~Twenty-three~
“Aunt? I did not expect to see you here, what a lovely surprise, and you as well, Lord Westlake. Did Lady Gloriana accompany you?” he lied pleasantly, acutely aware that of late, lying seemed to come easy.
Of the younger lady, he had entirely no interest, only the hope that she had remained elsewhere.
Unfortunately, the inquiry seemed to please Lord Westlake, but before he could reply, his aunt launched her assault of displeasure.
“It is about time you returned to take responsibility of Redbyrne! Were you going to let the place fall to ruin whilst you galivanted about with the militia? Your presence is required here, not on some lark orchestrated by General Higgenthorpe!”
“Aunt, you know these matters take time, and until my replacement is found, I am still a colonel in His Majesty’s Army, something for which I shall not apologize,” he replied quietly.
The continued insults stung, for it again showed his aunt’s true colors.
All that ever mattered to Lady Catherine de Bourgh was social rank and money, for even as he voiced his opinion, she continued to rant, as if he was but a child, and not the Earl of Matlock.
“Mrs. Henry has informed me that small party will be arriving, and that I am not to interfere. Interfere? The nerve! How my dear brother tolerated such impudence is beyond me. Arriving by tomorrow no less! What have you planned? Nothing? What meals? Entertainments? I suppose you expected that Bennet woman to serve as your hostess? Really? It is not to be bourne! I cannot have my childhood home sullied so but none of the servants will lift a finger to my direction!”
“Whatever Mrs. Darcy has decided has my full approval. And may I remind you; you are a guest? You have not resided at Redbyrne for over twenty years, and whilst I do not wish to ever make you feel unwelcome, Rosings is your home. It is there that you are mistress, not here. Someday, if I am fortunate, Redbyrne will have a new mistress. And of that, I believe we can both agree, that a household can have but one mistress...”
“That is exactly what Lord Westlake and I have been discussing...”
“Do not start that now. I am not bound to honor any agreement made by either my father or brother, and that is final. Whomever I marry, and whenever, it will be a lady of my choosing, not someone else. Is that clear?”
Matlock had not realized that he had raised his voice until finished, and then, the silence was deafening as Lord Westlake and his aunt smiled at him.
Smiled! It was as if they had both been suddenly possessed by some strange madness.
However, it was not his outburst that had given them pause, it was the sudden return of Lady Gloriana Westlake to the parlor.
Having excused herself earlier on the premise of resting, she now stood in the open doorway.
Turning, Matlock too, found his mouth agape as he stared at what could only be deemed a transformation of epic proportions.
Gone was any semblance of the former woman, with her propensity for gaudy gowns adorned with black lace.
Nor, was her hair its overly bright, and obviously unnatural, shade of gold, but now a lustrous chestnut.
Also, absent was any overwhelming floral scent, something that would have announced her presence long before any physical manifestation.
In it its place was something else altogether, and had he not known the previous version, he might well have been enchanted by the vision now before him.
However, Richard Fitzwilliam was not an idiot, or anyone’s fool.
He easily saw how artfully his aunt had placed her hand in all of this.
Lady Gloriana Westlake had made an excellent attempt to replicate the finer attributes of not only Moira Blackpool, but also Elizabeth Darcy.
But it was all a facade, for he knew all too well what lay underneath, and no pretty veneer could hide it forever.
Regaining the temporary loss of his composure, he merely bowed, acknowledging her arrival.
“Lady Gloriana...do excuse me, I have but just arrived and am not fit company. I trust you and your father will be joining us for dinner?”
It was all he could manage before walking away, especially when the greater desire was to order all of them out of his house. But that would only allow his aunt a measure of satisfaction, something that was not to be had.
Two hours later, bathed and rested, Matlock joined the Darcys in the library.
It was a favorite chamber of his, and rarely utilized by his father or brother, allowing for a sense of familiarity that was all his own long since before the tragedy.
It was also the one place in which his aunt never dared without invitation, but as to why, he never knew and now, was content that it was so.
“So, what did you think of Lady Gloriana’s alteration?” Darcy inquired, a smile twitching at the side of his mouth as he tried to hide his mirth.
“Gads man! What are they thinking? You cannot make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, no matter the finery,” he replied, causing Elizabeth to sputter her own drink.
She supposed that she should have found the imitation flattering, but instead, felt mocked, as if she too, were wearing some sort of costume, waiting to be unmasqued.
The animosity between herself and Lady Catherine should have dissipated with time, but while Elizabeth had tried to make allowances for a cantankerous and lonely old woman, Darcy’s aunt seemed to thrive on trouble.
Clearing her throat to evacuate the trapped liquid, she finally spoke, voicing what she hoped would be logical consolation.
“What does it matter? Moira Blackpool will be here tomorrow and I daresay, there will be no comparisons.”
“No indeed, for my mind is settled and when the opportunity arises, I shall propose...if she will have me.”
“I cannot imagine any reason why she would decline,” Darcy assured, but glanced at his own wife for approval.
It had taken two proposals to secure Elizabeth’s hand, for the first had been so badly botched, he thought he might never succeed.
But of this acceptance, Matlock was not entirely secure, for the lovely widow would be marrying not only the Earl of Matlock, but also a full Colonel, still bound to His Majesty’s service.