~Thirty-three~
Two hours later....
Lady Matlock fumed as she paced the newly refurbished parlor, waiting for the magistrate to arrive.
Had she been able, and without a care for the consequences, she would have ridden after Gloriana Westlake and throttled the life out of her.
It was only by the sheer grace of some divine force, that no one had been harmed.
Even the poor horse, having suffered a deep flesh wound to his hind quarters, would heal.
However, not only the horse would have scars from that dreadful morning, and now, with Duncan Darcy safely tucked away on a cot in her son’s chamber, Moria Fitzwilliam struggled with how to proceed.
Fortunately, the calmer mind of Elizabeth Darcy had won out over heated emotion, even though it had been her life that had been threatened.
“Wherever did you learn to ride like that?” Mrs. Darcy inquired, sipping her tea and trying to make light of what could have been a tragedy.
“Ottawa...The Ojibwa are excellent with horses,” she replied, the distraction not dulling the sharpness of the events.
“I have never possessed a desire to learn to ride properly and Darcy has despaired of trying to convince me of its merits,” she continued, eyeing the only other person in the room.
Maeve O’Malley, having served her mistress since she first arrived at Pemberley, was known for her fiery disposition, one that matched the auburn of her hair.
But today, it was as if that flame had been extinguished, for despite the myriad of trials suffered before coming to Derbyshire, the Irishwoman was still shaken.
Her tea, laced with whiskey, did little to soothe the raw nerves, but rendered her in a state of rare silence.
She too, would much rather have shot back at her attacker, but the risk to the baby had been too great.
Now, they were forced to wait until a man, and a stranger at that, decided what was best to do.
“What the devil is taking that man so long? Was he not told of the severity of the matter?” Moria replied, unwilling to be cajoled into mundane conversation to wile away the time.
“I am sure he will be here as soon as he can, but Moira, are you positive it was Lady Gloriana that you saw? Is there any doubt in the slightest?”
“It was her.”
“But that does not prove it was she who fired the shots,” Elizabeth continued, her tone slightly baiting on purpose.
“Do you not believe me?”
“Of course I do, but things are never so simple. One cannot accuse someone without evidence, especially a lady with high connections.”
“That snake is no lady.”
“Perhaps not, but if she denies it, it will be her word against yours. She might have merely been out riding.”
“On Redbyrne lands.”
“Trespassing is hardly attempted murder.”
The statements, meant in support, sounded like a challenge, but Moira knew that the same questions would be asked again, by the magistrate.
She must prepare herself for disappointment.
Gloriana Westlake, lady or not, was well-known, whereas she was a stranger, even if the Countess of Matlock.
However, from what Moira had witnessed of the woman’s behavior, that might well be in her own favor.
Drinking her tea, she had foregone the whiskey, preferring to be clearheaded, as well as have no trace of spirits upon her lips.
And it was well that she had, for moments later, Sir Walter Keystone, accompanied by a uniformed officer, was announced.
A man of middle years, he appeared to be in an ill humor of his own, but stiffly made all the proper greetings, refusing refreshments in favor of the business at hand.
“Lady Matlock, your messenger claims that an attempt was made upon your life? Is this true? You appear quite unharmed to me,” he declared, as if it were some case of female hysterics.
“Not me, sir. Mrs. Darcy and Miss O’Malley, as well as Mrs. Darcy’s infant son. Someone fired a pistol at their carriage as they approached Redbyrne, and that someone was Gloriana Westlake. I saw her myself.”
Sir Walter frowned, for the claim seemed preposterous, even after examining both the carriage, and the Pemberley horse.
“I agree, Lady Matlock, something most unfortunate has occurred, but are you absolutely positive it was Lady Gloriana who fired the shots? It may have been some random poacher, or any number of unknown persons. I have known Lady Gloriana since she was a child, and Lord Westlake for nearly a decade beforehand, they are not the sort of people to stoop to such actions, not for any reason. What reason can you supply to change that opinion?”
Hesitant to reveal that jealousy was the only factor, Moria responded with a question of her own, one that sent the pompous little man into a barely controlled fit of indignation.
“Reason? A reason for madness? Is there ever such a thing? You say you are well acquainted with the Westlakes, far longer than I can claim. Does that not cloud your judgement? I know what I saw, and unless you do something about it, I shall be forced to contact others who will. Am I to be a prisoner in my own home? To fear leaving the protection of stone walls lest some madwoman decide to shoot me? May I remind you, sir, that my husband is away, serving in His Majesty’s Army, does his family deserve less justice than that of Lord Westlake simply due to your ‘long-standing acquaintance’?
It was a lengthy and just accusation, and one that when witnessed by his own police officer, could not be discarded. Frowning, the magistrate shot her a look of displeasure, followed by a sigh of acquiescence.
“Very well, if there will be no other way to satisfy you, I will make inquiries at Westlake Park, you and Mrs. Darcy, as the injured parties, are welcome to accompany. We should leave immediately, so we might settle this. My dinner plans are already going to be ruined.”
But an hour later, as they arrived at Westlake Park, there would be far greater troubles than a missed meal.
Upon arriving at the once stately manor house, Moira noticed that neglect had begun to take its toll.
From a distance, the house rose several stories, giving the appearance of touching the clouds, but as they neared, the green expanse of lawn was overgrown, dotted with tall weeds.
The porte-cochere, badly in need of paint, appeared to be standing by sheer stubbornness, or perhaps, holding up the house itself.
Having taken two carriages, so Sir Walter need not return to Redbyrne once the ‘silly businesses was concluded, Moira drew her conveyance to a halt where there was no fear of a collapse that might kill her horse.
This distance, while safe, required the magistrate and his man to wait for them upon the doorstep before ringing the bell.
However, the party may well have been a quarter mile away for how much time passed before the portal creaked open.
And when it did, a most unexpected sight surprised them all.
Lord Westlake, clad in a threadbare smoking jacket and slippers, clutched a glass half-filled with amber liquid.
Lifting it to his lips, the fluid sloshed down his chin, dripping onto the floor.
Of this mess, the old man seemed oblivious as he slurred a greeting.
“Walter Keystone? Come for us so soon, I rather hoped we would have until tomorrow...”
The words were peculiar in their foreboding, eliciting an exchange of bewilderment between the women, who stood several paces from the men. Sir Walter, also puzzled by his friend’s behavior, demanded an explanation, but his tone was one of jest, as if all was well with the world.
“Lynwood! What the devil is going on? Have all your maids abandoned you that the master of the house must answer his own door?”
“Indeed, I must, for the servants have gone...a holiday I have given them, but I don’t suppose that matters. You are here for my Glory, are you not?”
The query gave the magistrate pause, as did the use of the childhood familiar.
Something was terribly wrong, but all they could do was follow, as Lord Westlake led them indoors, babbling all manner of nonsense until they reached the closed doors of what would be the family’s small parlor.
Pausing, he removed a key from his pocket, but made no move to unlock the door.
Instead, Lord Westlake downed the remains of his glass, tossing it into a corner of the hall where it shattered before beginning a speech that would explain much, but not all.
Gesturing to Moira Fitzwilliam, he shook a bony finger in her direction as he spoke, as if to place all blame.
“You there...you have caused me a great deal of trouble. My only thought was to unite the families. This is how things are done, how they have always been done, it is the way of it. A woman’s place is to obey, not to question, and that is where I failed.
Why could I not have had a son? Was that too much to ask?
Yet despite this deficit, all was in order...
even when Glory orchestrated that accident.
To think, she would wish my dearest friend dead?
Why not take me instead? Would I not have sufficed?
But all was not lost, for wasn’t the second son just as good?
Better! That is what he is, more deserving than that wastrel Edward!
But no... she could not manage to secure him... you, Lady Matlock, did that!”
With his emotions spent, a tear trickled down Lord Westlake’s cheek as he now thrust the key in the lock, his fingers fumbling before the mechanism engaged, revealing what he had done.
Inside, lying upon a chaise as if she were asleep, Lady Gloriana Westlake had breathed her last. Still wearing her rain-soaked riding habit and muddied boots, one hand trailed dramatically to the floor, whilst the other, lay across her abdomen.
Her gloves, still harboring the acrid smell of gunpowder, were beside an empty teacup.
If not for the cushion still covering her face, one might believe she yet lived, having merely drifted off. But once removed, all doubt was gone.
“Lynwood, what did you do?”
“What does it look like, Walter? I have killed my only child, first with kindness and overindulgence, and finally, with laudanum and a cushion to the face....and I am not sorry. It had to be done.”
After this final confession, Lord Westlake said no more, but allowed the uniformed officer to lead him away.