“But I had thought....”
“Ah, yes, and indeed, it would have been so, but we have taken significant losses in leadership recently. McDavid went and got himself killed on that devil of a horse he always insisted upon riding. ‘Gentle as a cow,’ he always said! Gentle my eyeball, that stallion was the spawn of Satan, and now, a good man is gone because of it!”
“That is terrible...”
“Indeed, but a week later, Horton came down with dysentery. The doctor say’s he may yet recover, but it will be months before he is able to hold his soup, let alone a rifle. No, the only one I trust to lead this regiment is you.”
“Me sir?”
The shock of such a compliment should have made him happy, for less than a year ago, it would have meant a promotion, as well as a substantial increase in salary. But now...what did he need of any of that? And more so, why was General Higgenthorpe not remaining in command?
“Yes, you.... should I not be able.... a matter that I would prefer did not leave this room.”
“I am afraid that I do not quite understand.”
“It is simple...No one lives forever, Colonel, not even me. Hopefully I will have long enough to select all of our replacements, but if not...May I rely upon you?”
As expected, for he could not have done otherwise, he had agreed. How could one say no to a dying man? Idly, he wondered if such a request would have been made if he had chosen to remain absent? Never one to shirk his duty, he forced himself to think in a more agreeable manner. By this time next year, his time wearing the crimson uniform would be over, for surely all would be settled? That is, unless...unless some sort of serious trouble manifested on the continent. And even if it did, what was one last expedition? It was not as if he had hidden the obligation from Moira Blackpool. No, with her, he had been brutally honest, for no pretty words could hide what she already knew. Soldiers died in battle, it was a fact, as was the reality that more succumbed to disease than cannon. Looking down at his dustyuniform, he vowed to put aside any potential future misery for the present. Redbyrne loomed in the distance.... home...a place where he was master, but would Moira agree to be its mistress?
******
Elizabeth Darcy saw the rider long before the pounding of the horse’s hooves announced his arrival. In the midst of directing the servants to the preparation of extra guest rooms, she had paused long enough to gaze out the open window. A stiff northern breeze, as well as the rare bright sunshine, had demanded every door and window be open to air out the mustiness of disuse. Redbyrne, having not seen a party of this size in years, had been long overdue for a good cleaning.
“We never even open this wing,” Mrs. Henry, the long-standing housekeeper admitted in apology.
“Not to worry, a bit of a scrub and fresh linens will set everything to rights,” Elizabeth had insisted cheerily. And there was reason for cheer, for the expected battle of wills between herself and Lady Catherine de Bourgh had come and gone, with Mrs. Darcy the decided victor. Not only had Matlock left explicit instructions as to who would be arriving, but also that everything was in the capable hands of Elizabeth Darcy. Producing the letter for Lady Catherine’s perusal had only served to incense the old woman all the more, but she had backed down, preferring to utilize a façade of hurt that was ineffective on all those who had at one time, suffered her displeasure. Privately, Elizabeth had feared some manner of sabotage, but strangely, it had not occurred. Instead, Lady Catherine kept away from her nephew’s wife, closeting herself with Lord Westlake and his daughter. It was a most peculiar situation but one that left Elizabeth entirely to her preparations. And now that Lord Matlock had returned, he would manage hisaunt and her uninvited ‘guests’. Something was afoot between the three, and Elizabeth suspected it would not end well. Leaving the housekeeper to supervise, she went below, reaching the master of Redbyrne just as he entered the hall.
“Welcome home, Richard,” she greeted, accepting a brief embrace and kiss upon her cheek.
“It feels good to be back. Is Darcy here?”
“I am afraid not, there were some urgent matters to attend at Pemberley, but he should return by nightfall,” she replied, but gestured to the parlor where Catherine de Bourgh entertained the Westlakes. To this, Matlock raised an eyebrow in question.
“Has she been a terror?”
“Not at all, we had our confrontation, and as much as she might have tried, the servants know who pays their wages and none dare not defy your instructions. I thank you for the foresight of the letter, and all is in hand, with the first arrivals due tomorrow afternoon. However, I fear that you already have a problem of another sort.”
“Lady Gloriana?” he ventured, his face showing a fatigue that did not come from his long ride.
Elizabeth nodded, but did not elaborate. Somethings, were best seen for oneself. Following a short distance as he entered the parlor, Mrs. Darcy did not enter, but offered a smile of encouragement before closing the doors upon them. This trial, he must bear alone.
~Twenty-three~
“Aunt? I did not expect to see you here, what a lovely surprise, and you as well, Lord Westlake. Did Lady Gloriana accompany you?” he lied pleasantly, acutely aware that of late, lying seemed to come easy. Of the younger lady, he had entirely no interest, only the hope that she had remained elsewhere. Unfortunately, the inquiry seemed to please Lord Westlake, but before he could reply, his aunt launched her assault of displeasure.
“It is about time you returned to take responsibility of Redbyrne! Were you going to let the place fall to ruin whilst you galivanted about with the militia? Your presence is required here, not on some lark orchestrated by General Higgenthorpe!”
“Aunt, you know these matters take time, and until my replacement is found, I am still a colonel in His Majesty’s Army, something for which I shall not apologize,” he replied quietly. The continued insults stung, for it again showed his aunt’s true colors. All that ever mattered to Lady Catherine de Bourgh was social rank and money, for even as he voiced his opinion, she continued to rant, as if he was but a child, and not the Earl of Matlock.
“Mrs. Henry has informed me that small party will be arriving, and that I am not to interfere. Interfere? The nerve! How my dear brother tolerated such impudence is beyond me. Arriving by tomorrow no less! What have you planned? Nothing? What meals? Entertainments? I suppose you expected that Bennet woman to serve as your hostess? Really? It is not to be bourne! I cannot have my childhood home sullied so but none of the servants will lift a finger to my direction!”
“Whatever Mrs. Darcy has decided has my full approval. And may I remind you; you are a guest? You have not resided atRedbyrne for over twenty years, and whilst I do not wish to ever make you feel unwelcome, Rosings is your home. It is there that you are mistress, not here. Someday, if I am fortunate, Redbyrne will have a new mistress. And of that, I believe we can both agree, that a household can have but one mistress...”
“That is exactly what Lord Westlake and I have been discussing...”
“Do not start that now. I am not bound to honor any agreement made by either my father or brother, and that is final. Whomever I marry, and whenever, it will be a lady of my choosing, not someone else. Is that clear?”
Matlock had not realized that he had raised his voice until finished, and then, the silence was deafening as Lord Westlake and his aunt smiled at him. Smiled! It was as if they had both been suddenly possessed by some strange madness. However, it was not his outburst that had given them pause, it was the sudden return of Lady Gloriana Westlake to the parlor. Having excused herself earlier on the premise of resting, she now stood in the open doorway. Turning, Matlock too, found his mouth agape as he stared at what could only be deemed a transformation of epic proportions.
