kent, there had been the escape of the lovely grounds and woods of Rosings Park. Here, in the heart of the city, aside from the small green spaces around which the rows of townhouses stood, there was little of nature to be had. Perhaps that was why Kew Gardens had been built? As an escape to the country for those who could not leave the city? He hardly knew, but hailed a cab and was soon wandering the pathways, dodging nursemaids pushing prams and dowagers trailing small dogs. Eventually, the elaborate rose garden called his name, sending tendrils of scent to ease his troubles. If only Redbyrne possessed such a thing? But with a natural rocky landscape, there was little open ground for formal gardens. His mother, when first wed, had tried her hand and failed repeatedly. Now, only the hardy native plants provided color against the grey stone. Perhaps he would try again? A small plot, dug out of the rock and filled with fertile soil? Snorting a laugh at the irony of making improvements so soon, he nearly passed the woman and child without notice. If not for the boy’s squeals of delight when several ducks began chasing him, he would have continued on, lost in his own thoughts. But the boy was a sight that made him pause, for if he married, there would be children...
