“That too,” Fitzwilliam replied curtly, hopefully putting an end to what was swiftly turning into an interrogation. His private life was his own, something to which he desperately desired to return, but not until his conscience was clear in regard to his military duty. Changing the subject, he pulled forth the rosters that contained the names and present ranks of every soldier in the regiment. From these men, new leaders would be honed, but as to which, he did not know. They were mostly strangers, and even those whose names he recognized, had been rather green. It would take time to put the regiment back into a shape acceptable for any necessary action, and in that, assistance was required, even if it came from a quarter that had yet to earn his trust.
“General Higgenthorpe has left us quite the task, but I assure you, once complete, you need not expect me to remain any longer than necessary.” Fitzwilliam replied. It was an honest statement, and one that appeared to place Michaels at ease, allowing a grim smile to cross his features as he reached for the rosters.
“Well then, let us get started.”
It would be an uneasy truce for a fortnight, but afterwards, as the colonels became better acquainted with one another’s ways, a mutual respect was formed, with each man acknowledging the strengths of the other and disregarding any former misconceptions. Training the raw enlisted men turned out to be a far easier task than that of the new junior officers. Seeing an opportunity for advancement and steady wages, they readily followed orders, falling into formations in the first days and learning proper marksmanship without a single mishap, unlike those who believed themselves better. But that was the difference between them, the enlisted men wanted to be there, a part of something worthwhile and necessary. Junior officers were quite another matter. Spoilt younger sons, with little chance of inheritance, or those whose families had tired of paying large sums to keep them out of trouble, the commissions had been purchased, with no expectation of actually doing anything. By the second evening of his return, Colonel Fitzwilliam had been forced to discipline half a dozen of those so-called gentlemen. Disobeying curfew, they had been caught returning from some unknown location, each in a state of advanced inebriation. Disgusted, he had ordered them secured inside an empty chamber used for storage. There, with but two pails, one with water and one for whence it came out, were the sole items within.
“Twelve hours, then provide bread and more water, but nothing more. If they wish to behave like animals, they will be treated as such.”
He had not batted an eye at doing what some might have deemed cruel, for Colonel Fitzwilliam had always believed that officers should set the example for others, their reputations beyond reproach. It was a punishment to which Colonel Michaels was in full agreement, and did not hide his opinion. But when the time came for release, it was obvious that the young men had not become repentant, instead, they had chosen a leader amongst them.
“Do you know who my father is?” a particularly disheveled captain demanded, his voice a high-pitched whine as he came forward.
“No, nor do I care,” Fitzwilliam replied, thinking that perhaps he should have chosen to confine each man in isolation.
“We shall see about that, sir! When Viscount Arlington hears of my treatment, you are finished here, both of you!” Captain David Smithson continued, much to the merriment of his followers. Some, even dared to snicker, despite the vomit that coated their uniforms.
“Frederick Smithson? That Viscount Arlington? Ah, the name does ring familiar. Well now, that does change things considerably, does it not, Colonel Michaels?” Fitzwilliam replied, looking to his counterpart who nodded solemnly.
“Indeed, it does, Colonel, indeed it does...”
Fitzwilliam’s voice had been light, almost bantering as the younger man puffed up his chest like a small rooster. But now, he was done playing about. This was His Majesty’s Army, and not some third-rate club where the rank of one’s father tookprecedence. It was no wonder that Fred Smithson had bought his son a commission, for beyond the spending of money, there was little to be done with such a wastrel. Placing his hands behind his back, Fitzwilliam paced silently, as if in serious contemplation, allowing the now sober officers to wonder at his thoughts. Eventually, he ceased, stopping within inches of Captain Smithson’s smug countenance.
“Your father may be Viscount Arlington, but I am the Earl of Matlock, as well as your current commanding officer. I would be only too happy to discuss his unfortunate circumstance in having such a disappointment for a son,” he offered, his voice low and clear before addressing the rest of the company.
“And as for the rest of you, should this behavior be repeated, you shall be sent packing, with no compensation for the price your families wasted on the purchase of commissions....and that will only be after a month clapped in irons for insubordination, conduct unbecoming of an officer, and dereliction of duty. Is that understood?”
Immediately, all sounds of amusement stopped. Such was the silence that Fitzwilliam imagined he could hear the hearts beating inside the shallow forms of the men before him. Most, he believed, would make the necessary changes.... but not all. No, it was never all. Repeating his final query until the resounding echo of ‘yes, sir!’ satisfied him, he ordered a dismissal.
“Bathe, and see to clean uniforms. We begin anew on the morrow.”
With that, the former prisoners filed out, but none dared utter a word under their breath in defiance. It was a pathetic scene, but once the chamber was empty, Colonel Michaels allowed a sigh of relief.
“I wonder how long it will last. That Smithson, he’s been a troublemaker from the start, using his father’s name to have his way. I never knew why the general tolerated it.”
Nor did Fitzwilliam, and did not speak further, Captain Smithson would be watched carefully. Whatever favorites General Higgenthorpe once had, and for whatever reason, were no longer. Privilege would be earned through merit alone.
Later that evening, as he struggled to compose a letter to his wife, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam closed his eyes, trying to envision his dear Moira. Had it truly been a month since he had left her standing in the courtyard at Redbyrne? True to her word, she had written with regularity, filling him in on all the trivial details that made his present misery tolerable. Did he prefer hunter green or navy blue when it came to draperies in the library? Several of the near neighbors, caring not what the London gossips said, had come to call, and made much of the improvements. Even the Westlakes, knowing which side was most favorable, had sent an invitation to tea, including Francis, referring to the boy as ‘Master Blackpool’. Surprised by this last, he wondered if there were some ulterior motive. Lord Westlake, and especially his daughter, Lady Gloriana, never did anything without reason. But whatever scheme they might have planned, it would come to naught, for Moria Blackpool Fitzwilliam could handle anything.... or so he hoped, for there was nothing he could do to help. However, the Countess of Matlock was not entirely without assistance, for now, with marriage, she had acquired relations that truly cared. Taking up his pen, a letter was begun, but it was not to his wife. This letter would go directly to Pemberley.
~Thirty-one~
The Countess of Matlock stared at her reflection in the wavy mirror over her dressing table. Did she look any different? It was now two months since her marriage, and one that her new husband had been gone. How long had it been the first time? Searching her memory, the images of Arthur Blackpool had faded, his countenance but a cloudy visage that smiled sadly from beyond, only to be replaced by that of Richard Fitzwilliam. Two soldiers, both officers, yet as different as apples and plums. Where one had been solemn and reserved, the other, made her laugh.
“I believe you would like him,” she said aloud, but the spectre to whom she had often spoke said nothing, as usual. It was only during times of loneliness that Moira resorted to conversing with the dead, and this was one of those times. For loneliness was a familiar companion, even when surrounded by people. If not for her son, she might well have gone mad in her isolation. But that had come to an end when she met Richard Fitzwilliam. From the first exchanged glance across a crowded restaurant, to the accidental meeting in Kew Gardens, she had found a kindred soul, and with each passing day that they were apart, the pain was severe. Was this what it meant to truly love? Why had she never felt this way when Arthur was called to duty? Guilt ridden for acknowledging the truth, she apologized to the invisible spirit.
“I’m sorry Arthur. I admired you, respected you...held great affection for you...but not like this. No, I can honestly say, it was never love.”
But again, silence, no censure or acknowledgement, and eventually Moira Blackpool Fitzwilliam, Countess of Matlock,gave up her musings. There were far too many demands for her time as workmen continued their transformation of Redbyrne. And on this particular day, much to her surprise as well as suspicion, she also expected a visitor. Lady Gloriana Westlake, having sent a note filled with words of hopeful friendship, was expected for tea. Was she becoming so desperate for company that this was the result? Oh, there had been others who came, but not those she would ever call friend. Instead, it was mere curiosity that drove the local landowners to call at Redbyrne, and having satisfied it, generally departed with no expectation of return. Perhaps Elizabeth Darcy had been right, she should have engaged a lady’s maid, if only for the conversation? Of Mrs. Darcy, Moira found the woman delightfully candid, and would be proud to foster any continuing friendship, if not for the twenty miles that separated the two estates. She would see Elizabeth often, and relish the time, but with a young child of her own, it would be weeks between visits. Instead, she would be forced to politely tolerate a woman who had vied not for her husband’s affections, but of his title and fortune.
“I shall give her an hour, no more,” Lady Matlock muttered, for in truth, she had a prior obligation. Having taken up going for afternoon carriage rides with her son, she much preferred the small open curricle and the company of a precocious four-year-old to that of someone who sought only personal gain. With less than that same hour before Lady Gloriana was to arrive, Moira had just enough time to look in on the latest of the improvements. Nearly finished, the great hall appeared as it would have nearly five hundred years ago, but without the damage caused by centuries of wood rot beetles. Now, the floors were polished to a high sheen, complimenting the newly painted plaster and crown molding. But instead of the traditional long trestle tables, meant for feasting by the entire household, thecavernous chamber was divided, with a comfortable seating area as well as a dining table large enough to seat twelve. Done in the Fitzwilliam tartan, it was stately enough to entertain royalty, yet also intimate, when it was but family in residence.
“Family...” Moira whispered, contemplating a day that the chamber might be filed with more children. It would not be this year, but a fine Christmas was definitely possible. Imagining the place hung with greenery, she did not hear the maid’s footsteps until a gentle hand touched her elbow.
“Your Grace? Lady Gloriana has arrived. I put her in the ladies’ parlor.”
With the spell broken, Moira shook herself back to the present. As yet, the customary reference to herself felt strange, and definitely far from graceful, but she nodded, asking tea to be brought. This chamber too, had been refurbished, but much of the original carved wooden elements had been retained. Having been the private sanctuary of the previous Countess of Matlock, Moira sometimes believed she felt the dead woman’s presence. But it was not any manner of haunting, only a trace of perfume or the feeling of being watched. And today, Moira hoped that the departed spirit was in residence, for when she entered the chamber, it was to find Gloriana Westlake boldly inspecting the alterations. Standing in the doorway, Lady Matlock went unnoticed as her visitor was upon all fours, peering at the workmanship of a newly upholstered chair. Apparently finding it satisfactory, the woman moved on to a glass-fronted cabinet, opening the door with a wrench before taking up one object after another that had been arranged within. Of those precious memories, were some finely crafted items from her time in Ottawa. The urge to snatch her things from the interloper’s grasp was nearly overwhelming, but Moira did not forget herplace. She was mistress here, and therefore, not to be challenged or denied.
“An Ojibwa medicine bag,” she supplied, startling Gloriana Westlake so much that the woman dropped the beaded leather pouch.
