~Seven~
Mollified, the Westlakes took their leave, with no further outbursts and a promise to call again, but the tension was palpable until the carriage rolled away. Only then, did Lady Catherine vent her ire, as well as her disapproval of any arrangement, valid or otherwise.
“Fitzwilliam! Whatever were you thinking to give them any semblance of encouragement? My dear brother must have been mad to agree to such an arrangement! Did you see her hair? Positively unnatural! And all of that scent! One would suspect the chit is not fond of bathing!”
“Oh Aunt! What was I supposed to do? Toss them out? I must admit to having been rather surprised to see you had offered them tea.”
“That was before I knew of their intentions. Imagine! That creature being the next Countess of Matlock? Never! There are far better choices out there, and once my letters have been received, you will have your pick of appropriate young ladies with excellent qualifications.”
With that final word, Lady Catherine withdrew a folded paper from some unknown pocket.
A small colored pencil, much like those used to fill a dance card, was attached by a cord.
However, this was no queue of hopeful partners, but a long list of what society deemed ‘accomplishments’ for the female sector.
Of them, Elizabeth knew she possessed few, but as Lady Catherine voiced those she found lacking in Gloriana Westlake, her sympathies again twinged.
“Posture....a definite slouch. Deportment....unable to control one’s emotions. Appearance...disastrous! A harlot would show better taste....”
At this last, both gentlemen colored slightly, for it was one thing to criticize, but this was an outright attack upon a stranger. Darcy, knowing his dear Elizabeth had probably suffered a similar accounting, was the first to speak against the censure.
“Do you not think you are being rather harsh? The young lady has just lost her fiancé. It is quite natural to be devastated,” he began, but was cut off by a sharp look and an even sharper reply.
“Young lady? By rank perhaps a lady, but young? My dear boy, it is clear that your own poor marriage has addled your senses. Gloriana Westlake is thirty if she is a day! Far too old. It makes one wonder what has kept her unmarried for so long.”
“Old? I am soon to be two and thirty, and hardly without flaws,” Richard Fitzwilliam declared, unwilling to be a mere observer in a discussion of any future bride.
“What you are, matters not, only that you are the Earl of Matlock and in dire need of a wife. Now, if there are no more important matters, I have letters to write, before anyone else turns up with outlandish claims to my family’s birthright.”
And before anything to the contrary could be said, Lady Catherine swept from the parlor, leaving those behind, to shake their heads in wonder.
It had been a most unusual encounter, but one that had shown the need to act.
Of this, Elizabeth’s thoughts had been turning, for she did not wish to see her husband’s cousin, as well as her own dear friend, married to someone he did not want, simply to placate Lady Catherine de Bourgh.
Waiting until they would not be overheard, Elizabeth allowed the breath she had been holding to be released, alongside the tension that had built sitting quietly for nearly an hour.
“I fear, your aunt means what she says, and being in mourning can only delay things for just so long,” she said, hoping her voice did not betray the worry in her mind.
“Agreed, but if Aunt Catherine can have a list of things she deems desirable in a wife, then so can I. However, mine will be far more practical, and weed out those who would make me miserable, and I....her.”
Taking the cue, Darcy took a place at the writing desk, and produced pen and ink. While he would not make any suggestions to the matter, should they be taken with too much obligation, he remained silent, trimming the quill as his wife and cousin discussed the details.
“I cannot dance with any level of proficiency, nor do I wish to learn. I am terrible at small talk, and all those silly false compliments one is compelled to make. A waste of time.”
“I hardly believe dancing is relevant,” Elizabeth began, but stopped short with a frown.
If not for a dance, how was the man before her to make any overtures?
They would need to attend a variety of functions, all of which dancing could well be happening.
Should he not engage anyone, it would appear rather odd.
Instead, she altered her former statement quickly.
“No...it is relevant, but one need not partake in every dance, especially during the mourning period. Save it for those who truly hold your interest. Dancing sends a message.”
Fitzwilliam sighed and nodded, disliking the complexities of society, but grateful to have Elizabeth Darcy for an advisor.
“If I must, then it will be so, but there is one thing upon which I insist, and did not realize it until meeting Lady Gloriana Westlake....” he paused, recalling the desperation in the woman’s eyes, “No disrespect to you, Elizabeth, for you are a rare example of your sex, but I do not wish to court anyone under the age of four and twenty. I feel the disparity in age will not make for mutual happiness. Give me a lady who has experienced a bit of life beyond the schoolroom other than endless parties. Someone who has felt disappointment, perhaps even the pain of loss. Other than that, I have no preferences.”
It was a strange request, and no reason was supplied, nor did either Elizabeth or Darcy inquire, for such a thing was far too personal.
Unfortunately, it was also immeasurable, for what lady made her most intimate feelings public knowledge?
Sighing inwardly, lest she betray the difficulty of the task that lay ahead, Elizabeth merely nodded.
He had paid her the highest of compliments, but that made circumstances all the more complex.
The London season, with its multi-layered marriage market, would be filled with eager potential brides, each putting their best foot forward, and desperately hiding any perceived flaws.
How would they ever sift through the masses and find the right lady?
Was this what Darcy had felt when pressured to marry?
Was that why he eagerly accepted the invitation of a close friend to escape to the countryside, far from the madding crowd?
Yet, it was in Hertfordshire, not London where two hearts had first met, and found one another distasteful.
Would Richard Fitzwilliam, the thirteenth Earl of Matlock suffer the same?
Lost in her thoughts, Elizabeth did not hear her name until it had been repeated.
“My apologies, I was just thinking.”
“Mine as well, for what I have asked of you both may be a miserable, if not impossible task. And while I agree that London is the place, I fear that I will not be able to begin this quest immediately, for I am still bound by my duties to the militia. My leave was granted for a month, but if all is settled here, I should like to return early, if only to request more time.”
“Do you believe it will be granted?” Darcy inquired, knowing that the will of His Majesty’s Army was an unknowable thing.
Earldom or not, his cousin could be refused, even sent overseas, leaving Redbyrne indefinitely in the hands of his steward.
Of Mr. Jeffers management, Darcy had no qualms, but of his aunt’s interference, well, that was an entirely different matter.
Redbyrne needed a strong-willed, and prudent minded mistress just as much as Richard needed a wife, one who would not bow to the demands of Lady Catherine de Bourgh.