~Six~ #2
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 the main 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.
“I doubt it. As far as I can recall, Lord Westlake and my father were more enemies than friends, but I never knew why.”
“Perhaps we are about to find out,” Elizabeth suggested lightly.
The words, said with the hope of some amusement, but no one was prepared for what was to come.
Inside, taking tea with Lady Catherine, sat not one visitor, but two.
The first, and older man, with full white whiskers to match his wild thatch of hair, appeared to be in some sort of argument with both his hostess and the woman who appeared to be his daughter.
Of her, Elizabeth studied the ‘lady’ with curiosity.
Her clothes bespoke wealth and privilege, but there was a snugness of the gown about the bodice, such that the sheer fichu did little to hide, offering more than a proper view of her decolletage for such an early hour and purpose.
Even had the occasion been that of a ball, it would have been scandalous.
The deep violet and black trim only enhanced the effect, but Elizabeth supposed it was an attempt to show respect for the recently deceased.
Strange indeed, for the wearing of mourning was only expected for immediate family, and even as a relation by marriage, Elizabeth had chosen to forego the custom.
“Hypocritical,” she had declared when Darcy had donned his own black coat, and had received a wry acknowledgement for her opinion.
“It would make Richard stand out if he were alone,” her husband insisted.
The guilt, subtle but effective, had made her choose a lavender confection over a preferred rose pink.
For Richard Fitzwilliam, Mrs. Darcy would concede, but only during their stay at Redbyrne.
As for Lady Catherine, the woman had merely donned jet-black accessories, for as a widow, she normally wore combinations of silver and grey.
However, that too, was mere pretense, for the shade not only suited her, but was costly.
As ever, Lady Catherine de Bourgh would ensure her status was known, even to strangers.
But today, the old woman hardly paid any notice to the return of Elizabeth Darcy and her nephews, so deep in heated conversation she was. Or, to be perfectly truthful, it was more of an argument, one that Lady Catherine fully intended to win.
“But my dear Lord Westlake, surely you do not expect the current Earl of Matlock to honor any contract of marriage made by his brother. It is highly irregular, not to mention unseemly. We are a house of mourning, and must delay any decision as important as this for at least a year.”
This declaration, a grave contrast to the demands made upon the previous evening, caused no small wonder, and the stiff refusal elicited the emergence of a black lace handkerchief by the young woman who dabbed at imaginary tears. Whatever the cause, it was one that clearly warranted interruption.
“Pray, do excuse me, Aunt, but what is the matter?”
“Oh! Lord Matlock! You have finally returned, and not a moment too soon, for Lord Westlake has just made me aware of an agreement between your dear father and brother that is most distressing. Tell him, tell him it cannot be upheld.”
“I do not see how I can, for I am unaware of any agreement made with my family, living or otherwise.”
Having made an initial statement, a fresh flood of tears came, accompanied by deep sobs.
To Elizabeth, it was all more of the same pathetic ploy, but she said nothing, and kept her countenance impassive, nodding only when introductions were made.
Lady Gloriana Westlake, realizing she was now under scrutiny by someone not easily fooled, ceased her crying, the handkerchief simultaneously disappearing.
But once done with the required formalities, Lord Westlake continued his demands, this time, directing all efforts towards the man who was now his peer.
This shift, reducing Lady Catherine to naught but an observer, resulted in a deep frown of discontent, much to Elizabeth’s amusement.
However, she continued to hold her expressions.
Having been forced to take the sole remaining seat that was not outside the conversation, that being beside Lady Gloriana, and upon a settee that was far too small for comfortable accommodation between strangers, Elizabeth now found herself suffering the additional misery of far too much scent.
Her own eyes threatened to water, as the cloying musky floral tickled her nose, serving as a distraction from the argument presented.
“Your father and I...it was agreed, the documents signed and the date set. Your brother and my daughter are to be wed...WERE to be wed! See here...all is in order, I demand it be honored.”
To this, the new Earl of Matlock merely shrugged as he silently scanned the proffered papers.
Indeed, all was in order, that is all but the transference of Lady Gloriana’s twenty-thousand-pound dowry, set to be paid the day before the nuptials.
It was a considerable relief that his father or brother had not accepted the monies early, for that might well have presented a problem.
Redbyrne, he knew from the steward’s astute accounting, was profitable, but much of the funds were tied up in hard assets, not ready cash.
Of that, there was a bit over ten thousand in the London bank his family used.
Had either man spent such a sum, he would have been hard pressed to pay it back.
But as that was not the case, he merely smiled and handed the documents back.
“Indeed, all is in order. And if your daughter has no objections to marrying a dead man, then I shall not stand in her way. However, I doubt the vicar will feel the same.”
Elizabeth, catching her husband’s amused countenance, saw Darcy quickly turn away, feigning a cough as outrage filled the features of Lord Westlake, turning his face an unhealthy shade of crimson followed by a fresh onset of tears from Lady Gloriana, but this time, they were real.
Continuing, as the elder man tried to regain his composure, Richard Fitzwilliam raised a hand to silence any further protest.
“My good sir, I regret that this has happened. We have all suffered a great loss, giving credence to the practice of mourning. Perhaps, I may yet marry, for that is an obligation of one now in my position, but not yet, and definitely not simply to honor the promise of a dead man, be he father, brother, or stranger. It would be doing both myself and your daughter a grave injustice. No sir, I fully intend to wait the minimum of a year before such an important decision is made, and no less. If perhaps during that time, your daughter and I form some manner of affection...well, who can say?”
It was a truce, an olive branch without obligation, and one that preserved the lady’s honor. Death had a way of hurting many, causing Elizabeth to feel a twinge of pity, for whatever the outcome, Lady Gloriana Westlake would be the loser.