~Twenty-five~
Just before tea the following day, nearly everyone had arrived, and for Lord Matlock and the Darcys, the procession of carriages, followed by the formalities of greetings and seeing to accommodations, the day was endless and exhausting.
To make matters worse, the conveyance bearing Lady Drummond and her granddaughter, as well as Mrs. Blackpool and her son, was near the last, causing much undue worry for all of Matlock’s plans.
“Suppose something has happened? Should we send a rider? Perhaps they had decided not to come after all?” he fretted, whispering one concern after another until the carriage was finally spotted turning down the drive.
“They have come...finally!” he declared, his voice a mixture of relief and elation that could not be disguised.
Perhaps even better, was the fact that Lady Catherine, after the arrival of the Duke of Marlborough, chose to remain indoors, feeling no others were worthy of her rank.
But the duke’s sons, eager to greet Miss Talmadge, lingered, causing no small measure of speculation as Elizabeth and Darcy pondered which one would win the young lady’s hand.
If not for being led to believe that Ariana favored the younger, they might have placed a wager.
But when Mrs. Blackpool emerged with her son, the contest was forgotten.
Having dismissed the footman, Matlock opened the carriage door himself, handing down Miss Talmadge first, and then her grandmother, both of whom were made welcome, but not without criticism from Lady Drummond as she sighed impatiently in regard to Moira Blackpool.
“The child should have been left in London, where there are servants to care for him. She is here as Ariana’s chaperone when I am unavailable...” she began, but was silenced by Matlock’s glare of disapproval.
“Mrs. Blackpool is here as my guest, as is her son, did my invitation not make that perfectly clear, Lady Drummond?”
It was a query that required no reply. Having lifted Francis in his arms to allow for an unobstructed view of the fortress, he now placed all his attentions upon a more worthy companion.
“It’s a castle! Do you have a dragon?” Francis Blackpool demanded, fear and anticipation upon his countenance as he gazed upwards.
“It is a fortress, but as for dragons, there is only human variety,” Matlock replied, the innuendo clear.
But by now, there was only the child’s mother to hear, for Darcy, in his magical way of mollifying even the worst, had managed to placate Lady Drummond with an offer to personally see to her comfort.
“We nearly did not come. Aunt Emma was mortified that we were included, kept on insisting that there was some misunderstanding.”
“Why am I not surprised, and now, there are two of them. My aunt Catherine is here as well, and she has brought her own minions. However, I am determined to not let anyone spoil things, and now that you are here, my happiness cannot be ruined by miserable old women. Perhaps they will find kindred spirits in one another?”
Unfortunately, despite this hope, and an otherwise agreeable afternoon, the struggle of wills continued.
More than once during tea, sharp words were exchanged between Lady Catherine and Lady Drummond, each of whom tried to preside over the entire gathering.
Tolerance of the elderly, while an admirable trait, had its limits and even Elizabeth’s patience was tested.
“They both should be sent to their chambers without dinner,” she whispered to her husband as Darcy made his third circle of the room.
As a man who generally disliked large gatherings of any kind, he had been an excellent host, allowing Matlock freedom to pursue Mrs. Blackpool in peace.
Or, so they believed, but when it came time for the ladies to retire before dinner, more ugliness was overheard.
This time, the two old ladies were in agreement as they levied criticisms against Moira Blackpool.
“You embarrass me, girl! Throwing yourself at Lord Matlock like some hoyden! I have a mind to send you packing back to London...or worse! Perhaps you have a longing to return to the wilds of Ottawa?” Lady Drummond snapped, her gnarled fingers gripping the tender flesh of Moira’s upper arm with enough force to make the younger woman flinch.
“Indeed, but what can one expect? The men in my family are known for their dalliances, but when it comes to marriage...that is another matter entirely. Do not be such a fool as to think he would ever seriously consider you. The future Countess of Matlock must be of unquestionable reputation,” Lady Catherine insisted, her eyes examining Moira’s plain lavender gown in distaste.
Having overheard the entire exchange, Elizabeth was torn.
On one hand, she could not bear to witness such cruelty, having been the brunt of similar insults, but nor could she do so without fear of retaliation.
It was obvious that Mrs. Blackpool would be punished in some way, yet what could be done?
Should she tell Darcy and Matlock? Or, should she mind her own?
If Moira Blackpool was to ever join this family and have any sense of peace, she must learn to stand up to those who would cause her misery.
Unfortunately, the price of such might be too high.
Thinking back to the day when she had defied Lady Catherine de Bourgh, Elizabeth knew that she had been in a far better place.
She had a home, a family, and no child who was dependent upon her alone, for their welfare.
No, Moira Blackpool would suffer, for a mother did anything that was necessary for their child.
Frustrated, Elizabeth chose the best option, but as fate would have it, the gentlemen had decided to go riding, leaving her unable to tell Matlock or Darcy.
And hours later, as the guests assembled for dinner, the noticeable absence of Moria Blackpool proved that despite Matlock’s invitation, the lady was still treated like a servant.
“Where is Mrs. Blackpool? I do hope she is not unwell,” he inquired, hoping that she was merely late, or had somehow lost her way.
“I am afraid that my granddaughter’s chaperone will not be joining us for meals,” Lady Drummond replied, choosing her words to ensure that Moira Blackpool’s status was clear to everyone.
“Whyever not?”
“A mother’s primary duty is to that of her child. Mrs. Blackpool is tending to her son. Surely, Lord Matlock, you realize that not everyone is able to engage a nurse. People of a certain class see to their own children,” Lady Drummond drawled, waving a hand in dismissal.
Matlock did not reply, but his countenance wore his displeasure.
If it was a war Lady Drummond wanted, he was happy to oblige, especially when he held the home advantage.
Excusing himself, he left the chamber, casting a glance at Elizabeth Darcy who nodded her understanding.
If necessary, they would dine without him, and let everyone wonder as to why.
Taking the stairs by twos, he soon reached the chamber he had selected for Mrs. Blackpool and her son.
Knowing the lady to be much like Mrs. Darcy, and would not wish to be placed far from her child, it had an adjoining sitting room and dressing chamber, the latter having the addition of a child’s cot.
Tapping softly upon the door, it was but moments before she answered, placing a finger to her lips before whispering.
“Francis just fell off to sleep. Too much excitement for one day.”
It was nearly half-eight, an early hour for formal dinners, but long after a child of Francis Blackpool’s years to be abed.
“Lady Drummond says you will not dine with us, is this by her command, or your preference?” he inquired, keeping his own voice low.
“I... that is...” she began, her face reddening with embarrassment as to the true reason for her absence.
“What is it, Moira?” he continued, daring the use of her name.
Had they not been the best of company of late?
Or, had he misunderstood completely? Feeling like a fool, he began to apologize, but she pulled him inside the bedchamber, and shut the door.
There, he saw the remains of a dinner, having been brought up several hours ago.
“I cannot leave Francis alone. He may wake, and be frightened in unfamiliar surroundings. His nurse, had she been able to come, would have stayed with him, but there was no room in the carriage....”
“Hmm...how convenient that Lady Drummond would have so many trunks? Well, that problem is easily solved, but perhaps, not until tomorrow, where proper introductions can be made to a replacement. I am sure there are several young girls who would much prefer looking after Francis than answering to the demands of my aunt or Lady Drummond. And if not, or none are deemed suitable, then Master Francis will join us for meals, as will his mother.”
“Oh, please, do not go to so much trouble. It may make matters worse.”
“I do not see how,” he replied, thinking only of the loss of her company. But as she continued to shake her head in refusal, it dawned upon him, causing further embarrassment.
“I am an idiot, and Lady Drummond the ever-crafty manipulator. Well then, that settles it. And whilst I would have preferred a proper setting, for a lady’s bedchamber is hardly appropriate, but as we do have our own chaperone it will suffice, I only hope he approves.”
“Approves? Francis?”
“Indeed,” he insisted, and got down upon one knee before her. “Moira Blackpool, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
His eyes were pleading, but her response was uncertain, an obvious hesitation upon her countenance as she struggled to reply.
“I... that is...you are still a soldier. I rather hoped...”
“You are afraid, and in that, I cannot find fault, for it demonstrates that you return my affections. But it is true, I am still bound by my commission, but not for much longer. Not one day before your arrival at Redbyrne, I was in a meeting with General Higgenthorpe, seeing to the progress on finding my replacement. As yet, one has not been found. I would never lie to you about that, but know that whatever happens, I love you. Can you accept the man, if not the soldier?”
The pause that came seemed to last an eternity, but was finally broken when Moira’s hands reached out to cup his face, lowering her own to meet his lips.
It was her first kiss in nearly five years, and held a passion that had remained in check for far too long.
Love...it required the ultimate sacrifice of one’s heart and for this man, she would risk it again.
“Yes, I will marry you.”
Afterwards, when Matlock had reluctantly returned alone to his dinner guests, Moira Blackpool reflected upon the proposal.
It had not been how she had dreamed it would be, for truthfully, she had not truly thought it possible.
Oh, to be sure, a genuine affection existed between them, but when the chasm of rank and societal expectations was so wide, she had not dared to allow herself to hope.
But now, the deed was done, sealed with a kiss, a kiss that was so different from those bestowed upon her by dear, departed Arthur.
Richard Fitzwilliam was a far different sort, yet in some ways, very much the same.
A soldier, one who placed honor and duty above all else.
Those were the attributes she had admired in Arthur Blackpool, in addition to his dashing handsome features and charming wit.
But it had also been those very things that had gotten him killed, for despite the horrid illness that did the deed, it had been his diplomatic mission to the infected camp that had orchestrated his death.
And now, she would wed another, risking the same.
Only this time, she need not fear being left impoverished should the worst happen.
No, she would be the Countess of Matlock, a thing that brought its own miseries.
Sighing, she smoothed a stray lock of hair from her sleeping son’s face.
Francis needed a father, yet not many men were willing to take on the child of another, even when the man in question was dead.
But there again, Richard Fitzwilliam was different, having developed an easy camaraderie from the first meeting.
She should count her blessings and be content, but somehow, an unsettled feeling would not leave her in peace.
Happiness, it seemed, always had a price, but when would payment be due?