~Thirty-four~
In the weeks that followed, the ladies did their best to put the unfortunate incident behind them. Elizabeth Darcy and Maeve O’Malley returned to Pemberley, but not without a promise to return.
“Unless Darcy forbids me to travel alone again,” Elizabeth said with a chuckle, knowing that her husband, however distressed, would never deny her something she wanted. But the experience was not without its lessons, and if offered a coachman, she would not refuse.
“At least then, I would have the ability to fire back,” she insisted, but the memory of that day would remain, and with it another scar upon her ability to trust. One never knew what evils lay in the hearts of others, and when she shared this apprehension, found that Moira Fitzwilliam was of the same mind.
“Living in London had made me wary, for it is filled with people like Gloriana Westlake. Fortunately, most are not willing to risk their personal freedom for gain. But I truly do not blame her entirely. Indeed, the actions she took were her own, but fueled by the demands of society. Lord Westlake was right in that, he was guilty of creating unrealistic expectations, and when they could not be filled, made his own threats.”
Upon taking Lord Westlake into custody, a thorough search had been conducted of his home and grounds.
In this, not only were the pistols discovered, but Lord Westlake’s letter of intent to St. Bartholomew’s convent.
Gloriana had been given an ultimatum, one that had led to desperate measures.
Of his own actions, Lord Westlake had the luxury of rank, if not fortune, and managed to escape the hangman’s noose.
Instead, he found himself the permanent resident of a facility not very unlike that which he had threatened to send his daughter, but with far more luxury.
“A reward,” Elizabeth Darcy had muttered, irritated that no true punishment would be had.
“Indeed, he will be waited on hand and foot, just as he was before,” Moira added, her own anger simmering against the hopelessness of it all.
Murder had been committed, and confessed, yet the guilty would be seen as righteous.
And privately, each woman also laid blame upon another, for without whose interference had given hope, perhaps Gloriana Westlake might have moved on, ending her desperate attempt to become the mistress of Redbyrne.
But of Lady Catherine de Bourgh, that lady acknowledged no responsibility, and merely uttered a ‘tsk tsk’ when the London papers made much of the circumstance.
For to her thinking, none of it would ever have happened if her nephew had simply listened to her advice.
But when Lord Matlock, now the former Colonel Fitzwilliam did return, it was with his own perilous tale to tell.
Having departed those months ago on horseback, he arrived at Redbyrne via carriage, his favorite stallion following behind on a lead.
The sight had formed a lump in Lady Matlock’s throat as she watched the slow procession make its way down the drive.
This had been how her first husband, Captain Arthur Blackpool, had come home.
The fear of being widowed twice had rooted her to the veranda, when she wanted to desperately run.
It was as if the world had suddenly stopped, along with her heart.
“Breathe Moira...breathe,” she ordered herself as the carriage finally came to a stop.
But instead of jumping down to inform her of the worst, the red coated footman merely opened the door, allowing a single occupant to descent.
Only then, did her limbs obey and allow the Countess of Matlock to rush forward, overwhelmed with relief that her husband lived, yet alarmed by the swath of bandage wrapped about his head.
“Slowly Moira...” Richard Fitzwilliam begged of his wife, return her embrace with an ardent kiss that sent his injured head reeling.
“You are hurt!”
“Tis nothing that will not heal, but only if I am with you.”
The Earl of Matlock had come home, no longer in service to King and Country, but a mere subject, having finally been relieved of his commission in favor of retirement and the eternal fussing of his wife.
“Nothing my foot! Why was I not informed of this? Is there no one in the entire regiment that can manage a letter?”
Lady Matlock’s declarations went on for quite some time, not ceasing until her husband was bathed and resting comfortably, admiring all that had been done in his absence. Only then, would she listen to the details of what had caused mortal harm to the man she loved.
“A training accident,” he insisted, describing the incident with as much humor as he could manage.
But in truth, he still seethed with rage that an enlisted man, under the coercion of a drunken Captain Smithson had filled the cannon with balls made from a mixture of mud and nails.
The resulting explosion had resulted in several injuries, including both colonels.
Of himself, it was a deep flesh wound, but of Colonel Michaels, an eye would never regain full sight.
It had been a severe price to pay, but after the lengthy courts martial of all guilty parties, Michaels had been promoted to Brigadier, earning the empty regimental commandant’s position.
“Well deserved, I only wish it had not happened this way. Smithson was a tragedy in the making, and despite his connections, he was stripped of his commission.”
“Should have been flogged,” Moira added, having thus avoided her own story.
Before Elizabeth Darcy had departed, they had discussed keeping the entire matter a secret, but as things often do, they suspected that eventually, gossip would spread.
In the absence of any near family, the ladies had arranged a quiet funeral for Gloriana Westlake, laying her to rest in the family cemetery.
Of themselves, they could assure privacy, but Sir Walter Keystone was an ambitious man, and waited no time to make as much of the situation as possible, despite his claim to friendship with Lord Westlake.
And in the end, honesty was always best, but once revealed, Matlock was rendered speechless as he stared at his wife.
“Did you really ride down a runaway horse?”
“I am afraid so.”
“And this was after someone had shot the poor beast?”
“Mmm”
“And all of this simply for having married me?”
“So, it seems, Lord Matlock, but love often makes fools of us.”
“Indeed, it does.... Lady Matlock...indeed, it does.”
The End...