~Thirty-one~
The Countess of Matlock stared at her reflection in the wavy mirror over her dressing table.
Did she look any different? It was now two months since her marriage, and one that her new husband had been gone.
How long had it been the first time? Searching her memory, the images of Arthur Blackpool had faded, his countenance but a cloudy visage that smiled sadly from beyond, only to be replaced by that of Richard Fitzwilliam.
Two soldiers, both officers, yet as different as apples and plums. Where one had been solemn and reserved, the other, made her laugh.
“I believe you would like him,” she said aloud, but the spectre to whom she had often spoke said nothing, as usual.
It was only during times of loneliness that Moira resorted to conversing with the dead, and this was one of those times.
For loneliness was a familiar companion, even when surrounded by people.
If not for her son, she might well have gone mad in her isolation.
But that had come to an end when she met Richard Fitzwilliam.
From the first exchanged glance across a crowded restaurant, to the accidental meeting in Kew Gardens, she had found a kindred soul, and with each passing day that they were apart, the pain was severe.
Was this what it meant to truly love? Why had she never felt this way when Arthur was called to duty?
Guilt ridden for acknowledging the truth, she apologized to the invisible spirit.
“I’m sorry Arthur. I admired you, respected you...held great affection for you...but not like this. No, I can honestly say, it was never love.”
But again, silence, no censure or acknowledgement, and eventually Moira Blackpool Fitzwilliam, Countess of Matlock, gave up her musings.
There were far too many demands for her time as workmen continued their transformation of Redbyrne.
And on this particular day, much to her surprise as well as suspicion, she also expected a visitor.
Lady Gloriana Westlake, having sent a note filled with words of hopeful friendship, was expected for tea.
Was she becoming so desperate for company that this was the result?
Oh, there had been others who came, but not those she would ever call friend.
Instead, it was mere curiosity that drove the local landowners to call at Redbyrne, and having satisfied it, generally departed with no expectation of return.
Perhaps Elizabeth Darcy had been right, she should have engaged a lady’s maid, if only for the conversation?
Of Mrs. Darcy, Moira found the woman delightfully candid, and would be proud to foster any continuing friendship, if not for the twenty miles that separated the two estates.
She would see Elizabeth often, and relish the time, but with a young child of her own, it would be weeks between visits.
Instead, she would be forced to politely tolerate a woman who had vied not for her husband’s affections, but of his title and fortune.
“I shall give her an hour, no more,” Lady Matlock muttered, for in truth, she had a prior obligation.
Having taken up going for afternoon carriage rides with her son, she much preferred the small open curricle and the company of a precocious four-year-old to that of someone who sought only personal gain.
With less than that same hour before Lady Gloriana was to arrive, Moira had just enough time to look in on the latest of the improvements.
Nearly finished, the great hall appeared as it would have nearly five hundred years ago, but without the damage caused by centuries of wood rot beetles.
Now, the floors were polished to a high sheen, complimenting the newly painted plaster and crown molding.
But instead of the traditional long trestle tables, meant for feasting by the entire household, the cavernous chamber was divided, with a comfortable seating area as well as a dining table large enough to seat twelve.
Done in the Fitzwilliam tartan, it was stately enough to entertain royalty, yet also intimate, when it was but family in residence.
“Family...” Moira whispered, contemplating a day that the chamber might be filed with more children. It would not be this year, but a fine Christmas was definitely possible. Imagining the place hung with greenery, she did not hear the maid’s footsteps until a gentle hand touched her elbow.
“Your Grace? Lady Gloriana has arrived. I put her in the ladies’ parlor.”
With the spell broken, Moira shook herself back to the present.
As yet, the customary reference to herself felt strange, and definitely far from graceful, but she nodded, asking tea to be brought.
This chamber too, had been refurbished, but much of the original carved wooden elements had been retained.
Having been the private sanctuary of the previous Countess of Matlock, Moira sometimes believed she felt the dead woman’s presence.
But it was not any manner of haunting, only a trace of perfume or the feeling of being watched.
And today, Moira hoped that the departed spirit was in residence, for when she entered the chamber, it was to find Gloriana Westlake boldly inspecting the alterations.
Standing in the doorway, Lady Matlock went unnoticed as her visitor was upon all fours, peering at the workmanship of a newly upholstered chair.
Apparently finding it satisfactory, the woman moved on to a glass-fronted cabinet, opening the door with a wrench before taking up one object after another that had been arranged within.
Of those precious memories, were some finely crafted items from her time in Ottawa.
The urge to snatch her things from the interloper’s grasp was nearly overwhelming, but Moira did not forget her place.
She was mistress here, and therefore, not to be challenged or denied.
“An Ojibwa medicine bag,” she supplied, startling Gloriana Westlake so much that the woman dropped the beaded leather pouch.
“Oh! I did not mean to ...” Gloriana began, flustered at having been caught snooping about.
“It is perfectly fine, otherwise, why should anyone put something on display, if not to have others show interest?” Moira replied, amused by the discomfort.
Smiling with obvious relief, Gloriana retrieved the item, carefully placing it back beside several other things that she could not identify. “All from your time in Ottawa?”
“Yes, we were at an outpost south of the city. Quite primitive by English standards.”
“I have only been as far as the Isle of Wight. What was it like to be so near savages?”
“Savages? I cannot say that I encountered any. The Ojibwa are a very peaceful people, with a vibrant culture that I found fascinating, and in someways, very much like our own. Only the women have far more freedom. For one, many women own their own property.”
Interrupted by the arrival of a cart laden with several plates of delicacies in addition to a fragrant, steaming teapot, Gloriana Westlake shook her head in denial.
“I cannot imagine it, property or not. You will think me shallow, but I cannot do without a certain level of luxury.”
“Not shallow, only accustomed to a particular way of life. In the Americas, there is a vast diversity. I often miss it.”
“I suppose you miss your husband as well...”
To this personal query, Moira nearly dropped her teacup, for it was clear that Lady Gloriana Westlake had meant her first husband and not the current. However, she recovered quickly.
“Lord Matlock should be home by Christmas, perhaps you and your father will join us for some of the festivities? As the house is technically still in mourning, it will be a limited celebration, but you are welcome.”
It was an offer that she had never intended to issue, but without a more immediate plan, the invitation was made. Fortunately, Gloriana shook her head. “I am afraid not. Father prefers Bath for the holidays. We have gone there every year since Mama died.”
To Moira, it sounded like a polite lie, the sort told when one truly does not wish to accept. Afterwards, they sipped the tea in silence, waiting for the other to speak, when Francis Blackpool ran into the room, his nurse trailing after.
“Mama!” the boy shouted as he ran to where his mother reached down to embrace him.
“My apologies, Your Grace. Had I known that you had a visitor....” the servant insisted, casting a worried eye in Gloriana’s direction.
In the past, whenever that woman visited, it was well known to avoid her at all cost. More than one maid had been slapped, often for infractions more imagined than real.
“He is welcome to remain, for it is nearly time for our afternoon ride,” Lady Matlock soothed, seeing the frantic countenance.
The Redbyrne servants knew no fear of their new mistress, but it was obvious that did not apply to those whose reputation preceded her own.
Dismissing the girl, Francis Blackpool remained upon his mother’s lap until bid to greet the guest. Sliding down, the small boy bowed solemnly before offering his welcome.
“So nice to see you again, Lady Gloriana. I trust you are well?”
The words, when spoken from one of such tender years, were endearing, for he had practiced much.
“I am well indeed, and you? Master Blackpool?” Gloriana returned politely, but the exchange was false on her behalf.
She was of the belief that children, once produced, were best cared for by others, and not to be seen unless absolutely necessary.
Sticky fingers, always in the mouth, made horrid messes and this was long after they destroyed one’s figure.
However, once the conversation was begun, there seemed to be no end to the child’s idle prattle.
“Someday, when Papa returns, I shall learn to ride a pony. He shall be a wonderful pony and I will name him Ajax, but for now, Mama drives Hercules. Yesterday, he wanted to gallop, but Mama shouted at him.”
“A deer jumped across the lane, and Francis, I did not shout,” Moira corrected, but the boy giggled in defiance. Rolling her eyes, Lady Matlock ignored her son and continued, “We have made a regular habit of going out after tea. Trying to get to know the place, and the tenants.”
“Ah, I suppose that is but one of the many duties that is required of a countess, and I should not keep you further,” Gloriana insisted, rising from her chair.
“But do be careful, the lanes and paths can be treacherous, especially after the rains. Sharp curves with steep drop-offs, it would be most unfortunate if you or the boy were hurt.”
Moira only nodded, but she felt the warning to be more of a threat.
Was she not safe upon the grounds of what was now her home?
Or, was she imagining it? Looking for malice that was not there?
Perhaps it was merely due to the terrible accident that had claimed both the previous Lord Matlock, and Richard’s brother, Edward?
Lost in thought with so many questions that could not be asked, she only half listened until Gloriana posed a query of her own.
“I do hope we can be friends? It can get very lonely out in the country...”
To this, Moira smiled, but made no agreement, if this was her only choice in friends, she much preferred the solitude of nature.
*****
Once inside the privacy of her carriage, Lady Gloriana Westlake stared up at the facade of Redbyrne.
What changes had been made in such a short time.
Indeed, Richard Fitzwilliam had been generous, not like the tight-fisted man she called father.
Having not succeeded in finding a husband, when added to the expense of a London season, Lord Westlake had given his daughter an ultimatum.
“You have until Candlemas to find a husband, and until you do, there will be no more pocket money, not one penny! And if there is no one appropriate who will take you, then perhaps the good sisters at St. Bartholomew’s will have you?”
It had not been an idle threat, for Gloriana had seen a letter, half composed, to the mother superior, inquiring as to the price of admitting a novice.
Shuddering at the prospect of a life spent upon her knees and wearing the coarse grey habit, she had nearly destroyed the correspondence.
However, her father would simply write another.
Lord Westlake was quite persistent when there was something he wanted, and at the moment, it was money.
Her fortune, only to be touched upon her marriage or death, would be forfeit to a convent, with whatever remained, to her father or uncle.
Even in the event of her father’s death, she could never control her own money.
The holiday to Bath was her last opportunity, but only invalids and undesirables went to that city to find a wife, hardly the sort she wanted.
Thinking of Richard Fitzwilliam, Earl of Matlock, perhaps her father was right, and she had not tried hard enough to win him.
It would be the first thing upon which they had ever agreed, and something to consider, but wasn’t changing her hair and dress enough?
Urging her horse forward, Lady Gloriana smiled as her mind turned with the possibilities.
Was it ever truly too late? All that stood in her way was Moira Blackpool, and that, was easy enough to rectify.
And once gone, she would be there to console the grieving Earl of Matlock.