~Twenty-nine~
As the weeks passed, in a flurry of carpenters and stonemasons, the fortress known as Redbyrne began its metamorphosis into a place that anyone, including the Earl of Matlock, would be proud to call his own.
Stately and tasteful, it retained much of the original medieval features, but now, with the installment of modern indoor plumbing facilities, far more comfortable for both master and servant.
“No more hauling heavy buckets to fill the bath,” Moira declared, but her husband was far more amused by the improvements to the necessary.
The stone foundations remained, but with the addition of a tank that held water, the lingering odor washed away with each use.
Having suffered the misery of trench latrines out on the militia’s campsites, this was pure luxury.
That, and the newlyweds had finally settled upon a suite of chambers to call their own.
Now furnished in shades of forest green and deep rose pink, the velvets and brocades were a happy medium to suit both husband and wife.
“Not too feminine?” Lady Matlock had inquired with slight worry when she presented the fabric selections for her husband’s approval.
“Not at all,” he replied, but honestly cared not, as long as she was there, for despite custom, they would not keep separate bedchambers.
If the mistress of the house desired a room of her own, for whatever purpose, there were plenty from which to choose, but they would sleep beside one another.
It was a mutual agreement, one of many that was shared, yet one unknown remained, in the where as well as the when.
Venturing a query, so he might make the best arrangements, Matlock gestured towards a large map of the British Isles and European continent that hung upon the library wall.
“Have you given any consideration to where you might like to spend our wedding holiday?” he inquired, secretly hoping for somewhere where clothing was a minimum.
However, Moira left the choice to him alone.
“I do not have a preference, having only been to the Americas and know nothing of the European Continent. Surprise me?” she suggested.
As it was, the holiday would be short, less than a fortnight as young Francis would be in the care of the Darcys.
And while the Darcys cared not how long the child remained, Moira had never been parted from her son for so long.
Eventually settling upon the southern coast of Portugal, it remained but a dream as no fixed plans could be made.
“It should not be long now,” Matlock insisted, referring to his release from the militia. The six months was nearly gone, and with no word from General Higgenthorpe. Unfortunately, as the month came to an end, the messenger finally came, but the young soldier was not the bearer of glad tidings.
“Colonel Michaels bid me to wait for a reply, and return posthaste,” he declared, snapping his heels and executing a salute as he did so.
Puzzled as to the name supplied, Matlock was but vaguely familiar with that particular man, and then, only by reputation.
A harsh taskmaster, Colonel Charles Michaels was known to be, and resentful of those who came from money or connections.
Having worked his way up the chain of command, there were those who claimed Michaels had taken advantage of the battlefield to ensure his superiors suffered fatal injuries, leaving him all too ready to take their place.
Whether this was true, or simply fueled by jealousy, Matlock could not say, but from the strongly worded letter, it was obvious that things had not improved since he had left.
Was General Higgenthorpe so incapacitated that he could no longer write himself?
Laying the letter open upon his desk, he paced the chamber for some time, deep in contemplation, before ringing for a servant.
“Please fetch Lady Matlock,” he requested, feeling his heart sink at what he must say. But moments later, no words were required as she had seen the arrival of the messenger from a window, added to the crestfallen countenance worn by her husband.
“You must leave...” she began, fighting the tears that threatened but could not fall.
She must be strong for him, no cause for worry, and after reading the letter herself, actually felt relief.
It was not war that called him away, nor dangerous diplomatic meetings with savages, whose motives could not be known.
“I must, but it will not be forever, just to ease the transition of leadership in the absence of General Higgenthorpe,” he insisted, drawing her close, feeling that he had told yet, another lie.
If Colonel Michaels was to be his replacement, it would not be easy to let go.
How could he place the lives of so many men in the hands of one who cared nothing for them?
He could not say when his return would be, and yet, his lovely bride smiled at him, understanding completely.
“I will be perfectly fine,” she insisted, “but I cannot say that you will recognize the place when you return,” she added, a teasing glint in her eye to replace the tears.
“Perhaps I can ask Elizabeth to come? Just for a little while?” he offered, but received an adamant refusal.
“No, I shall have plenty with which to occupy myself, and besides, it is not fair to Mrs. Darcy after she has done so much for us already. Truly...and I shall write to you every day, with a full report of my exploits so you feel as if you are here. Worry not about me...but for your men, as a soldier should.”
Her words were firm, providing the solace he needed, even if they proved false, and by nightfall, he was gone. “The sooner I leave, the sooner I can return,” Matlock promised, kissing his countess with an ardor that must sustain him, caring not who witnessed it.