Gone was any semblance of the former woman, with her propensity for gaudy gowns adorned with black lace. Nor, was her hair its overly bright, and obviously unnatural, shade of gold, but now a lustrous chestnut. Also, absent was any overwhelming floral scent, something that would have announced her presence long before any physical manifestation. In it its place was something else altogether, and had he not known the previous version, he might well have been enchanted by the vision now before him. However, Richard Fitzwilliam was not an idiot, or anyone’s fool. He easily saw how artfully his aunt had placedher hand in all of this. Lady Gloriana Westlake had made an excellent attempt to replicate the finer attributes of not only Moira Blackpool, but also Elizabeth Darcy. But it was all a façade, for he knew all too well what lay underneath, and no pretty veneer could hide it forever. Regaining the temporary loss of his composure, he merely bowed, acknowledging her arrival.
“Lady Gloriana...do excuse me, I have but just arrived and am not fit company. I trust you and your father will be joining us for dinner?”
It was all he could manage before walking away, especially when the greater desire was to order all of them out of his house. But that would only allow his aunt a measure of satisfaction, something that was not to be had.
Two hours later, bathed and rested, Matlock joined the Darcys in the library. It was a favorite chamber of his, and rarely utilized by his father or brother, allowing for a sense of familiarity that was all his own long since before the tragedy. It was also the one place in which his aunt never dared without invitation, but as to why, he never knew and now, was content that it was so.
“So, what did you think of Lady Gloriana’s alteration?” Darcy inquired, a smile twitching at the side of his mouth as he tried to hide his mirth.
“Gads man! What are they thinking? You cannot make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, no matter the finery,” he replied, causing Elizabeth to sputter her own drink. She supposed that she should have found the imitation flattering, but instead, felt mocked, as if she too, were wearing some sort of costume, waiting to be unmasqued. The animosity between herself and Lady Catherine should have dissipated with time, but while Elizabeth had tried to make allowances for a cantankerous and lonely old woman, Darcy’s aunt seemed to thrive on trouble.Clearing her throat to evacuate the trapped liquid, she finally spoke, voicing what she hoped would be logical consolation.
“What does it matter? Moira Blackpool will be here tomorrow and I daresay, there will be no comparisons.”
“No indeed, for my mind is settled and when the opportunity arises, I shall propose...if she will have me.”
“I cannot imagine any reason why she would decline,” Darcy assured, but glanced at his own wife for approval. It had taken two proposals to secure Elizabeth’s hand, for the first had been so badly botched, he thought he might never succeed. But of this acceptance, Matlock was not entirely secure, for the lovely widow would be marrying not only the Earl of Matlock, but also a full Colonel, still bound to His Majesty’s service.
~Twenty-four~
After a dinner of strained but polite conversation, Elizabeth and Darcy, on the premise of needing some time with their child, did not remain for coffee and port. Matlock too, begged off, insisting that only an early night would restore him. Believable, and hardly falsehoods, it left but Lady Catherine and the Westlakes in the parlor. But after only a few moments, Lord Westlake too, said his goodnights knowing that his daughter desired some privacy with the lady, who despite her formerly strong objections, had now taken their side. As to why, he could not fathom, but provided the end result was his daughter becoming the Countess of Matlock, he cared not, and would have signed a promise to the devil himself to ensure it.
“That woman may just be the devil incarnate,” he muttered to himself as he trudged wearily up the stair. Why could he not have had a son? Boys seemed much easier, whilst girls...well...they were an utter nightmare!
But if it was some manner of night terror, Lord Westlake was unready to sleep. Since the death of his wife, now twelve years past, he had tried to raise the girl properly, had even considered remarriage, if only to provide a steady female presence. But when he had presented the idea, Gloriana had taken such an aversion to the prospect, that he had given up. Indeed, he had given up much...everything...just to see her happy. Edward Fitzwiliam was supposed to be that happiness. The young man had been titled, wealthy and handsome, what more could she want? So, what if he liked to gad about in London? One could overlook such, could they not? And to his surprise and delight, she had agreed to the match...a match that had ended before it had begun. Sighing, Lord Westlake rubbed an ache in his lower back as he entered his chamber. He was getting far tooold for this nonsense. Why couldn’t Richard Fitzwilliam simply have honored his brother’s betrothal? Wasn’t one girl as good as another? But he had not, and now, his only child plotted with a woman he had always despised. Indeed, they had become strange bedfellows...
*****
While her father bemoaned the current situation of his family, Lady Gloriana Westlake paced the parlor in frustration as her mentor, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, sipped tea, tea that was heavily laced with Scotch whiskey.
“Oh, cease with your pacing, a proper young lady does not wear a pathway in the carpet!”
“I just do not believe it will be so easy to compromise him.”
“Nonsense, all men are simpletons when one gets to the core of things. Just do exactly as I say and everything will work out, but remember, the key is to be discovered in the midst of compromise. Without proper witnesses, it does not matter.”
“I know...I know,” Gloriana replied, but did not halt her steps as she repeated the instructions. “I shall come upon Lord Matlock in the gardens, under the gazebo, and when I hear you and Lady Drummond upon the path...kiss him. Are you sure that is enough?”
“My dear girl, I have not gone through all the trouble of altering your appearance from that of a common trollop for nothing. A kiss is more than adequate, especially when Emma Drummond wants him for her granddaughter. She will be incensed beyond words... a sight that I will enjoy immensely!”
Gloriana bristled under the insult, for in her present state, she felt more like a cloistered nun, people she feared worse thandeath. But once married, she would return to her former mode of dress, if not wear ones even more daring. Her hair too...how could anyone find brown attractive? Even a reddish brown? No, golden blonde was her color, just like the fairy tale princesses. Or, in this instance, a countess. For now, she would do as Catherine de Bourgh directed, but if unsuccessful? Well, there were other ways....
~Twenty-five~
Just before tea the following day, nearly everyone had arrived, and for Lord Matlock and the Darcys, the procession of carriages, followed by the formalities of greetings and seeing to accommodations, the day was endless and exhausting. To make matters worse, the conveyance bearing Lady Drummond and her granddaughter, as well as Mrs. Blackpool and her son, was near the last, causing much undue worry for all of Matlock’s plans.
“Suppose something has happened? Should we send a rider? Perhaps they had decided not to come after all?” he fretted, whispering one concern after another until the carriage was finally spotted turning down the drive.
“They have come...finally!” he declared, his voice a mixture of relief and elation that could not be disguised. Perhaps even better, was the fact that Lady Catherine, after the arrival of the Duke of Marlborough, chose to remain indoors, feeling no others were worthy of her rank. But the duke’s sons, eager to greet Miss Talmadge, lingered, causing no small measure of speculation as Elizabeth and Darcy pondered which one would win the young lady’s hand. If not for being led to believe that Ariana favored the younger, they might have placed a wager. But when Mrs. Blackpool emerged with her son, the contest was forgotten. Having dismissed the footman, Matlock opened the carriage door himself, handing down Miss Talmadge first, and then her grandmother, both of whom were made welcome, but not without criticism from Lady Drummond as she sighed impatiently in regard to Moira Blackpool.
“The child should have been left in London, where there are servants to care for him. She is here as Ariana’s chaperone whenI am unavailable...” she began, but was silenced by Matlock’s glare of disapproval.
“Mrs. Blackpool is here as my guest, as is her son, did my invitation not make that perfectly clear, Lady Drummond?”
It was a query that required no reply. Having lifted Francis in his arms to allow for an unobstructed view of the fortress, he now placed all his attentions upon a more worthy companion.
“It’s a castle! Do you have a dragon?” Francis Blackpool demanded, fear and anticipation upon his countenance as he gazed upwards.
“It is a fortress, but as for dragons, there is only human variety,” Matlock replied, the innuendo clear. But by now, there was only the child’s mother to hear, for Darcy, in his magical way of mollifying even the worst, had managed to placate Lady Drummond with an offer to personally see to her comfort.
