Of this demand, Darcy could not refuse, but knew that the placement of children and servants at Pemberley was highly irregular, if not unheard of. Many parents preferred to not be disturbed by the noise and odors associated with children, much less have servants residing so close by. However, he doubted anyone presently at Redbyrne would care, much less dare to deny him.
“I shall speak to Mrs. Henry about it today, but I had rather hoped our stay to be relatively short. Even if we proceed with this quest to find a wife for my cousin, it cannot be done from Derbyshire,” he replied, making no attempt to hide his remorse.
Elizabeth knew her husband had no great love for the crowded capital city, but with the summer season only a few weeks away, to London they must go. Fortunately, the Darcy family had long kept a townhouse in fashionable Belmonte Square, the perfect place to begin any search.
“Agreed, but what will Richard think of this? He has not been home more than a fortnight, and with the passing of his father and brother so recent, it may be rather unseemly for him to appear in society.”
“Much to his advantage, I should think, but if you are finished with this young man’s feeding, I suggest we ask Richard directly. It is half six, not too early for breakfast if I recall the hours kept at Redbyrne correctly. Uncle Matlock was an early riser, perhaps the only trait we shared.”
“Well, from what I have heard about him, that may well be a good thing.”
Ringing for the nursemaid, mother and father both kissed their child before departing, informing the servant of the impending change to accommodations.
“You may use this chamber, for today. I shall not have my son return to what passes for a nursery.
To this, Miss Andrew’s relief was all too apparent, for in addition to the musty scent, she had listened to the scratching of some unknown creature all throughout the night. Sleeping upon a cot in her mistress’ dressing room, or even the floor, would be preferable. And with a promise to return before luncheon, the Darcys departed, seeking out their host.
He was, as expected, in the breakfast room, where a fine repast awaited. But of this, the Earl of Matlock did not partake, save for a cup of strong coffee, as was his wont.
“My apologies, but after years in the militia, I find myself quite content to forego eating until noon,” he insisted, but in truth, his digestion was still unsettled from the previous evening, and the very thought of food put him off. Never before had his aunt such an effect upon him, but then, her attentions were generally focused elsewhere. Suddenly, he completely understood his cousin Anne’s constant state of illness, for the cause was not a weak constitution, but her own mother. However, he was not about to allow one person to ruin his life and forced a smile that he hoped was genuine.
“I had hoped to show you both around the estate. Even for you, Darcy, there have been many changes since you were last here, and more to be made, upon which I desire your opinion.”
Elizabeth eyed him with curiosity over her teacup, for she knew a lie when it was told. Growing up with four sisters, lying was as commonplace as the weather, and just as variable. What this man wanted was an escape, from his own home. Gesturing to where he stood before the large windows, Elizabeth agreed.
“Perhaps we might begin out of doors? The weather seems to be agreeable.”
“You and I are of a similar mind, Mrs. Darcy. I have already taken the liberty of ordering the open carriage for your comfort.”
“My thanks, Lord Matlock,” she replied, returning the unaccustomed formality. To prevent confusion, Elizabeth had previously only used Christian names to address her husband and cousin by marriage, and now, raised an eyebrow in amusement.
“Oh no! Not that! I keep looking over my shoulder for my father whenever anyone calls me ‘Lord Matlock’ or ‘Your Grace’. I suppose it will require some getting used to.”
“Indeed, and you must, for if we are to find you a wife before Aunt Catherine does, it will require considerable socialization. That is, unless you wish to wait until she invites every suitable candidate here, and parades them before you like cattle,” Darcy added, but having put down his table linen, rose and took his wife’s hand.
“At one time, I too, was subject to this charade, and I must agree, your new title will send every Mama with an unmarried daughter scrambling for favor,” Elizabeth declared, adding a grimace of distaste. But while her countenance displayed the dislike for such antics, her mind was beset with pity. Pity for the desperate unmarried girls, whose fortune was the sole appealing attribute. Pity for the conniving social climbers, who craved the idea of becoming a countess. And above all, pity for the poor fellow who would be saddled with someone for whom he held no affection, and perhaps even less regard.
Taking her place in the carriage, with Darcy securely beside her, Richard Fitzwilliam took the opposing seat, facing backwards as he began a monologue describing the history and features of Redbyrne. The carriage, rolling along at a sedate pace, allowed for admiration of random points, as well as easy conversation. It was only when the family cemetery, with its haphazard leaning stones, that a silence struck. As it was near the road, surrounded by an ironwork fence, there was no possible avoidance of what must be acknowledged. Clearing his throat, Darcy bravely ventured a suggestion, his voice soft, allowing for an easy refusal that would never come. Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam was far too honorable to shirk what must be done, regardless of personal feelings.
“Oughtn’t we pay our respects?”
Of this request, Richard sighed in resignation, having been absent for the funerary ceremonies, he had made every logical excuse to avoid the place. However, it would take his mind off finding a wife, or so he hoped. Bidding the driver to stop, they alighted and led the way past rows of long dead Matlocks and those who had served them faithfully. The cemetery, divided by a brick walkway, separated family from servant with the family side dominated by an imposing marble structure. There, unaffected by the earth or the weather, were the previous Earls and their wives.
“Only room enough for two, and even that, is running out. I may be the last to be laid to rest here,” he explained, and gestured to where a rectangle of freshly packed dirt held the remains of his brother. As yet, no headstone had been erected, only a small spray of decaying flowers suggested any manner of mourning.
“Pemberley has something similar, but not nearly as large,” Elizabeth added, having never truly considered where she would one day, reside in death. Tracing a finger over the most recent inscription upon the tomb, it was the name of the previous Countess of Matlock, Christina Jane Mordyke Fitzwilliam. It was more than fifteen years since the lady had passed on, and Elizabeth knew very little about her. Feeling the shadow of the current earl block out the sun as he gazed over her shoulder, Richard smiled sadly.
“My mother, the only person who could ever keep Father in line. But when she died, I suppose a bit of him did as well, leaving a bitter man who left the upbringing of his sons to strangers.”
This too, was more than she had known, and would remain so as Richard wandered to where Darcy now stood, whispering softly over the grave of Edward Fitzwilliam. As to what he could possibly be saying, Elizabeth did not know, but left thegentlemen to a moment of privacy. They had been family, but never to her. No, she had, and would have forever remained, an outcast. Instead, she wandered the servant’s quarters, wondering at the names and modest inscriptions. Some had passed in youth, earning “beloved son” or “devoted daughter”, while others, living long and hopefully fulfilling lives, would be known to any visitor as “an excellent groom and loyal servant” or “Mother, you will be missed, but remembered”. The date upon the last was nearly a century ago, and Elizabeth doubted sadly that anyone ever remembered poor Anna Dunn, age 35, lost alongside her unborn child.
Eventually, she was rejoined, and as they departed, the mood lightened, with Richard Fitzwilliam making jests as to what sort of ladies his aunt would find, for none believed that Lady Catherine de Bourgh would cease in her quest, no matter how many disagreements were to occur. Only when the Earl of Matlock was securely wed, would that stop, then she would set upon some other unfortunate to save from a disastrous match. Of this thought, Elizabeth smiled, for as yet, her adversary had not been successful, nor would she be now. But as if by mutual, silent agreement, the subject was eventually discarded, and the rest of the tour spent in admiration of the estate and grounds. Redbyrne, while no comparison to either Pemberley in grandeur, or Longbourn in pastoral serenity, was still a place of which to be proud. Comprised of dense forest broken by rolling pasture and trickling burns, it was ruggedly beautiful. What sort of woman would want to live here? No lady accustomed to the entertainments and shops of London would be long content. It would require someone with a love of the out of doors, one who had a habit of forgetting her bonnet, and was unmindful of mud.
“Much like yourself,” she acknowledged privately, for by now, they had made a circuit of the estate, arriving back upon themain drive. Here, once again, Elizabeth was taken in by the approach, but this time, there was a large, fine, carriage before the entrance. Bearing an elaborate gold embossed crest, she knew it must belong to someone of considerable rank.
“Lord Lynwood Westlake,” Fitzwilliam supplied, but there was no joy in his voice.
“A friend of your father’s? Come to give his condolences?” Darcy ventured, unable to recall the face of the man, or any other details beyond being similar in age to his late uncle.
