~Seventeen~
But by the next morning, that peace had all but vanished with the arrival of the day’s newspapers.
Among them, and much to Darcy’s disgust, were several of those publications whose content was limited to society gossip.
Of Elizabeth’s insistence that valuable information was gleaned from such refuse, he could not agree, but nor, would he deny her a bit of amusement.
“At least the maids can use it for kindling afterwards,” he muttered, handing his wife her copy of the ‘London Whisper’ before hiding behind his own papers.
Elizabeth was long used to this gentle ribbing, and paid her husband no mind, eagerly scanning the pages for any report on Lady Drummond’s ball.
There had been several that same evening, but the debut of Ariana Talmadge earned the second page, behind only the newest fashions worn by Her Majesty, Queen Charlotte.
At first, Elizabeth was pleased by the review, as it noted the elegant dress and manners of Miss Talmadge as well as her proficiency in dancing.
But after additional compliments to the décor and refreshments, the article got down to the sort of gossip that half of London drank in like fine wine.
Unfortunately, and not altogether unexpected, the Earl of Matlock was directly mentioned, and it was hardly charitable.
If anything, whomever it was that provided the fodder was decidedly holding a negative opinion of Richard Fitzwilliam.
“Oh dear...this does not bode well, and poor Caroline! Oh! How she must be raging!”
“What is it?” Darcy inquired, lowering papers enough to peer over at his wife’s sudden exclamations of distress. Reading aloud, Elizabeth repeated the distasteful words, glad that Lord Matlock was absent from the house that day.
“It seems the new Earl of Matlock has a penchant for old maids and married women...Has no one told him that the season is for marriage, not mistresses? But then some of the attendees may be agreeable to such arrangements as they now in their tenth season without success, but what is a husband when one possesses a hideous orange gown? Surely, the consolation must be adequate....”
“Caroline was the only person present wearing that color. I too, had thought it unflattering, but you know how she is, and try as she would, he managed to avoid dancing with her.”
“Indeed, I do know, and there is no help for that, but Richard need not see that rubbish, toss it in the fire and be done before he returns,” Darcy suggested and believing it to be the end of the matter, returned to his reading.
But it was already too late, for Lord Matlock had already heard. Having accepted an early luncheon with Lord Cavanaugh to discuss his first Parliamentary session, it was with considerable delight that the old man informed him.
“You are making quite a stir, young man, but I do hope that is the extent of it. Your brother’s reputation, God have mercy on his soul, was less than discreet.”
“I have no intentions of being fuel for the gossips, but if my choice of dance partner is cause for talk, all of London must be suffering from extreme boredom,” he had replied, and hastily changed the subject to the troubles with Ireland and France.
Unfortunately, his mind continued to dwell upon the unkind words.
Even his snub of Miss Bingley had been noted, was there no limit to the cruelty?
And had he danced with her, then what? At least Moira Blackpool had not be a direct target, for of her, the mere memory of her fingers innocently touching his...
well, that too, was an exaggeration. Taking his leave from Lord Cavanaugh, Matlock had no desire to return to the confines of the Darcy townhouse.
Although finely appointed, with every comfort that money could buy, he simply was unaccustomed to spending so many hours inside.
Even when suffering the unpleasant annual visit to his Aunt Catherine in Kent, there had been the escape of the lovely grounds and woods of Rosings Park.
Here, in the heart of the city, aside from the small green spaces around which the rows of townhouses stood, there was little of nature to be had.
Perhaps that was why Kew Gardens had been built?
As an escape to the country for those who could not leave the city?
He hardly knew, but hailed a cab and was soon wandering the pathways, dodging nursemaids pushing prams and dowagers trailing small dogs.
Eventually, the elaborate rose garden called his name, sending tendrils of scent to ease his troubles.
If only Redbyrne possessed such a thing?
But with a natural rocky landscape, there was little open ground for formal gardens.
His mother, when first wed, had tried her hand and failed repeatedly.
Now, only the hardy native plants provided color against the grey stone.
Perhaps he would try again? A small plot, dug out of the rock and filled with fertile soil?
Snorting a laugh at the irony of making improvements so soon, he nearly passed the woman and child without notice.
If not for the boy’s squeals of delight when several ducks began chasing him, he would have continued on, lost in his own thoughts.
But the boy was a sight that made him pause, for if he married, there would be children...
“Francis...be careful!” a familiar voice warned as the child ran near the edge of a long reflecting pool as he tried to elude the waterfowl.
Torn between watching the child and discovering if he was just imagining things, Matlock decided on the latter, and hiding his happiness, spied the woman who had plagued his thoughts, sitting upon nearby bench.
“Mrs. Blackpool! How good to see you again,” he declared, just as the boy abandoned his new friends.
“Mama! Did you see? Did you see me?”
For a moment, his heart skipped a beat, for although he was aware of her widow status, the thought of there being any children had not occurred to him. But it was only a moment, and his smile returned.
“What a handsome boy you have,” he said before she could acknowledge him, and crouched down to the child’s level.
“Who are you?” Francis Blackpool demanded, now standing defensively between his mother and the stranger.
“A friend of your mother’s...and perhaps now yours as well?”