“Oh! I did not mean to ...” Gloriana began, flustered at having been caught snooping about.
“It is perfectly fine, otherwise, why should anyone put something on display, if not to have others show interest?” Moira replied, amused by the discomfort.
Smiling with obvious relief, Gloriana retrieved the item, carefully placing it back beside several other things that she could not identify. “All from your time in Ottawa?”
“Yes, we were at an outpost south of the city. Quite primitive by English standards.”
“I have only been as far as the Isle of Wight. What was it like to be so near savages?”
“Savages? I cannot say that I encountered any. The Ojibwa are a very peaceful people, with a vibrant culture that I found fascinating, and in someways, very much like our own. Only the women have far more freedom. For one, many women own their own property.”
Interrupted by the arrival of a cart laden with several plates of delicacies in addition to a fragrant, steaming teapot, Gloriana Westlake shook her head in denial.
“I cannot imagine it, property or not. You will think me shallow, but I cannot do without a certain level of luxury.”
“Not shallow, only accustomed to a particular way of life. In the Americas, there is a vast diversity. I often miss it.”
“I suppose you miss your husband as well...”
To this personal query, Moira nearly dropped her teacup, for it was clear that Lady Gloriana Westlake had meant her first husband and not the current. However, she recovered quickly.
“Lord Matlock should be home by Christmas, perhaps you and your father will join us for some of the festivities? As the house is technically still in mourning, it will be a limited celebration, but you are welcome.”
It was an offer that she had never intended to issue, but without a more immediate plan, the invitation was made. Fortunately, Gloriana shook her head. “I am afraid not. Father prefers Bath for the holidays. We have gone there every year since Mama died.”
To Moira, it sounded like a polite lie, the sort told when one truly does not wish to accept. Afterwards, they sipped the tea in silence, waiting for the other to speak, when Francis Blackpool ran into the room, his nurse trailing after.
“Mama!” the boy shouted as he ran to where his mother reached down to embrace him.
“My apologies, Your Grace. Had I known that you had a visitor....” the servant insisted, casting a worried eye in Gloriana’s direction. In the past, whenever that woman visited, it was well known to avoid her at all cost. More than one maid had been slapped, often for infractions more imagined than real.
“He is welcome to remain, for it is nearly time for our afternoon ride,” Lady Matlock soothed, seeing the frantic countenance. The Redbyrne servants knew no fear of their new mistress, butit was obvious that did not apply to those whose reputation preceded her own. Dismissing the girl, Francis Blackpool remained upon his mother’s lap until bid to greet the guest. Sliding down, the small boy bowed solemnly before offering his welcome. “So nice to see you again, Lady Gloriana. I trust you are well?”
The words, when spoken from one of such tender years, were endearing, for he had practiced much.
“I am well indeed, and you? Master Blackpool?” Gloriana returned politely, but the exchange was false on her behalf. She was of the belief that children, once produced, were best cared for by others, and not to be seen unless absolutely necessary. Sticky fingers, always in the mouth, made horrid messes and this was long after they destroyed one’s figure. However, once the conversation was begun, there seemed to be no end to the child’s idle prattle.
“Someday, when Papa returns, I shall learn to ride a pony. He shall be a wonderful pony and I will name him Ajax, but for now, Mama drives Hercules. Yesterday, he wanted to gallop, but Mama shouted at him.”
“A deer jumped across the lane, and Francis, I did not shout,” Moira corrected, but the boy giggled in defiance. Rolling her eyes, Lady Matlock ignored her son and continued, “We have made a regular habit of going out after tea. Trying to get to know the place, and the tenants.”
“Ah, I suppose that is but one of the many duties that is required of a countess, and I should not keep you further,” Gloriana insisted, rising from her chair. “But do be careful, the lanes and paths can be treacherous, especially after the rains. Sharp curves with steep drop-offs, it would be most unfortunate if you or the boy were hurt.”
Moira only nodded, but she felt the warning to be more of a threat. Was she not safe upon the grounds of what was now her home? Or, was she imagining it? Looking for malice that was not there? Perhaps it was merely due to the terrible accident that had claimed both the previous Lord Matlock, and Richard’s brother, Edward? Lost in thought with so many questions that could not be asked, she only half listened until Gloriana posed a query of her own.
“I do hope we can be friends? It can get very lonely out in the country...”
To this, Moira smiled, but made no agreement, if this was her only choice in friends, she much preferred the solitude of nature.
*****
Once inside the privacy of her carriage, Lady Gloriana Westlake stared up at the façade of Redbyrne. What changes had been made in such a short time. Indeed, Richard Fitzwilliam had been generous, not like the tight-fisted man she called father. Having not succeeded in finding a husband, when added to the expense of a London season, Lord Westlake had given his daughter an ultimatum.
“You have until Candlemas to find a husband, and until you do, there will be no more pocket money, not one penny! And if there is no one appropriate who will take you, then perhaps the good sisters at St. Bartholomew’s will have you?”
It had not been an idle threat, for Gloriana had seen a letter, half composed, to the mother superior, inquiring as to the price of admitting a novice. Shuddering at the prospect of a life spent upon her knees and wearing the coarse grey habit, she had nearly destroyed the correspondence. However, her father would simply write another. Lord Westlake was quite persistentwhen there was something he wanted, and at the moment, it was money. Her fortune, only to be touched upon her marriage or death, would be forfeit to a convent, with whatever remained, to her father or uncle. Even in the event of her father’s death, she could never control her own money. The holiday to Bath was her last opportunity, but only invalids and undesirables went to that city to find a wife, hardly the sort she wanted. Thinking of Richard Fitzwilliam, Earl of Matlock, perhaps her father was right, and she had not tried hard enough to win him. It would be the first thing upon which they had ever agreed, and something to consider, but wasn’t changing her hair and dress enough? Urging her horse forward, Lady Gloriana smiled as her mind turned with the possibilities. Was it ever truly too late? All that stood in her way was Moira Blackpool, and that, was easy enough to rectify. And once gone, she would be there to console the grieving Earl of Matlock.
~Thirty-two~
