“Oh yes. And now, Richard asks for our assistance, and under the circumstances, I cannot see any way to deny him.”
“But of course we shall help, in any way we can!”
“But Elizabeth, you do realize what this means? Don’t you?”
Elizabeth’s mind spun towards all the necessary things that one must do after a death, but almost immediately discarded the need for her help. Had it not been a fortnight since the accident? Surely the dead did not yet wait for burial? Shuddering involuntarily at the thought, she looked at her husband in bewilderment.
“Means? Beyond the fact that poor Richard has lost his family? Or, that he does not wish to take on the responsibilities of Earl?”
“I am afraid it is not that simple, especially if Aunt Catherine has her way.”
Elizabeth’s eyes flew wide, for it was so unlike Darcy to be concerned with the affairs of others when it came to marriage. Or at least, not since his botched interference between the affections of her sister Jane, and his own dear friend, Charles Bingley.
“You don’t mean?”
“I do indeed, we must find my cousin a wife before Aunt Catherine does, or at least, create enough distraction that he has time to decide for himself. Richard has never had the nerve to stand up to her, and I am afraid, under the duress of present circumstances, he might well cave to whatever she wants, including the choice of a wife.”
Proffering the letter, Elizabeth slowly read the desperate words, reddening slightly with embarrassment as she was personally mentioned. After apologizing for the delay in the communication, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam got right to the point, but that was where Elizabeth found herself uncomfortable.
“I am too shocked by the unexpected turn that my life has taken to think clearly, and honestly if not for our dear Aunt’s commanding presence, I fear that I might have returned home to find moldering corpses awaiting me, such was the state of affairs when I departed. But, as expected Lady Catherine de Bourgh is a force not to be refused and she has made every effort to see to my comfort. Unfortunately, I have just realized the price of her compassion, and that is to marry me offimmediately and has wasted no time in her efforts, despite my father and brother hardly being cold in their graves. Naturally, when I inquired as to if word had been sent to Pemberley, she did not see any wisdom in your opinions, preferring to preserve the barrier she has imposed since your marriage. In the defiance of her wishes, and choosing to follow your own hearts, I too, now that I must wed, wish to do the same. However, as you, cousin, have already taken the most perfect woman in all of England, I must settle for second best. God willing, and with your assistance, I shall find as close an equal to your Elizabeth....”
It was a strange communication, one that demonstrated the distress being experienced, but it was a tale often told. Unexpected death sometimes made princes out of paupers, and while Richard Fitzwilliam had never been penniless, he had been in no position to take a wife, had the desire presented. In truth, Elizabeth had believed him to be a confirmed bachelor, placing duty to Crown and Country above all. But now, that same duty called him elsewhere. In an instant, the colonel had become an earl, and every earl needed a countess.
~Two~
Redbyrne Estate, Derbyshire...
Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, or shall we properly say, the thirteenth Earl of Matlock, locked himself inside the one chamber that his overbearing aunt would not dare enter. No, it was not the male domain of the library, nor even the master’s chamber. Of those, he had yet to venture, although eventually, there would be papers to sort and personal effects to remove, for the longer one allowed that sort of thing to go undone, the harder they became. Besides, Redbyrne had been his childhood home, and the family seat of the Matlock Earls since the first title was awarded. It would feel quite strange to suddenly move into his father’s chamber, where since the death of his mother, many years now past, numerous mistresses had been paraded. No, the very idea turned his insides, making his current haven all the more appropriate.
“Hiding in the necessary, like a child,” he muttered, yet perched fully clothed upon the commode as if it were the finest chair. Hadn’t a number of kings died in that very chamber? Perhaps the weight of rule had become an obstruction that could no longer be bourne? He had been Earl of Matlock less than a month, a mere week if one counted only the days since his notification, and each time a servant addressed him as ‘your Grace’ he flinched, expecting to see the stern countenance of his father waiting to correct the error. But hiding he was, for a man in his situation needed time to think, time alone, as what limited privacy he possessed grew ever smaller.
“She’s right,” he admitted to the empty chamber, still possessing a lingering residue of whomever had last visited. The statement was made with a measure of despair, for when a grown man wasforced to admit that his overbearing widowed aunt was correct, it came with a measure of fear. Marriage as a concept seemed like some sort of fairy tale, where the handsome prince swept the beautiful princess away. But he was not handsome. Hell, he was not even passable when compared to the fashionable gentlemen that filled the drawing rooms of London clubs. It had been the crimson coat and gold epaulets of his rank that made any woman give him a second glance. And then, the looks had been fleeting, for a younger son was not much of a catch even if his connections were great. Besides, he had never wished to be caught, especially by some spoilt simpering twit who once the vows were exchanged, turned into a harping shrew, or worse, someone who was indifferent. Far too often, marriages were made between relative strangers and remained so, he wanted a friend as well as a wife. Was that too much to ask? Was it impossible? Yesterday, he had sent off a letter, inviting his closest cousin to come to his aid. If Darcy could not assist with this quest, or to be brutally honest, if Elizabeth Darcy could not, then he was doomed to accept whomever his Aunt Catherine wished, and that would end in misery. It would be the first time that Darcy and Elizabeth were received at Redbyrne, breaking his father’s vow to never admit the nephew who had, in his eyes, married poorly. What would Elizabeth think of this cold pile of rocks? Imagining for a moment, that the former Miss Bennet was now mistress, if only to provide her opinions, he sighed again. It was a foolish notion, and one he had never truly entertained. Indeed, at one time, he had believed himself half in love with Elizabeth Bennnet, but that was before he saw how his cousin looked at her. Darcy had been completely besotted, losing all reason, as well as the often-stuffy demeanor for which the Master of Pemberley was well known. Could the right lady change one so drastically? How did love...real love, even feel? Exiting the private chamber, Richard realized that he had not remained hidden quite long enough, forless than a moment later, he heard the call of his aunt, sending a feeling of despair coursing through his veins.
“Fitzwilliam! Your Grace! Where are you? We have much to discuss!” Lady Catherine’s voice shouted in a most un-ladylike manner.
The new Earl of Matlock would much rather face Napoleon upon the battlefield, but nor would he continue to hide like a coward. Squaring his shoulders, he fixed a pleasant countenance and went to join his aunt. As yet, he had not informed her of the invitation issued to the Darcys. No, that would come as a surprise, but at least then, he would have allies on his side.
~Three~
Elizabeth Darcy gazed critically up at the façade of the house. She had never thought to set foot upon the estate, much less be an invited guest. But as fine estates went, Redbyrne was a lovely place, of that, she could not deny. Several centuries older than Pemberley, what it lacked in modern improvements in terms of fashion, it made up for in charm. Remnants of the medieval remained, with mullioned windows stair-stepping up the towers that marked the three corners of the building. A true triangle, with wide veranda across the base, it made the most of the rocky terrain.
“Carved out of the stone itself, but where is the byrne?” she wondered aloud, unaware that Darcy had put away the London newspaper that had served to occupy him during the twenty-mile journey. It had taken the better part of the day, for not one, but two conveyances had been required to transport the additional persons of Duncan Darcy and servant entourage. Venturing into an unknown, Darcy had planned to be prepared should the services necessary for comfort not be supplied. His Aunt, known for taking petty revenge when circumstance placed her at a disadvantage, would no doubt ensconce them in the stables if possible. But for the moment, all appeared as it should, aside from the black crepe that draped the ancient oaken double doors. Addressing his wife’s query, Darcy provided a short history of the place. Having never seen the need prior, considering the strained relations, he made up the deficit now.
“The burn runs through the rear of the property. It is a tributary to the River Derwent, where it is said that pirate raiders once sailed. Of course, that is purely fiction, as it is hardly navigable in some places, but it does allow for excellent irrigation. Redbyrne fleece is well known for its fine texture. That aside, the old heaphas been modernized to some extent, and perhaps even more since I was last here. We should not be uncomfortable,” he assured.
Elizabeth smiled indulgently, for she had become accustomed to her husband’s tendency to find the economic value in everything, as well as potential flaws. Was it a family trait? Having had no fortune to speak of before her marriage, and living in a house that was in a constant need of repair, her inferior status had been a bone of serious contention for the late Earl, as well as his sister, Lady Catherine de Bourgh. Discomfort from the living conditions was not a thing of which Elizabeth worried. No, it was the eventual confrontation with Lady Catherine that gave her pause. While she held no fear of the woman, and there might be days, perhaps nearly the entirety of their stay, spent in strained cordiality, but eventually, there would be a meeting of the minds, and a clash of the opinions. She only hoped that Richard Fitzwilliam was strong enough to stand up for what he wanted. If not, there was little to be done by anyone. With these thoughts pushed away for the moment, Elizabeth’s smile was genuine when the man himself ran down the steps to greet them. He was just as she remembered from their last visit, sans the traditional crimson coat of his office. Instead, Richard Fitzwilliam, Earl of Matlock, was clad in black, as expected for a man in mourning, but the coat, a size too small, strained upon his frame, as did the breeches, allowing no room for speculation. Yet while Elizabeth and Darcy were similarly attired, theirs was of a quality that bespoke their station, now beneath that of their host. This contrast was startling, as was his grave countenance.
“Welcome to Redbyrne, I only wish it was under happier circumstances,” Fitzwilliam insisted, his eyes bearing a sadness that could not be denied. Whatever his relationship might havebeen with father and brother, the grief was genuine. And if Elizabeth felt the man took her hand for a moment longer than usual, or met her gaze with deep intensity, she allowed it, for long before her marriage, they had become friends. Now, they were family.
As the general greetings were returned, the second carriage came to a stop, allowing for a more pleasant subject to usurp that of death. Alighting with the baby in arms, the nursemaid immediately transferred the child to its mother, eliciting a smile as much fuss was made.
“And who is this little fellow?” Fitzwilliam demanded, feigning shock that such a miracle would arrive. He had been vaguely aware that Elizabeth had been expecting, but with the concerns of his military duties, followed by the unfortunate news, had completely forgotten.
“Duncan Fitzwilliam Bennet Darcy,” the child’s proud Papa supplied, allowing a small hand to clutch his finger.
Reaching out beseechingly for a bit of happiness, Richard Fitzwillaim made his request. While it might seem irregular, for many children of similar status were rarely held by their parents, let alone a relation, his eagerness was undisguised.
“May I?”
