“I never would have expected my Uncle Radcliff to take her side.” Matlock had insisted, crumpling the latest letter before tossing them into the fire.
“No, but much like my own choice of bride, Aunt Catherine does not approve. She may never accept Elizabeth, and now Moira. But in that, they have each other,” Darcy admitted, pleased that his wife had formed an instant friendship with the former Mrs. Blackpool, and no longer felt any remorse over his aunt’s feelings.
“That is unfortunate for her, and I suspect she will now be a very lonely person,” Matlock agreed. Lady Catherine’s own daughter had also defied her mother’s wishes. Anne had sent her congratulations, but the distance from her new husband’s living in Bath, made such travel impossible under such short notice.
Afterwards, they had not spoken of the tarnished family relations, but focused on what the future would hold. And now, the vows had been exchanged, sealing their fates to one another.
“Well, your ladyship, what will be your first order of business for this old heap?” he inquired. As a wedding gift, Matlock had allocated generous funds to the long overdue refurbishment of Redbyrne to suit his new bride’s tastes, and when added to the trousseau of new clothes that did not include any shade of grey or purple, the transition would be complete. Mourning, a necessary time to allow for grieving, had come to an end, and while Matlock did not expect Arthur Blackpool to ever be forgotten, nor would he allow a dead man to be a constantcompanion. But now, clad in a soft rose pink, with yards of cream-colored lace, the Countess of Matlock appeared radiant, her happiness only outshone by that of her son.
“Might I call you Papa now?” Francis Blackpool had timidly asked when the vows had finally been exchanged.
“Nothing would make me happier,” Matlock replied, for in winning the boy’s mother, he had also gained a son.
*****
Whilst one might think now that all had ended remarkably well considering the circumstances, the idyll of newlyweds, children aside, was a dream state that was not shared by all. For lurking in the shadows, the rejected waited, biding time until opportunity arose once again.
Admittedly, Lady Gloriana Westlake had never wanted to marry, and definitely not the present Earl of Matlock. Of the former heir, it had been a grand scheme of their fathers’. One, to be rid of a spinster daughter, and the other, hoping that marriage and eventual children would settle the wildness of his son. Or at least, provide the façade of respectability. No, had she the freedom of choice, Gloriana would remain unwed, happily occupied in a fine London townhome where she might entertain all manner of interesting people, each sharing the mindset of having temporary liaisons, and once tired of one another, simply move on to the next. A courtesan of sorts, but one without the need for money, of that, her fortune of thirty thousand would last a lifetime if she was careful. But then, who truly wanted to live forever? To grow old and tire, with wrinkled sagging skin and yellow teeth? Of this, she already saw the early signs, despite the deep chestnut rinse that presently colored her hair. Of that, she had to admit that Lady Catherine had been correct. It was a most becoming shade, and far easier to hide the stubborngrey hairs. But that was where the influence stopped, for when there was no halting the marriage between the Earl of Matlock and Moira Blackpool, the old woman had run back to Kent, abandoning Gloriana Westlake like an old shoe that had lost its mate. She had been shamed, forsaken in favor of someone little better than a housemaid!
“It should have been me! I should be Countess of Matlock, not.... her!” her mind had wailed, allowing no one to hear her cries, and whisper in pity. All eyes were upon the radiant bride, Gloriana Westlake was but a pale shadow in comparison, not worthy of notice.
“Oh, but they will notice me.... soon.... everyone will be looking at me....”
Patience had never been one of her virtues, but patience was demanded now, as was a pleasant smile and declarations of congratulations. Lady Matlock was a new bride in a strange place, soon to be alone once the well-wishers departed. She would need a friend...one who understood a woman’s mind, understood in a way that no husband ever could.
~Twenty-eight~
One week later....
If anyone, either the Darcys or the servants of Redbyrne, had heard the laughter of the newlyweds, they were wise enough to say nothing of it. For in the selection of a permanent bedchamber, no appointment had been made. Redbyrne, as a fortress of considerable age, had undergone many revisions from the original floorplan. As the family had grown, bringing wives and husbands to live under one roof, several small apartments had been created to accommodate. Of this, the convenience and practicality were seen, but that was where it ended. Modern improvements had been rare, unlike the comforts to be had at Pemberley. But now, with a new mistress, and a new master, long overdue changes would be made.
“I cannot ever imagine sleeping in the rooms belonging to my parents. Mother died so long ago, that there is little of her presence, but as for Father....and his...companions, for lack of a better word, it creates an unpleasant image that no amount of new furnishings will erase. But of the rest, the choice is yours,” Matlock had insisted to his bride. He desired that she believe Redbyrne was her home, and as such, display any personal preferences. In this, Moira Fitzwilliam had agreed, but went several steps further.
“Perhaps we should spend several nights in different locations so we might discover what suits us best?” she had suggested, turning each evening into an expedition of sorts, but only after Francis was long asleep. Of his accommodations, that too, needed sorting. The nursery, long in disuse, and situated on the traditional uppermost level, was unfit for livestock, much less children. At present, he was occupying a suite of guest chambers,one that allowed for a separate play area as well as a private bedchamber for his nursemaid. Upon this luxury for a servant, Lady Matlock had insisted, as well as numerous upgrades to the servant quarters in general.
“Do you realize how your household staff lives?” she had inquired during one of the many discussions as to what improvements were needed first.
“I... I must say, I haven’t given it much thought. The militia often kept me away for considerable lengths of time. I was more a visitor to my home, than resident, and even if I was not, the place did not belong to me.”
It seemed like a poor excuse, but now, as it could be rectified, Moira merely nodded, and took him by the hand, leading the Master of Redbyrne to the upper levels, a place that he truly could not recall ever visiting. Opening one door after another, they revealed Spartan cells, bare of any semblance of comfort. Iron bedsteads, with peeling paint and rust, supported thin mattresses and patched bedding.
“I had no idea....my soldiers, even the lowliest of conscripts, live better,” he admitted in mortification, knowing that the wages formerly paid had been equally bad. It was a wonder that any servant remained.
“Easily remedied, but I thought you should know where I plan to spend a significant portion of your money,” Moira insisted, her voice soft, as if expecting a refusal. But instead, he merely took her hands in his, holding them up to his lips.
“Our money...what I have, is yours, and if more is required, you need only say.”
It was a gesture that melted her heart, and Lady Matlock would be prudent in spending, but not stingy. No, she had sufferedunder the hand of one who pinched pennies on necessities, yet spent lavishly on frivolities. And when the first improvements began, found herself immediately endeared to the servants, not only for her generosity, but a kindness of nature that could only be had by having been in the other’s place.
The Darcys, having been away from their own home for far too long, could only smile, for what had begun with great misgivings, had the best possible outcome. Much like themselves, the Earl and Countess of Matlock were a perfect match, and now, best left to the privacy they deserved.
“We are but twenty miles away, do not feel as if you are in any way an inconvenience should you require us,” Darcy insisted to his cousin, as Elizabeth said her own goodbyes to Moira.
“I do wish you would reconsider having a lady’s maid,” Mrs. Darcy insisted, knowing how she felt to be suddenly living away from her friends and sisters. It could be quite lonely, even when surrounded by people.
“I do not know what I would have one do. I am accustomed to doing for myself,” Moria replied, but Elizabeth saw a faraway look in the lady’s eyes, as if remembering another time. And truthfully, Lady Matlock was a bit sad, for not a single letter had come in the weeks since her engagement and later marriage. Ariana Talmadge was nothing if not resourceful, if she had wanted to write, a letter would have found its way north, regardless of her grandmother’s wishes. Had Lady Drummond installed greater surveillance over her granddaughter? Or, had she simply been forgotten, like a favorite gown, now out of style? Sharing nothing of this, she restated her thanks to Elizabeth Darcy.
“Besides, we will not be entertaining for some time, not until Richard is released from his commission. I suppose then,London will be necessary, presentation to the Queen and all that nonsense.”
