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Chapter Seventeen
Posted on 2013-10-27
"Good afternoon, Nan." The colonel swept his usual, exaggerated bow. "Is Mrs. Collins in?" He rubbed his palms and shivered in the cold.
Instead of her playful smile, she remained sombre. "No, sir. She fled out the back a bit ago, heading that way." She pointed towards the church.
"Is someone ill?"
"I do not know. She merely rushed out the door, not even taking her shawl."
"Thank you." With all lightheartedness gone, he turned in the direction of the church.
Peering over the wall encircling the church grounds, he saw her some distance ahead in the north end of the cemetery, crumpled on the ground, her shoulders heaving. His insides twisted as he noticed the small, fresh mound before her. He closed his eyes, realizing he had been right. She had lost the babe. Having so longed for children, her grief must be crushing.
He stood observing a moment longer. Then, without thinking, he passed through the gate and strode towards her.
Hearing footsteps, Charlotte rose and attempted to repair herself. As Richard came into view, she looked into his tender eyes, and her tears fell again unabated. He reached for her, and she fell into his protective arms. Secure against the warmth of his chest, she emptied her soul as deep sobs retched from her core, releasing layers of pain--lost babe, dashed hopes, humiliating husband, now penniless widow.
When at last she felt some relief, she looked up--his gaze touched her very soul. Instantly she knew he understood all of her pain. "Richard, I--"
"Shh." He cupped her cheek in his hand, brushing away her tears with his thumb before drawing her head against him once again and stroking her hair.
Enveloped in his embrace, a soothing solace permeated her being like water quenching a dry desert. Drawing a deep breath, at last she relaxed then stepped back with a faint smile. "Richard, this is most improper."
"Damn propriety--but just for today." He winked with the last words, bringing a release and laughter from them both.
Offering her his handkerchief and then his arm, they moved towards the parsonage with a comfortable silence between them.
At her door he hesitated. "Charlotte, I called here today to talk to you about something, but somehow I no longer have the words." He gazed off into the distance.
She wiped away the last traces of tears and waited, wondering what was so important.
At last he looked back at her. "The last few years have been difficult for you." He paused before riveting his focus on her eyes. "Charlotte--sometimes I pray." His gaze held hers for an extended moment, as if he hoped she understood some hidden meaning. Then he pressed a thin smile and, without further explanation, bowed and turned away.
She stood speechless as his boots crunched the gravel walk. Sometimes I pray? Why had he felt the need for those words? Was there something profound in them? After pondering a few moments, she stepped inside and shook off the thoughts.
Turning her attention, she steeled herself with a deep breath, knowing she must now face the contents of the little-used room upstairs. As she pushed open the door, the carved cradle which had ignited her emotions came into full view. The gift from Anne was no longer needed, nor were any of the things she had sewn and placed inside it. Unfolding a tiny muslin gown, she fingered rows of delicate white embroidery she had lovingly stitched. She wiped a stray tear, then replaced the gown, lifted the cradle of infant items and carried it downstairs.
Two days later, Charlotte stood staring at the parlour's blue floral wallpaper for the last time. Richard had offered a carriage to deliver her and Nan to the coaching inn. The maid would visit the market before returning on foot. Charlotte was to meet her brother, John, who would accompany her home to Lucas Lodge.
Charlotte sighed. Although she had little regard for her deceased husband, she had delighted in being mistress of her own home. She now dreaded returning to Hertfordshire a little more than two years later as a dependent widow of nine and twenty. With the financial strain at home, would she feel obliged to throw herself at the first eligible bachelor or widower? The thought was humiliating. If only Richard... She closed her eyes, recalling the warmth of his embrace days before at the cemetery. Her spine tingled. Did he still love her as she did him? She thought perhaps he did. Every time they were in each other's company, an understanding seemed to pass between them. They were drawn to each other like a magnet to iron. Was there hope for them even yet? Her heart leapt at the possibility. The risk and uncertainty of marrying a soldier could be no worse than the longing she felt now. She shook her head. The fact remained that she had no money to offer the second son of an earl. His father would never approve. Besides, had Richard thought there was a chance for them, surely he would have spoken before now.
The wall clock in the steward's office chimed the hour. It was time. Charlotte was leaving. This would be their last encounter.
Richard rose from the ledger and shrugged on his coat, wincing at the lingering traces of pain from the puncture wounds. During the short coach ride to the parsonage, he reflected on all that had happened between them since his unexpected arrival just over a month ago. He recalled her, a sleeping beauty of sorts, lying on his green counterpane at Rosings the evening of his arrival; their easy manner with Joshua and Susanna in her parlour; her teasing smile the day she had treated his infection; and the sweet torture he had felt at the grave holding her weeping frame. All were memories now. He would cherish this last opportunity with her before storing them away.
Minutes later he rang the parsonage bell and greeted Nan with his ritualistic bow. Charlotte appeared in the entrance hall, her bonnet already tied.
"Colonel. I was not expecting you to accompany us."
"It is the least I could do. I did not want your parting from Hunsford to be without company. Is there anything I may do for you before you depart?"
After thinking a moment she replied, "There is. I nearly forgot. Anne had lent me the Fitzwilliam family cradle. Would you return it to Rosings and give its contents to someone in need?"
"I shall be happy to."
After loading her trunks, he handed her into the carriage. Their clasped hands lingered, uniting their eyes. Climbing in behind Nan, Richard kept the conversation light during the short trip, but an undercurrent of sadness flowed between them.
An hour later he stood on the road, watching the mail coach disappear from sight. He felt that ripping of his heart again as the horses stretched the distance between them.
Sitting next to her brother in the coach amongst the strangers, Charlotte conversed with him for some time before the other passengers began to join in. After the second change of horses, John rested his head against the side panel and dozed.
The carriage rattled on, and Charlotte mulled over Richard's haunting three words about prayer. Her mind drifted to past conversations with Anne who had mentioned praying as well. What exactly had her friend said about it? She searched her memory. Anne had spoken of prayer as if she were well acquainted and comfortable with it. All Charlotte had known were the liturgical prayers in her prayer book. Most of the time she paid little attention to what she was saying as she saw them as mere words on paper that the congregation recited during service.
Anne was different though. She had spoken of God as if He were a real person--as if she really talked with Him. Was that it? Was that what Richard had been trying to tell her? She looked up, startled at the possibility. Had Richard learned to talk to God? Was he suggesting she do the same? She closed her eyes, full of regret that she had missed the opportunity at her door to find out. It had been important. He had come to call specifically to tell her. Now she would never be certain of his meaning.
Matthew's coach jerked to a stop in front of the Fitzwilliam townhouse in London. It had been more than two weeks since he had seen Anne, and now he hoped to see her in a matter of minutes. It was late to be arriving, but he could not bear another night out of her company.
He bounded up the steps and hammered the brass knocker. Waiting for a response, he tried to calm the fluttering in his stomach as he brushed the dust from his best trousers and straightened his blue coat sleeves. It was hard to believe that nearly five months had passed since their first meeting on these very steps where she had stood shrouded in a cloak that betrayed her youth. Little did he know then that on his return visit, he would bring an intention to propose.
At last the butler showed him in, but he was unprepared for what met him. Anne appeared on the stairs, adorned in a stylish black gown, a locket gracing her neck, and tiny jewels dangling from her earlobes. Her wavy, raven-black hair, no longer severe, was arranged in attractive curls about her rosy cheeks. She stole his breath away as she floated down the steps. He could hardly believe this was the same woman. Stunned, he could only stare, mesmerized.
At last he spoke. "Miss de Bourgh, you look l--lovely. I am speechless." He bowed.
Her blue eyes twinkled as she returned a curtsey. "Thank you. I have my aunt's maid to thank for my hair, her modiste for the dress, and you for my good health. I am so blessed."
"Perhaps. But your inner beauty and character cannot be attributed to hairstyles, bombazine, or tea."
Matthew's eyes were fixed on her when he was startled by Lord Matlock's resounding voice from the landing above. "Mr. Scott. I see you have returned. We did not expect you so soon." The patriarch continued down the stairs.
"Yes, sir. Please forgive me for arriving unannounced. My business in Cornwall concluded earlier than I anticipated." He could feel sweat beading on his brow.
"I see you have already greeted my niece." He placed protective hands on her shoulders. "I believe dinner is being served. The travelling dust can wait until after our meal."
Throughout dinner, he felt like a dumb-struck moon-calf. He could not pull his gaze away from her. Her animated speech was punctuated with smiles and occasional mirth. A delightful personality shone forth. He recalled her first days there on Brook Street when she had hardly said more than a few words at a time. She had transformed like a cygnet to a swan. She was still the same, and yet so different. So certain was he that she was the woman for him, that if he had to manage Rosings and sacrifice the sea, his conscience would be clear. Though he would miss the salty air and lapping waves, it would be worth it--for her. He wished to whisk her off for a private interview and ask for her post haste. The anticipation was agonizing.
That night he lay in the familiar bed a long time before succumbing to slumber.
The next day's itinerary was full. After breakfast, Lady Matlock insisted they visit the Darcys and their new baby, and that evening they were to attend a Shakespearean tragedy.
As the group set out on the short walk to Grosvenor Street, Matthew was thankful for Lady Matlock's lively chatter. He hoped he would have a solitary moment with Darcy to ask for Anne. He was glad that he had made the man's acquaintance a month prior, or certainly he would have been intimidated by the wealthy landowner's dignified and taciturn manner. Eager to meet the man's wife as well, he could hardly imagine any woman living up to the glowing reports he had heard about her.
They were greeted warmly by their host and shown to the confinement chamber sitting room where Matthew met the charming new mother, her infant daughter, and Mr. Darcy's amiable sister, Georgiana. He could well see himself spending holidays with the unpretentious family.
After several minutes of polite conversation, the men retired to the library. Matthew's eagerness must have shown on his face as Darcy looked from Lord Matlock, contentedly perusing an agricultural periodical, back to him, and then suggested they view the garden.
Matthew wasted no time in asking for Miss de Bourgh. He had heard talk of how, for many years, it had been expected of Darcy to offer for her hand. The doctor thought he detected a hint of relief on the man's face with the request. Once Matthew convinced him of his genuine regard for her, Mr. Darcy gave his blessing. They returned inside just in time to see the ladies descending the stairs, having concluded their visit.
When Anne's gaze met his, he beamed a full smile at her. Her returned expression reflected that she was unsuspecting of what had just taken place. If only he could steal a few minutes alone with her!
That night at the play, sitting beside her in the Fitzwilliam's box, he found her presence so distracting he could scarcely pay attention. He had to remind himself not to slip his hand around hers.
After Sunday services the following day, the party settled in the drawing room where the curtains billowed in the gentle spring breeze. The twitter of birds from the garden below provided a melodious serenade as the men perused periodicals, while the ladies embroidered. Eventually Lady Matlock retired to rest, and Anne excused herself. Several minutes later, Matthew heard the faint crunching of gravel outside the window, barely audible over the gentle snoring of Lord Matlock sprawled in his chair.
Seeing his opportunity, Matthew quietly removed himself and opened the garden door. He found her seated on a stone bench under a shade tree, a gentle smile playing across her lips below closed eyes. Observing her improving health over the last five months had been like witnessing the opening of an iris, that revealed its hidden glory a little at a time.
Suddenly he was taken aback with a revelation. All the delays last summer that had so frustrated him--the red tape, the lengthy trip to Scotland, the fruitless scouting trips in search of a home--without them, he would never have met her. Had he taken that home near the Lake District, he would not be here now.
He closed his eyes as another revelation struck. All that agonizing over whether he had made the right choices had not been about him at all. It had been about her. God, in His Divine Providence, had positioned him in London to be there at just the right time for her. Only an army doctor was likely to recognize her symptoms and only one who had the luxury of close observation on a daily basis. He shook his head in wonder. He had been a gift for her. If she would consent to have him now, his joy would be complete.
He coughed lightly, interrupting her tranquillity.
"Mr. Scott." Her smile was welcoming. When he joined her on the bench, she became shy. "It is a lovely afternoon."
"Yes... yes it is." He cleared his throat. "Miss de Bourgh, I have a confession. I was not completely truthful in stating that my business in Cornwall had concluded early. The truth is, I was unable to complete it."
"Oh?"
He swallowed the lump in his throat. "During the entirely of my visit, I found myself unable to form any opinions. My every thought regarded you."
Her focus shifted to her folded hands.
"Would Miss de Bourgh like this setting? Would that parlour suit her? Would she prefer this style or that? Miss de Bourgh--Anne--if you will not have me, all of my ponderings are in vain." He laid a hand over hers and noted the colour rising in her cheeks. Her eyes remained downcast. "Anne, I am a man of no consequence and have nothing to offer you but my heart and name, but I love you. Will you marry me? If you have a strong attachment to Rosings, I would give up the sea. If a crusty colonel like your cousin can manage an estate, I would learn--for you."
Her eyes still on her lap, she wrapped her hands around his. Raising it to her lips, she pressed a lingering kiss on his fingers.
His vision roamed the entirety of her face as he gently placed his palm on her cheek. "Anne?" He stroked the corner of her dark brow, willing her to lift her gaze.
At last her misty blue eyes united with his. "I love you, Matthew. To become your wife would be my greatest joy."
Titling his head, he traced his thumb down her hairline and brought his face to hers. She hesitated; their noses gently nuzzled. He brushed his lips over hers like a whisper on rose petals. She quivered under the powerful sensation. He drew her closer, curling his fingers around her neck, and touched his mouth to hers again more firmly. Cradling her head, his kisses deepened, caressing her lips again and again, a sweetness he had never known. At last he drew her lips between his one last time before releasing her. Their eyes fused for a moment before she shyly cast hers down.
"I love you." He squeezed her hand.
Her gaze returned to him.
"I wish to make you happy. Should you prefer Rosings to remain as your primary residence, I am sure I can learn to manage it."
"Mr. Scott--Matthew," she voiced with a smile, "wherever you go, I shall go. I, too, love the sea. I have no particular attachment to Rosings. In some ways its memories are filled with sadness, although I am grateful for how it has shaped me."
He relaxed with her reassurance. "What sort of seaside home would please you?"
"I have such fond memories of Seaforth Manor, the home my father leased each year when I was a child. It was built by a squire some hundred and fifty years ago. The stone home sat on a bluff with steps that led to the seaside below. It had the charm of a cottage but the comfort of a country home. There was a simple beauty about it, unlike the ostentation of Rosings. It was large enough to be adequate but small enough not to require a steward. And the view from the veranda at sunset--I cannot describe its beauty. My bed chamber had a view of the sea as well. On a clear day I could see across the channel to France. The master's suite even boasted a balcony where my father and I shared many happy meals."
"Where was your mother?"
"She did not care for the wind of the seaside. Although my father and I were there for several weeks each year for my health, she generally only joined us the final week, preferring Rosings or Town. But we did not mind. It was a special time with my father. My fondest memories of childhood are the summers I spent there." Her countenance became dreamy. "Such wonderful times spent on the beach with him, picking up shells and examining creatures washed upon the shore. I even recall the nursery had a doll house which delighted me for many years."
"That is a tall order. I do not know how many homes come with a doll house."
She laughed at his teasing.
"Perhaps I should speak to your uncle. He may wonder after our long absence." After placing kisses on the backs of her hands, he returned through the garden door.
Entering the drawing room, he felt his pulse quicken. The only remaining barrier was her uncle's blessing. Would he extend it? He was about to find out.
Chapter Eighteen
Posted on 2013-10-31
"Lord Matlock, may I have a word?"
The earl lowered his newspaper and met the younger doctor's gaze.
"Perhaps you are aware that I have developed a fondness for your niece." His heart was pounding again. "I realize that I have nothing with which to recommend myself but--"
"--you wish to marry the heiress. That is rather convenient, is it not?" His look was sceptical.
"I do wish to marry her, sir. But her money is of no consequence. I have come into an adequate fortune of my own. And, in fact, I believe we would both prefer to reside in a smaller home by the sea."
"Her money means nothing? That is absurd. Money is everything." He leaned forward, his gaze boring into Matthew. "Just how much is this adequate fortune?"
"Nearly forty thousand pounds, sir."
"Hmm..." The earl sat back, his eyes never leaving Matthew's. "Why would Anne desire a meagre home and the blasted wind of the seaside when she has the comfort and prestige of Rosings? That is ridiculous."
"She has fond recollections of summers spent with her father at Folkestone. She loves the salty air, cooling breeze, and the many curious creatures found on the beach. Her memories of Rosings are somewhat... tarnished."
"Hmm." He nodded but appeared unconvinced. "Tarnished or not, Anne has grown up at Rosings. She has become accustomed to certain," he waved his hand searching for words, "advantages in life. I would not want to see those advantages compromised through an imprudent marriage."
"I understand, sir. And I see no reason why, as my wife, she would not maintain the genteel life to which she is accustomed."
"Even so, her mother and I had hoped for someone of greater standing. Why should I bestow my blessing upon someone so decidedly beneath her?"
"Because of my sincere affection for her, sir. I wish to care for her the rest of my life. She returns my feelings as well."
A silence hung between them.
"Sir, Miss de Bough has spent many years in a rather confined and unhappy condition. It is no secret that her coming out was not recent. Yet I could not wish for a woman more fitted for myself. I believe she would say the same of me. Please allow her to begin a new life, one of her own choosing, filled with health and happiness."
"She shall be here in London throughout the Season. With her improved health, fortune, and appearance, I believe there are many suitable gentlemen who would be more than happy to extend her the same, despite her age."
"Perhaps, sir. But would their intentions be pure? I can assure you that mine are. I believe your own son can attest to my character and motive. And what if she should receive no other offer?"
"Well..." he traced his jawline with his fingers and thought for what seemed like an eternity. "Perhaps we can compromise. Leave her here for the Season. By mid-June, should she receive no offers and still desire you, I will give further consideration to the matter."
"Thank you, sir." He bowed and crossed to the door, his mind whirring. The earl had not denied his blessing, but neither had he given it. Matthew needed to think and pray. Donning his hat, he exited through the front door, seeking the tranquillity of the nearby park.
Charlotte's family had greeted her warmly, and yet she felt somewhat of a visitor in her parents' home. As she settled into her old chamber, she could not help feeling like a stranger. Oh, how she missed her private parlour!
Even though everyone was kind and sympathetic, with her family's financial strain, she insisted on taking on the baking duties to dispel the notion that she was not earning her keep. Kneading bread at the kitchen's large oak table with her sleeves rolled up, she pondered her situation. Before her marriage to Mr. Collins, it had been the spinster cloud hanging over her. Now it was like branded letters emblazoned on her chest--PW--Penniless Widow. Who would have her now? Probably only a desperate farmer with a house full of children. She wiped her brow on her sleeve. At least then she would be a mother, even if the little ones were not her own. She winced, recalling her own loss.
"...it is high time you get serious about settling down. Don't want to be an old maid you know..." her mother's long-ago admonishment echoed in her head. Maria had heeded the words and wasted no time in attracting the attentions of a handsome Captain Wilson when the opportunity arose. She was to marry in a month and move to Norfolk. Had Charlotte understood the gravity of her mother's mantra, she would have exposed her feeling to Stephen Brantley and secured him years ago. She pounded the dough with her fist, her scowl reflecting her emotions. At least then, were she a widow, she would not be penniless. She would be Mistress of Netherfield this minute, but then Jane would not be, and neither would Lizzy be at Pemberley now. She threw the lump of dough on the table. What was the use? It was all in the past now--water under the bridge. All the what-ifs and speculating could not change her present situation.
Sprinkling flour on the dough, Charlotte resumed the repetitive squashing and shoving as she recalled standing at the upstairs parsonage window, watching Richard approaching with Joshua and Susanna. She imagined them as her family, her husband coming home from a pleasant jaunt with their children. With a kiss and a hug, she would greet them all at the door. She ceased her kneading and closed her eyes. Concentrating, she could feel Richard's magnetic presence, smell his leathery scent, hear his booming voice and jovial laugh.
A door slammed upstairs; her eyes popped open. The apparition disappeared, leaving behind Richard's three simple words. She lifted her eyes. God, are you really there? It is I, Charlotte.
In the span of a second, her entire understanding about God came into question. Perhaps there was more to it than attending services, reciting prayers, and trying to be good.
The next few months were full of discovery for her. The first came just a few days later. As she sat reading in her room, her eyes fell upon a framed sampler she had stitched many years before. The verse she had chosen for it read, "Draw near to God and He will draw near to you." Was that really true? Having a familial relationship with Him rather than seeing Him as an angry, impersonal judge was an unfamiliar, yet intriguing idea that had never occurred to her. She rested her book and pondered the idea. How does one draw near to God? Perhaps Richard had given her the answer. God, show me how to draw near. I want to know You, if You are there.
She began paying close attention to Sunday services, evaluating them in light of her new awareness. Was her new understanding, that you could know God, incorrect? Or was most everyone else ignorant, as she had been, about the secret? She was unsure. Yet everything she heard only espoused what she had long perceived: do your duty, try to appease Him, be good, and hope for the best.
She would search the Bible for herself and see what it said.
The spring days fell into an easy routine of helping her mother, working in the garden, baking bread and attending those in need of her treatments. Time passed slowly. The days moved into weeks, and the weeks into months. As Charlotte sought to draw near to God in prayer and by searching the Bible, eventually everything began to fall into place. All the conversations with Anne now made sense. How could she have been so blind before? Being a rector's wife, she had thought herself rather pious. But as she was now coming to understand, being good--outward piety--and following liturgical rituals were nothing at all. The real test of a person was in the depths of his heart. One's outward actions should be a natural outflow of being changed on the inside. It was much easier to do, rather than be. Merely behaving in a proper manner did not make one holy on the inside.
Richard felt a great sense of relief when Mr. Martin and his wife arrived on April first. The new rector, who was also to serve as interim steward, joined Richard for tireless days in the below-stairs office and in the fields. Planting season was upon them. Day after day seemed to repeat itself as they oversaw projects, soil preparation, and sowing.
It had been more than a week since Richard had visited the bend in the stream. Now bursting into bloom, the landscape was in stark contrast to his first visit there many weeks ago. Much had evolved since his arrival, both on the estate and inside him.
His gaze settled on the familiar purple flower on the opposite bank. To his surprise, another had sprung up nearby. At first he was affronted that his flower should have a competitor, but upon further reflection he realized it was not competition, but reinforcement--additional colour to adorn the surroundings, a perfect analogy to Mr. Martin's presence. He was not a rival but a partner.
He ambled from the stream that morning with a light heart and a tune whistling on his lips. I have come that they may have life, and that they may have it more abundantly, he recalled from the gospel of John. He had come a long way since his dark days in London... a long way indeed.
As April slid into May, Richard and Mr. Martin oversaw the sowing of spring crops, and the progress or completion of projects.
Scott had returned to Rosings, and the men savoured time spent in Mr. Martin's company. The rector and his wife were often invited to Rosings in the evenings where pleasant conversations ensued, and music was shared among them as Mrs. Martin played the pianoforte quite well.
The men learned much from the wise parson. Richard found himself seeking the man's opinion more and more frequently on an ever broader range of topics. Richard regularly attended Sunday services as the new rector's sermons were practical and enlightening. Both men came to regard Mr. Martin as a father-figure.
One afternoon towards the end of May, Richard and Mr. Martin were riding to the western pasture to inspect the oat fields and sheep shearing. "Colonel, have you thought much of settling down? A good woman to knock off your rough edges and warm your bed at night would do you some good."
"That is easier said than done, my friend. A good woman, as you say, with a handsome dowry is not so easy to come by."
"Oh? You seem to have taken to estate management quite well. If Miss de Bourgh does indeed marry and remove to the seaside, perhaps she would allow you to live here and be the master of Rosings in her stead."
"Perhaps."
The men rode on in silence a bit longer before Richard shifted in his saddle. "So how did you know you had found a good woman in Mrs. Martin?"
"Ah. Two things. First and most important, I looked for substance of character. When I was in her presence, I desired to be a better man than I was. I had been misled by good looks before. Let me share with you some guiding words. 'Charm is deceitful and beauty is passing, but a woman who fears the Lord, she shall be praised.' My Abigail is God-fearing and has done well by me these last twenty-odd years. I would not trade her for all the beauty and wealth of England."
"Did you have a strong attachment to her or merely a high regard?"
"Both. She did have character, but I was drawn to her like a fish to water--still am. But I would not think of marrying a woman without character. Life is full of trials. You need a partner. Someone sensible whom you can trust to weather life's storms."
Mr. Martin resumed after they crossed a bridge. "Now from what I hear, Miss de Bourgh has character, beauty, and wealth. Your doctor, a man of virtue himself, will be fortunate indeed if he is granted her hand. Yet I suspect his affections for her have little to do with either her beauty or wealth, which is as it should be.
A silence stood between them for some time before the rector spoke again. "What of Mrs. Collins?"
Richard stiffened.
"Did I not detect a regard on your part the day we called upon her?"
Richard's shoulders sagged as he released a heavy breath.
"Touched a nerve there, did I? I have been an observer of people for many years now. It was evident to me the moment we entered the parsonage." His tone turned sober. "Has there been indiscretion between you and the widow?"
"No--well, only in my thoughts. But I have had a genuine affection for her as long as I can remember. I have been trying to avoid her for some five years, but we seem perpetually to find ourselves in close proximity."
"You know the Scriptures says it is not good for man to be alone. Is she a God-fearing woman of character?"
Richard lifted his hat and smoothed his hair. "She is a woman of character. I know not about God-fearing. I tried speaking to her about it but... it all seemed difficult to express. And now she is gone."
"I see. So what is stopping you from finding out? Surely it is not a half-day's carriage ride or--"
"Colonel Fitzwilliam! Mr. Martin." A tenant hobbled towards them as they dismounted. "Come have a look at the excellent wool production this..."
Richard did not hear the man as his mind swirled to place the oddly familiar figure. Realizing who it was, he stepped back. It was Matthias Harlow, Joshua and Susanna's father, the man who had taken canon shrapnel in his foot.
The man fingered freshly shorn wool, making quantitative statements of its quality. Concluding his demonstration, he eyed the colonel. "I am surprised you are yet here, sir. As an officer, I thought surely you would have been recalled for duty. With Bonaparte threatening, they are rounding up every half able-bodied soldier. I am to report to Ramsgate's docks in five days. Said I was fit enough to care for horses or haul away the dead."
Richard drew back and exchanged glances with Mr. Martin. "This is the first I have heard of it."
The next morning Richard closed the Scriptures and sipped his coffee in his room, pondering the previous day's events. If Mr. Harlow, a near cripple, had been requisitioned for duty, why had he not? He had no answer. The Medical Board had cleared him for duty before he left London. His mind drifted to Mr. Martin's challenge. Why was he not pursuing Charlotte? Was it money or his father? Had she understood his words at her door? She was no longer attached. He sat up and stiffened in his chair. He had made such a habit of disciplining himself to avoid her affection, he had not given it any real thought. A knock at the door, beckoning him to settle a tenant quarrel, interrupted his thoughts.
Later, eating his breakfast alone as Scott was away surveying seaside homes, Parker appeared with a silver tray. "The post, sir."
Richard thumbed through the small stack of letters. Pulling out two of indistinguishable origin, he broke the seal on the first. It was merely a notice forwarded from the London townhouse, regarding an inconsequential discrepancy in army pay. He was relieved there was no mention of a call to duty. The other was rumpled and smudged. It was from Mr. Thornhill, their new steward, due to arrive in mid-June. Dated a week ago, apparently it had been delayed. He was writing to inform that he would be there June first, only three day away. Excellent news!
Richard and Mr. Martin welcomed Mr. Thornhill, an enthusiastic gentleman several years Richard's senior with ruddy cheeks, spectacles situated atop his bulbous nose, and buttons that strained his coat. Crammed into the small office, they acquainted him with their expectations and then spent time acclimating him to the estate over the course of his first week at Rosings. He had several suggestions for making it more efficient and profitable. His background as a solicitor was already showing its worth. Richard realized his own presence was unnecessary as the two men got on well and were capable of attending to the estate's affairs. Rosings was perhaps in better order now than it had ever been.
On the beautiful tenth day of June, Richard guided Prometheus towards the stream, but the horse needed little directing. Tethering his mount, he reclined on his elbows before the moving water. How much he had experienced at this familiar bend. It was here he had first learned to trust. It was here he had caught frogs, agonized, met two small children, and danced with Charlotte. He felt a stab of painful longing with her memory.
His thoughts shifted. Should he approach Anne to be the estate's master in her stead? He would need a home when his work was finished. Did he want to live there? Although a man, even he could not tolerate its gaudy furnishings. Perhaps a wife...Charlotte-- He grunted under his breath. God, must she invade my every thought? Suddenly, a realization struck. Why was he torturing himself? Hopeful, he sat up, propped his elbows on bent knees and peeled a blade of grass. With the capable steward and rector, his presence was no longer crucial. He could ride to Hertfordshire as Mr. Martin had suggested. His heart quickened. Did she still love him? Would she reconsider marriage to a soldier? Had she understood his three words? If he could get an affirmative answer to those questions, then living modestly would be a small price to claim her. He threw down the remnant of grass and rose to his feet, feeling a sudden sense of urgency. He had to travel to Hertfordshire. He had to know.
Striding to the stallion, he stopped dead. The two purple flowers--they were gone. A sadness welled inside. He raised his eyes, staring blankly towards the field beyond the opposite bank. Of course the flowers were gone; that had been weeks ago. Bringing his gaze into focus, he comprehended what lay before him--a sea of multicoloured wildflowers waving in the summer's breeze. His breath caught, and he sank to his knees. "Oh, Lord!" he uttered aloud. It is now neither I nor Mr. Martin acting alone, but everyone working in harmony--every tenant, every servant, every shopkeeper. You have used me, so unlikely a man, to lead these people, to heal this broken place. I am in awe at what You have done in me and through me.
He stayed a while longer, various verses darting through his mind: All things to work together for good to those who love God.... Trust in the Lord.... He looked again towards the field of flowers. To Him who is able to do exceedingly abundantly above all that we ask or think. Those who wait on the Lord shall renew their strength. All those truths he had experienced in less than a year. He blinked back tears and rose.
Meandering back to the stables, he contemplated the field of wildflowers, then made plans to ride to Hertfordshire the following day. Charlotte was still in mourning, but if he could only determine whether he just had a chance...
Septimus, the groom, took the stallion's reins. "There are several men anxious to find you, sir."
"For me? Where are they?"
"At the house, I believe, sir."
Two uniformed soldiers met Richard as he approached the gardens. "Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam?"
"I am he."
"You have been summoned to serve his Majesty King George as aide-de-camp to Lieutenant General Sir Thomas Picton in The Kingdom of the Netherlands."
Richard's heart sank. He would be returning to battle after all. And of the many superiors under whom he had served, General Picton was the least desirable. He was arrogant, quick tempered, and excessively harsh.
"We are to immediately escort you to Dover to join the general. We had a devil of a time finding you, sir. It took us a while to track you here. The ship sails day after tomorrow."
How could he leave immediately? What about--? Then he realized that all was well. No longer was he essential to the estate. He only regretted that he would not see Charlotte. Perhaps it was for the best. There was always a chance of returning maimed--or not returning at all.
"Give me an hour, gentlemen."
"An hour, sir."
Richard stopped in the steward's office to apprise Mr. Martin and Mr. Thornhill of his departure. The two assured him they could manage in his absence.
Mr. Martin walked him to the office doorway and laid a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. "I am sorry to see you go, Colonel. Thornhill and I will hold down the fort. And have no concern for Scott. He is welcome to stay at the parsonage until he finds that home by the sea." The rector extended his palm. "My prayers go with you, Fitzwilliam. Trust."
Richard clasped his hand and curled a thin smile, wondering if he would ever see them again. With a nod, he turned towards the stairs. Mr. Martin had come in the nick of time. His friendship and experience had been invaluable. He would miss the man who had taught him so much. How Providential that Mr. Thornhill had come early as well. Had he come as scheduled in mid-June, Richard would already have been gone. Richard shook his head, again marvelling at the timing.
In his dressing room he traded his waistcoat for his uniform. As he passed the inlaid mahogany box, he hesitated. Opening it, his fingers raked its contents, then drew out what he sought and slipped it into his pocket. Moving to the desk, he scrawled notes to his family and Scott, then bade farewell to the staff. Within the hour, he ducked into the army coach.
Two days later, a hired vessel eased away from the Dover dock. Standing beside General Picton on the ship's deck, Richard fingered the smooth stone as a gentle breeze skimmed his cheeks. Trust in the Lord... Acceptance with joy... Acceptance with joy.
Chapter Nineteen
Posted on 2013-11-03
With Maria now married, John back in Bath, and Edward in the army, it was all the more humiliating for Charlotte to be living at her family's home. She climbed into bed and picked up her Bible as she did every night before retiring. A fly landed on its cover. She flicked it off. Discarded. That was exactly how she felt--brushed aside, like spent goods.
She flopped open the thick book. Any place would do tonight. As she read, a verse pierced her soul. "The Lord is near to those who have a broken heart and saves such as have a contrite spirit." Oh God, I need you to be near to me and my broken heart.
Two days later a letter arrived from Lizzy.
Darcy closed his book and rose from his favourite fireside chair to stand behind his wife. Sliding his arms over her silky white dressing gown, he rested his chin on her shoulder and met her eyes in the dressing table mirror.
"Have I told you how much I love you today, my loveliest Elizabeth?" He nibbled on her earlobe.
With a sigh, she laid aside her ivory comb. After a moment, she rose and turned to face him with furrowed brows.
Stroking her cheeks with his thumbs, he searched her eyes. "What is it, my dear? You have been quiet all evening. Are you unwell?"
She dropped her gaze. "It is Charlotte."
"Charlotte?" His thumbs stopped their caress. "Mrs. Collins?"
"Yes."
He took a step back and removed his hands. "Is she unwell?"
"No, not that I know of.... It's just.... William, she has nowhere to go." Her eyes pleaded for his understanding.
"Nowhere to go? Is she not at her family's home in Hertfordshire?"
"She is, but you know she only married Mr. Collins because at seven and twenty, she felt herself a burden on her family. Now at nearly thirty, with her family in reduced circumstances, it is even more humiliating not to have a home of her own."
"I see."
"William, would you be agreeable to our asking her to come for an extended visit? She has always loved children. I believe she would quite enjoy it, as would I."
Gathering her into his arms, he spoke just above her ear. "Elizabeth, if my approval will ease your distress, then I shall not hesitate to agree."
She pulled back enough to look into his eyes and her smile turned impish. "Have I told you how much I love you today, my dear?"
With a sly grin, he replied in a sultry voice, "No, but I'd prefer you show me."
June 18, 1815
Three nights ago, dancing in Brussels at a ball. Damn Boneparte... Marching out at three in the morning... fighting at Quatre Bras. Waterloo... pouring rain... mud up to my knees.... Damn bloodbath out here... sea of corpses... Picton among them. Will I live to see the dawn?
The ninth barrage of cannon fire ceased. Now was Richard's chance. A sea of French cavalry would be sweeping over the crest to repeat the attack on the battalions of infantry squares. Spread chessboard style over the battlefield, twenty such hollow squares of a thousand men each stood shoulder to shoulder, four men deep, with the outermost layer on one knee.
After having two mounts shot out from under him, Richard swung up on his third horse of the day. Digging in his heels, he plunged through a haze of smoke across the open field strewn with hundreds of bodies and mangled horses. The acrid stench of spent powder filled his nostrils. Twenty yards from the clearing's edge, a thunder of blue horsemen swarmed down the slope with swords blazing. He found himself face to face with a wall of mounted blue uniforms, and a searing slash ripped across his left eyebrow as he wheeled his horse, cutting into the cover of trees. Blood poured down his face, and his eye swelled shut as he picked his way through the thicket. He managed to deliver a scrawled message to British army commander Wellington, regarding the progress of Prussian reinforcements.
The general lifted his gaze from the message. "Deliver this to General Wolfe." He drew a note from his pocket as his head gestured in the direction of a nearby infantry square. "And have his surgeon see to that eye as well."
"Yes, sir." Richard watched for a break between the hordes of blue riders. When a crease opened, he flung himself into the saddle and charged for the bastion as a shot whizzed by. His horse flinched as the round took off the top of its ear but seemed otherwise unaffected. As he approached the square, it split enough to permit him through, then sealed behind him. Once in the inner square, he slid to the ground. Stepping over the dead and the moaning wounded, he swiped his hand across his cheek to clear the dripping blood and delivered the message.
Minutes later, with plaster applied to close the gap in his brow, he sought his horse.
"Colonel Fitzwilliam!"
Richard turned in the direction of the faint voice nearby.
"Colonel." The voice was nearly drowned out by the constant explosion of gunfire and pounding hooves.
Richard's sight swept the muddied ground and found the source of the familiar voice. The man's head rested on a dead man's leg as if it were a pillow.
"Harlow, is that you?" He knelt beside the tenant from Rosings and angled his head to see with his one open eye.
A faint smile crossed the man's lips even as he winced in pain. "Sir, your uniform is as blood-stained as mine."
Richard observed the man's left side soaked in blood and then looked down at the mud and red stains smeared on his own coat and breeches.
The tenant's mien sobered. "Will you tell my family that I love them?"
"You tell them!" Richard refused to let the man give up so easily.
"I don't think I'll make it, sir." His smudged face looked tired as he mumbled the words. "It must be near seven o'clock now, and there are no signs the battle's lettin' up. If the bleedin' don't claim me in the night, looters will."
The battlefield had again quieted. The square's infantrymen flattened themselves to the ground, dreading the return of the artillery assault.
"Will yourself to make it." Richard looked around. "I'll be right back."
Richard stooped over a nearby body with half of its face blown off. Ignoring the gruesome sight, he freed the body of its coat, then ripped the shirt from the corpse. Joshua and Susanna would not become fatherless if he could help it. He returned to Harlow, packed the wound with the cloth, and fashioned a bandage as the man groaned with the movement.
"Here." Richard reached into his inside pocket and produced the rubbing stone. "Choose to feel this rather than the pain. I will work to retrieve you after the battle. Decide you will make it. Be brave. That is an order." Dear God, let him live.
Harlow laughed under his breath and fingered the stone.
A brigadier interrupted, "Colonel, leave him be and attend to your duties."
"Yes, sir." The gaze of Richard's one good eye lingered on Harlow as he pressed a smile and rose to his feet.
He would retrieve Harlow if he lived through the carnage, and if the Allies were victorious. But now he needed to put aside thoughts of the man and gather his wits, or he might not survive himself. As he led his horse outside the square's confines, the shelling abated. Hoisting himself back into the saddle, he galloped at full speed to escape the forthcoming cavalry charge.
A stray shell whistled overhead, and he had barely turned his head away when the explosion ejected him from his horse. As he attempted to stand, an intense burning filled his thigh. He took two steps towards his wide-eyed, spooked horse and fell, pressing his hand on the bleeding. If he could not escape, he would be trampled in a matter of minutes.
In the thunder of approaching horsemen, he heard his name. Peering through the cloud of drifting smoke, he spied a lone figure sprinting towards him.
"Stevens!" Never had he been so glad to see his former aide-de-camp.
"Can you ride, sir?" the aide panted.
"Get me astride and I can!"
His former aide, now a captain, hoisted him up, then swung up behind him and made for an infantry square.
Once safe, the aide attended his thigh.
"How bad is it, Stevens?"
"Looks to be a mere flesh wound, sir."
Richard lay back, relieved, but his face pinched in pain. After the day's bloodbath, he was lucky to have his life.
"You haven't the stone on this campaign either, sir?"
Richard's eyes darted to his aide. "How do you know about that stone?"
Stevens smiled. "This is not my first lap around the track with you, sir. A good aide knows his commanding officer. A man with a burned arm says things in his sleep--"
"That will be all, Stevens. That will be all." Richard eyed him with a jesting smile, and then fell back, bone tired.
He roused, knowing instantly that something had changed. Hearing murmurings of the word Guard, he raised himself on an elbow. "What is it, Stevens?"
"Bonaparte's Imperial Guard advancing, sir."
Richard stiffened. An attack by the emperor's most elite soldiers could result in the demise of the Allies.
But half an hour later, a whoop went up from the ridge. The Imperial Guard had retreated, and a defeated Bonaparte was on the run.
Stevens' commanding officer had appointed him to look after Richard. With the help of his former aide and the horse, they found Harlow just before dark. Coaxing a local farmer with a handsome sum, Richard extracted a pledge from the man to care for the tenant from Rosings.
The London Season was coming to a close. With her improved health, Anne had been able to experience some of the hubbub of London. Although her being in mourning had prevented her from dancing at balls, she had enjoyed the festive atmosphere. Having dined often with the Darcys, she had at last been able to take part in after dinner past-times such as playing cards, participating in recitations, and listening to Georgiana play the pianoforte while Elizabeth sang. In spite of her pleasure, her heart ached in Matthew's absence.
Mrs. Jenkinson had now returned from Northamptonshire to escort her back to Rosings. As each day of her last week in London passed, Anne's anxiety grew. Why had Matthew not come to her? Was he ill? Had he changed his mind? If only propriety allowed them to exchange letters!
As her carriage pulled away from the London townhouse, she brushed away a tear. Gone were the pleasant evenings of music, cards, and company of others. She had hoped to be freed from her solitary life at Rosings, but it was not to be. Even Charlotte was no longer there.
"Well, Stevens, home in less than a month. That was the shortest tour of duty in my career." Richard shifted his cane in the hired hackney that carried the men through the streets of London.
"Yes. Had we not been assigned to oversee the return of injured, it would have been even shorter. Three days in the field are hardly sufficient time to acquire a second skin of grime and soot. Although the mud at Waterloo came close. In any case, short as it was, I am certain the campaign will not be quickly forgotten."
The men fell silent with the reference to the recent bloodbath. Richard felt a stab of remorse at all the moaning wounded he'd had to pass over the night he and Stevens retrieved Harlow from the battlefield. No doubt many of them had not lived to see the sunrise. If only he could have--
Richard was startled back to the present as London's myriad of church bells tolled the noon hour, and their conveyance jolted to a stop outside his family's townhouse.
Exiting the coach beside Stevens, he hobbled up the steps, leaning heavily on his cane. Before they reached the top step, the door opened. "Colonel! I thought that was you I saw from the window." Mrs. Cooper fluttered. "We have all been so worried. Are you well?" Her gaze fixed on the slash at his brow.
"I am back. Injured, but not so seriously as last time. Captain Stevens here shall be staying the night. I apologize for arriving unannounced again with a guest. I assure you this is not a habit I relish repeating."
"Welcome, Captain. We are happy to have you both. Come in! Unfortunately, I am unable to show you to the rooms myself. I sprained my ankle two days ago, and the stairs are a bit much for these old bones." Her eyes sparkled as the distinctive mole on her cheek rose.
"Henry." She summoned the footman. "There you are. Show the gentlemen to their rooms. Master Fitzwilliam's usual one, and the blue chamber for Captain Stevens. Colonel, shall I send for a doctor? 'Tis unfortunate Dr. Scott is not here."
"A bath and hot meal will do for now."
"Ah, sir, the bath we can do, but with the family's departure, the countess gave Cook permission to visit her mother in Essex. Perhaps a cold meat tray?"
"Anything would be an improvement over army fare. Thank you."
Several hours later, Darcy greeted the Fitzwilliam's butler over his shoulder as he took the familiar stairs two at a time, determined to see his cousin. "Richard!" He burst into the chamber, clapped him on the back, then pulled him into an uncharacteristic manly embrace. "I came as soon as I received your message. It is good to see you in one piece." With his hands on Richard's shoulders, he blinked back the moisture in his eye. "The newspaper said fighting was fierce. It has been damn unnerving scouring the daily casualty reports."
"Yes." Richard dropped his gaze, as the image of the corpse with its face half missing flashed through his mind. "Butcher's bill was upward of twenty-thousand. I expect I shall live with the memory of their moans and mangled bodies the rest of my life." He passed his hand through his hair as if to sweep away the haunting memories. "I am thankful to be back with a beating heart."
"Your message spoke of a thigh injury, but I see you left a slice of your brow behind as well."
"Only a small one. I am fortunate it was not my eye, although the scar shall forever recall me to the campaign."
"Why not convalesce at Darcy House? Georgiana and Elizabeth would welcome your company, and you may admire the newest addition to our family."
"Your firstborn I cannot refuse. Might you accommodate my guest as well?"
"A guest?"
"Captain Stevens, my former aide. I owe him my life. I am expecting him to join me here in a moment."
"We would gladly host any friend of yours. I imagine a hot meal would not be unwelcome for two battle weary soldiers. We have a guest--"
"Oh! Here is Stevens now. Darcy, may I introduce my former aide-de-camp, Captain Stevens?"
Opening her door, he found her at her dressing table and dismissed the maid who had just fastened her pearl necklace. "Elizabeth, I have brought Richard and his guest back with me."
"A guest?"
"Yes. His former aide-de-camp."
"You know I adore your cousin, but what about our guest?
"What about her?"
She turned on the upholstered stool to face him. "William, have you never detected the affection between them?"
"Richard and Mrs. Collins?"
"Yes, my love. Apparently they have been friends the whole of their lives, and I believe have loved each other for quite some time. But I have heard her vow never to marry a soldier, and as you know, he has need of a handsome dowry."
He stepped back, stunned. "I was unaware of any attachment."
"Even the Easter when I met Richard at Lady Catherine's, did you not see the stolen glances between them? I suspected something then. The morning of your departure, Charlotte said he stayed an hour, apparently waiting to bid me goodbye. I believe the truth of it is that he could not tear himself away from her, married though she was."
Regaining himself, he drew her up into his arms and spoke just above her ear. "Well, I suppose they shall have to make the best of it. I have invited him to stay here through the season's end."
"Oh, my love, is there no hope of a future for them together? I so wish happiness for them both." She pulled away with a sigh. "It is time we assemble for dinner. Charlotte is with Jane. Is your cousin aware of her company?"
"Yes--well--no, come to think of it." A devious grin crept at the corners of his mouth. "I shall relish the rare opportunity to disconcert him with the surprise."
"Oh?" Charlotte laid the child in the cradle and looked to her friend.
"It is Colonel Fitzwilliam."
Her hands flew to her mouth with a gasp as tears welled in her eyes.
"You love him, don't you?"
"Oh, Lizzy, is it so obvious?"
"To anyone who has eyes."
Charlotte dropped her gaze. Steeling herself, she addressed Lizzy. "After the newspaper reports... I have been so worried. Is he... injured?"
"Come and see for yourself." She squeezed her friend's forearm.
As they descended the stairs, Charlotte took several deep breaths to calm her anxious jitters. Even if wounded, he had come home--and he was here--alive! She could hear his robust voice in the drawing room teasing Georgiana. He was well!
As they entered the room the men rose at the sound of their feminine footsteps. Turning around, Richard's face went blank, obviously stunned to see her.
As she neared, their eyes locked, sparking their magnetic attraction.
He tore his gaze away from her, seeking to cover his shock. "Mrs. Darcy," he kissed her hand, "I see motherhood suits you well. I am eager to see your progeny." He turned back to Charlotte. "Mrs. Collins, it is good to see you as well." They stood feet apart as Richard introduced his former aide.
"I had heard you were called back to the continent, Colonel." Charlotte twisted her fingers, trying not to stare at his swollen eye. "I am glad to see you have returned in one piece."
"Yes, well," he shifted nervously, "it looks worse than it is. Give it a few weeks, and it shall be no more than a trophy scar."
Charlotte turned to the former aide. "And what brings you here, Captain Stevens?"
"With the colonel's leg wound, I was ordered to see him safely home, ma'am. I will be on my way tomorrow."
Her eyes darted back to Richard in silent rebuke, but inwardly she felt a wave of relief that his leg and life had been spared.
Throughout dinner, Richard seemed to have lost his usual, commanding composure. She felt his gaze often upon her with a sort of mournful expression of regret unfamiliar to her. It was rare that she could not surmise his thoughts from his countenance.
As the Captain answered a question from Georgiana, she noticed Darcy glance between Richard and herself, and then share a sly grin with Lizzy. Was everyone aware of her attraction to Richard? Feeling her cheeks burn, she dipped her head and hid behind her napkin. Would loving him always be so bittersweet?
Chapter Twenty
"Is Miss de Bourgh in residence?"
"I believe she is in the garden, sir."
Matthew dashed down the steps, nearly running in search of her. He rounded the sculpted hedges, and there she was.
As she rose from the stone bench, her book fell to the ground. The sparkle in her eyes dispelled his fears. Closing the distance between them, he caught her up in his arms and swung her around.
"I thought you would never come for me, that you had changed your mind!"
"Never." I was only afraid that some fine London gentleman had stolen you away. I regret my delay, but I believe you will be pleased when you learn my reason. I have found a home for us."
"Where is it?"
"In Folkestone."
"Where I visited as a child? I am delighted! It is so beautiful there."
"That sounds like Seaforth Manor."
"It is, Anne."
She covered her mouth with both hands, her eyes wide. "I know not what to say!"
"Tell me you will be happy there."
"To live there--with you? Oh, Matthew, how could I not be happy?"
Bringing her hands to his lips, he kissed them before drawing her to sit beside him.
"My apologies for not coming sooner. I had intended to arrive in London before your departure. But when the house became available, I felt it imperative to secure its purchase and arrange for the repairs before coming for you. I could only hope you would still have me. Please say we may wed as soon as the repairs are complete in mid-August. I never wish to be parted from you again."
"What of my uncle and cousins? Though I am of age, I would like their blessing."
He flashed a full smile. "I have just come from Matlock and have already spoken with your cousins."
"You secured my uncle's blessing? And that of Richard and Darcy as well?"
"Yes. When I told your uncle our home was to be the one your father chose for holiday, he could not refuse. I spoke with Fitzwilliam before I left for Cornwall and Mr. Darcy the morning we visited his new family."
"Thank you, Matthew. I am sorry you were never able to see little Jane awake. She has grown so much, such a beautiful baby." Her demeanour reflected her longing.
"Perhaps you will have your own child in a year or so." He squeezed her hand.
She looked up at him with hope in her eyes. "Your child, our child."
A fortnight after his arrival at Darcy House found Richard sprawled in the library's overstuffed chair behind The Odyssey. Darcy strode in shaking his head and took the seat opposite him.
Richard lowered the book with a knowing smile. "So you have endured enough talk of bombazine, bonnets, and embroidery?"
Darcy grunted. "Enough to last a lifetime, I think. When Elizabeth joined Georgiana, the feminine chatter increased five-fold. But with the addition of Mrs. Collins..." He shook his head.
Richard laughed.
Darcy squinted at the book. "You, at least, are immersed in a manly adventure. Has Odysseus succumbed to the Siren yet? I would have thought Waterloo was sufficient adventure to last you for some time."
"They may both be my last adventures for a while."
Darcy settled back. "That brings me to a question. Now that Rosings is in order and the paltry remains of your regiment have been sent to winter at home, what are your plans?"
Richard sighed. "At present, my future is undetermined."
"Why not come with us to Pemberley after Anne's wedding? There will be grouse on the moors and carp in the stream. In the evenings, a game of billiards will provide an excellent diversion when the ladies begin their discussion of feminine fancies. We might even travel to Sudbury to run hounds against some sly fox. And who better to stand up with Georgiana when the dance master visits? You know she is coming out next spring."
"Well..." What could Richard say? As much as he would enjoy Pemberley and his cousin's company, he was not sure he could trust himself steeped in Charlotte's presence for such an extended time. He had only been at Darcy House for a fortnight, and though he relished her nearness, maintaining decorum in such close proximity to her had already proven difficult.
"What is there to consider? You have never refused an invitation to Pemberley before."
"Darcy..." A lump formed in Richard's throat, leaving him unable to accept or decline. In truth, he knew not which would be worse.
Darcy leaned forward, his brows raised. "Don't tell me you would prefer to spend the autumn at Matlock."
He closed his eyes and turned away. When the silence lingered, he looked back to see his cousin reclined in the chair, staring with a complacent grin. Darcy knew the truth.
"How long has Mrs. Collins been more than a fondly remembered companion from your childhood?"
Richard dropped his gaze and sighed. "Eigh--no, nine years."
"She had no dowry and vowed never to marry a soldier. I severed the attachment some five years ago. I thought it for the best." He scratched his brow. "But then..."
"But then she appeared at Rosings." Darcy nodded. "Yes, it all makes sense now. The connection between you was obvious to Elizabeth that disastrous Easter at Hunsford. She was incredulous that it had escaped my notice."
"Yes, well, the fairer sex tends to be more attuned to matters of the heart. Not to mention that at the time I believe you had your eye cast elsewhere." Richard cut his eyes to Darcy with a smirk.
"Perhaps..." His cousin settled back in his chair. "But I secured my prize and have never regretted it. When I wake with her beside me..." A roguish grin crossed his face. "And when little Jane looks at me with those innocent brown eyes... Nothing compares to the satisfaction they have brought me."
Richard stared blankly, imagining himself waking beside Charlotte.
"So what do you intend to do about her? It would not be so indecent to discretely court her during her mourning."
He considered his cousin's words. "True... but we are bound together by something... I cannot explain it. I have worked so long to break it and distance myself that I hardly know now how to properly court her. Yet she is like that Siren. In her presence, I struggle to conduct myself with propriety." He threw up his hands in despair.
"Perhaps when we stop to visit Hertfordshire en route to Derbyshire we can return her or--"
"N--no!" Richard's response came more quickly than anticipated. "She deserves the opportunity to rest and recuperate from the tragedy of losing her husband and home. Your wife's company has already proven beneficial, whereas my continual presence may only serve as a hindrance."
Darcy sat forward and locked eyes with him. "Well, then I believe it comes down to you. Do you want her, Richard? Do you really want her?"
Yes, he wanted her! But now there was another relationship very important to him, and he desperately wondered if she had understood his three small words to her and had that relationship herself. Not able to find the words to explain his thoughts to Darcy, he merely uttered, "I do."
"I thought as much. Then come to Pemberley and find a way to court her. Do not let her slip through your fingers. I nearly lost Elizabeth due to my own blundering. Do not repeat my mistake."
"Courting her from a safe distance is one thing. Residing under the same roof is quite another. I would need something to do--some sort of diversion. Give me something to do!" He sat back realizing how desperate he sounded.
Darcy drew a letter from his pocket, the seal already broken. "This post from Bingley might afford a solution." He tapped the corner of the correspondence on the chair's arm. "He and his wife are finding Netherfield too close to her mother."
"Ha!" Richard barked a laugh. "I have heard tales of the infamous Mrs. Bennet."
"All true, I am sure... There is an estate in Yorkshire, not ten miles from Pemberley, quite handsomely situated. Its owner, a Captain Weller, was somewhat of a recluse these past five years, perhaps not in his right mind. I believe you visited there with me on one occasion. He died several months ago, and the property came up for auction. Like Rosings, it is quite extensive but in deplorable condition. Had Bingley not been intent on it, I would have bid on it myself as an investment. However, the house and grounds will require substantial renovation before it is suitable for his family. Bingley has begun looking for someone to oversee the sizeable project, but if you were to offer him your assistance..."
Richard cocked his head, weighing the magnitude of such an undertaking against the opportunity it afforded to be near Charlotte. "Hmm. The idea merits consideration. It would keep me busy."
"The estate's condition is much worse than was Rosings' last winter. Tenants have been neglected, and their yield is scant. He says here," he pointed to a sentence, "that he anticipates six months or so of tireless work. Would that suit your purposes?"
The prospect of leading men again and being productive was appealing. Excessive leisure had contributed to his despondency last summer. "Allow me a few days to think it over before you mention it to Bingley."
"Certainly." Darcy folded the letter, then fumbled in his waistcoat pocket. "Whether for now or for later, I have something for you." He drew out the object. "This belonged to Grandmother Fitzwilliam."
A smile between them confirmed their understanding.
Three days later, the others drifted out of the breakfast room one by one, leaving Richard finishing the newspaper and Charlotte reading posts from her mother and her brother, Edward.
Richard's heart began beating faster. At last they were alone. Here was his chance to seek the answers to the questions that had burned in his mind the last time he was at the stream. Did she still love him? Had she understood his three words at her door?
He hid behind the paper, his mind whirring. How could he begin such a conversation? The silence between them became palpable. Richard grasped for something to say. When a headline about Waterloo heroes caught his attention, he closed his eyes in relief.
He folded the paper and set it down. Swigging his coffee and trying to appear nonchalant, he casually stated, "It seems every day there is a story touting a new hero of Waterloo. Which reminds me--my congratulations to your younger brother. I hear he was honoured for his ingenuity and bravery in slogging supplies through ten miles of enemy territory. He showed himself quite the capable leader."
Charlotte lowered her letter. "Yes. Edward has a sharp mind, but his quick temper and lack of self-control may be his demise." She held up the post. "Reading between the lines, I would say that had it not been for that feat and the general's appreciation, he would have been court-marshalled for insubordination to a superior."
"What will he do now?"
She sighed. "I do not know. But he and my father can hardly stand the sight of each other. I can tell from Mama's letter that it is difficult with him home. If only he would hold his tongue!"
"I have had the likes of him under my command a time or two." An idea struck Richard. "Perhaps I have an alternative for him--an opportunity of sorts. I may be on my way to Yorkshire to oversee renovations for Bingley's new home. I will need a small army of workers. Don't I recall that Edward has quite the knack for growing things?"
"Yes, he does."
"I imagine that will be one of our first priorities. Perhaps hard work under my watchful eye would be good for him. Clearly he is clever, though his character is lacking. It is unfortunate he does not understand that a man who cannot control his spirit is like a city with its walls broken down. In the end, being unable to control himself allows him to be plundered by his own appetites."
"I was reading that just recently. Proverbs, I believe."
"You were?" Richard felt hopeful at the conversation's turn.
"After we parted Hunsford in March, I began to understand your words to me at the parsonage door--and many of the conversations I'd had with Anne. As sad as it was having to return to Hertfordshire, my months there were a real time of discovery. I had always thought holiness was the result of my doing good and acting properly. But instead, I have learned that I can never be fully righteous on my own, and that it is not about me but Him. It is only when I bring all of what I am to God--the good and bad--then trust in His atonement on my behalf that I am made right with Him."
"Yes! And in seeking Him and choosing to commit each day, we are changed little by little."
Charlotte's expressions became animated as she spent the next half hour relating her new discoveries. A satisfied smile stretched across Richard's lips. Now there was another cord that bound them, and he need only wait out her mourning and secure his father's approval. Then, at last, she could be his.
Chapter Twenty-One
Posted on 2013-11-07
Rosings, Kent
13th AugustDear Mama,
We arrived safely at Rosings three days ago, and in just three more, Anne shall be married! My joy overflows for her as she is so deserving of this happiness.
Her wedding gown is most flattering, and she has no regrets in putting aside her mourning dresses. Now in good health, her figure has filled out such that she needed a whole new wardrobe. Maria would hardly know her, so changed is she since her visit two years ago.
The new rector, Mr. Martin, and his wife are quite personable. I regret that I shan't know them better. It does not surprise me that Colonel Fitzwilliam regards them so highly. Though it was difficult taking tea in my old blue parlour, Mrs. Martin has it arranged handsomely.
Visiting the estate's tenants has been a real delight. Their fondness in my return and their joy for Anne has made them all the more dear to me. It is hard to believe I have been gone nearly five months.
The colonel's brother, Viscount Royston, whom I have not seen since my childhood days at Cragmount, is to arrive the afternoon before the wedding. I hear his wife is quite the celebrated society hostess. I hope she does not find fault with the simple country gathering.
We shall stop in Hertfordshire en route to Derbyshire on the 18th of August to visit and retrieve Edward. I do so hope you shall see little Jane! Though I know Mrs. Bennet and her Aunt Jane shall be eager for her, perhaps they will pay you a call so that you may see the little dear.
I look forward to seeing you all then.
Yours very sincerely, Lottie
Golden oats baked under the heated August sun, and a satisfied smile curled Richard's lips as a gentle breeze whispered a graceful ripple across the heads of grain. Though only two months had elapsed since his departure for the continent, it seemed far longer. His ride about Rosings and the warm reception of the tenant farmers had been gratifying. Nearing the Harlow's cottage, he slowed his mount, hoping for another favourable report.
As he swung down at the family's humble dwelling, he turned towards the excited voices of Joshua and Susanna as they ran towards him. "Colonel, you have come back! Come in and see my papa."
Just as they reached the door, it opened, and their smiling young mother greeted them. "Colonel Fitzwilliam, such a pleasure to see you. Please come in."
Richard removed his hat and ducked into the cramped but cheerful home.
"Colonel!" Mr. Harlow's voice came from the corner where he lay on a pallet.
"Good day, Harlow. Don't trouble yourself to get up. I am glad to see you made it back in one piece."
The father smiled. "We have you to thank for that, sir. My family and I are much obliged. Dr. Scott expects a full recovery with another few weeks of rest and my wife's fine fare."
After exchanging the details of the man's convalescence abroad and his return journey to Kent, Richard rose to leave.
"Colonel, I thought you might like to have this back." The man drew the rubbing stone from his pocket. "Something tells me it holds a special value to you."
Richard held the stone between his fingers and turned it over, examining the familiar markings. "Thank you, it does at that."
After bidding the family farewell, he swung up on the horse with the stone still in his hand and guided the stallion towards the stream. As he rubbed the stone, he recalled its many journeys. It had all started when he was a child of no more than eight. His usually harsh father had given it to him to comfort him after he had fallen out of a tree. The man had knelt beside him, placed a hand on his shoulder, and lovingly said, "Rub the stone and be brave my son, like a good soldier should." Richard had kept it as a reminder of his father's uncharacteristically gentle care.
Two years later, when Charlotte sprained her wrist, he had given it to her and repeated the words. He had forgotten about it until many years later whilst attending an opera with her. Upon his telling her that he was to be deployed, she had returned it, tearfully reciting the words to be brave. From then on, he had continually carried it as a symbol of her presence. But after their improvised dance, he had stored it away, hoping to put away his feelings for her as well. Now the stone was again in his hand. With no intention of storing it this time, he flipped it in the air with a smile, then dropped it into his pocket.
Nearing the refreshing water, he wiped the sweat from his brow and strained to hear. Was that Charlotte he heard singing? He slid to the ground and tethered his mount. Hovering amongst the cover of trees, he crept closer to observe.
Indeed, it was. There she sat, in his spot, her black dress pulled over her knees, bonnet beside her, oblivious to her audience. Though somewhat off key, there was a sweet innocence to the melody. Unpretentious and simple, she never tried to be anyone except herself. His heart swelled. How could he not love her?
He knew he should make his presence known. Eavesdropping was abominable, but observing her in such a natural, unguarded state was captivating. As her melody flowed, she removed her shoes and stockings, then lifted her dress and waded in the water's shallow edge. He really should look away. After sloshing for several moments, she stood still; her tune ceased. She lifted her gaze, her mind in thought. Giggles bubbled forth as she splashed back to the bank. With a new song, she began mimicking a dance. That tune--it was his tune! The one he had hummed the day she had caught him unaware at this very place. She was recalling their dance from two years ago.
Wisps of hair stirred about her cheeks with her graceful movements. He was overcome with an urge to storm over to her, still the wisps, kiss her breathless, propose, and end his agony.
It was reckless, true. As frustration swept over him, he gritted his teeth. He had denied himself this woman for five years and loved her several more. Having pushed her away, he had worked to stay away. Was it his fault she kept invading his life or that there was an invisible cord that bound them? He was tired of fighting it.
He took two steps and stopped dead when he heard a still small voice in his mind, Honour your father and mother.... Disheartened, he expelled a breath. His father's blessing had not been sought. Fury rose. Why should he feel obliged to ask his father? He didn't need his father's permission. He was a grown man. If she was not to be his, why did God allow him to be continually tortured with her presence?
Taking two more determined steps, he halted again, hearing, Prepare your outside work, make it fit for yourself in the field, and afterward build your house. He balled his fists and clenched his teeth, realizing that he was trying to build a house, a family, before he had provision for it.
Dejected, he forced himself to turn away and return to the stallion. Instantly, he recalled a Proverb, Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but when desire comes, it is a tree of life. He was certainly well acquainted with deferred hope and a sick heart. He wondered if he would ever experience the desire fulfilled.
He would pursue the dreaded conversation with his father upon his return to the house. Knowing she would not be seen as an ideal match, he hoped his father would grant his blessing as he had to Matthew. Though he hated to admit it, Richard also shared some of the Fitzwilliam selfish, commanding determination. May I not be overbearing and demanding but remain calm and respectful.
He found his father in the library behind Gentleman's Quarterly.
"May I have a word, Father?" Richard brushed sweaty palms across his buckskin breeches.
Lord Matlock lowered the periodical and peered over his spectacles.
"I have chosen a wife and am here to seek your blessing."
Folding the paper aside, a smile crept across the elder's face. "Well at last. So you met some pretty young thing in London? Who is her family? What of her dowry?"
Richard could not meet his father's eyes. "The Lucas family, and she has no dowry. She is a widow."
His father smacked the chair's arms. "Don't be ridiculous, Richard. Why bother asking. You know a handsome dowry is essential in your situation."
He reminded himself to remain calm. "I have attended dinner parties and balls for ten years, surrounded by suitable women. I can stomach it no longer."
"You are far too particular. There are plenty of handsome young women of fortune who would be more than satisfied with someone such as yourself."
"Life is a game to them. They have no substance." He felt his indignation rising. "I refuse to spend my life with a selfish woman who can only gossip, fuss over her next social engagement, and parade her latest gown!"
"So just who is this widow with whom you are so smitten? I don't recall any Lucases in Town."
"Charlotte Lucas--Charlotte Collins." His gaze dropped to the Persian rug.
"Sir William Lucas' daughter? Staying here with Mrs. Darcy, in this very house?"
"Yes."
"Richard," he shook his head, "I know you were childhood companions, but she is certainly of no consequence. Her family... they have no money, no connections."
His fiery eyes met his father's. "I cannot help that I am drawn to her like a magnet to iron--and have been for many years. I have sought to break our attachment and remove myself, but I cannot escape her. She is Mrs. Darcy's closest friend, for heaven's sake!" He threw up his hands.
"That explains a lot," the earl mumbled under his breath.
Richard was now angry. "So you believe Miss Bennet was a poor choice? Darcy has never been so content. Is there no value in his satisfaction?"
"Darcy had plenty of fortune and standing. He could afford to marry as he pleased. Although, had he asked, I would have discouraged it."
"Is a satisfying wife not equal to a suitable one?" Richard's volume was escalating. "Am I to be leg-shackled to a suitable wife the likes of which Andrew has chosen?"
"Well..." The earl shifted in his chair. "Richard, I have no real objections to Mrs. Collins. I rather like her easy nature. But I will not have my son--the son of an earl--living like a pauper!"
"Had she money would you give your blessing?"
Lord Matlock scratched his chin, pondering the proposition. "As with Anne, since you are so enamoured, I would consider giving my blessing--if you could live respectably. But she does not appear to be in that position. Short of your placing a winning bid on a racehorse with odds of one hundred to one, I fail to see your coming by sufficient means either."
Having lost his equanimity, Richard paced the floor. "You are aware I am far past being of age. Your blessing is not required."
"You are correct, son." His father met his eyes, acceding to the statement. "But I hope you will honour my wishes."
Richard sighed and moved to the window, grinding his teeth. He was not prepared for his father to concede his position so easily.
A few moments later, Lord Matlock moved behind his son and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Life's harsh realities do not always suit us. I am sorry. Truly I am."
Still staring, Richard hardly heard the library door click behind his father. Replaying the heated encounter, he smacked the window casing, realizing he had failed to remain calm and respectful.
What now? Would he be a fool to let Charlotte slip through his fingers as Darcy had suggested, or would he be a fool in the long run to defy his father's wishes and wisdom? He needed clarity and insight--just the sort of thing Mr. Martin could offer.
Richard collected his hat and strode to the parsonage. "Nan!" He feigned cheerfulness as he dipped his trademark bow. "Might I find Mr. Martin at home?"
"I believe so, Colonel. Please come in. It is good to see you back, sir."
He followed her to the familiar blue sitting room. Waiting, he was flooded with memories. He could practically hear Charlotte's voice and see her smile as she served chocolate to him and the children some six months ago.
Shrieking and scuffling noises outside drew him to the window. Peering out, Richard saw a young woman in the distance release the ears of two boys before wagging a scolding finger at them. Though her words were muffled, the miens of the accused turned penitent. Just then Mr. Martin approached her from behind. After a brief discussion, she strode towards the house while the rector turned his attention to the scamps. By the expression on the man's face, Richard surmised he was instructing them where the girl had left off. After a short admonition, the boys nodded their heads in acquiescence, eliciting a broad grin from the rector. Laying a friendly hand on the backs of each, he escorted them to the house. A moment later, Richard heard cheerful voices in the entry. Whatever the issue had been, it seemed settled now.
Heavy footsteps announced the man's presence. "Fitzwilliam! What an unexpected pleasure." He shook Richard's hand. "Forgive my delay. I had to reprimand my newest charges, a pair of rascally schoolboys."
"Your charges?"
"Yes. My wife and I have taken in two brothers. Quite a handful they are. Oh, and perhaps you have heard, our Mary is home with us as well."
"I had not heard."
The rector shook his head. "A sad thing. The benefactor of the orphanage where she worked died some months back. Without his generosity, there was insufficient funding to keep it open. She has been with us a month or so now." His gaze turned quizzical. "But enough of me. You appear somewhat troubled. Anything I might assist you with?"
"I hope so. I am in need of wise counsel."
"Certainly. Please sit down." The gentle, towering man gestured to a chair.
Richard related his discovery of Charlotte's spiritual awakening and his struggle over nearly proposing to her at the stream. Then he went on to describe the conversation with his father, the denied blessing, and his embarrassment at losing his temper. Given his long attachment to Charlotte, and Darcy's warning against losing her, he wondered if he should ask for her in spite of his father's wishes.
The rector sat back and crossed his long legs. "Well, I can see how this is a difficult situation for you. I commend you for listening to that still small voice. Choosing not to act in haste and seeking counsel shows great strength of character." He cleared his throat. "Here I recommended you court the lady if she passed muster--first, that you love her, and second, that she has a firm spiritual substance, but I stand corrected by your own knowledge and insight. That your father did not extend his blessing is indeed a weighty matter. Your concern about taking a wife before having ample provision is valid as well. Matrimony beginning with much promise can end in disaster when tested by the financial realities of life."
"My father mentioned as much."
"He is right." The rector shifted. "Fitzwilliam, our prayers are generally answered in one of three ways: yes, no, or wait. Though it is not what you want to hear, I believe your own discernment has told you that the answer is not yes--for now anyway."
Richard looked away, clouded with disappointment.
"My only other consolation would be something I have heard you say yourself: 'Who knows what a year can bring?' Mrs. Collins would not wish to marry before the end of her mourning next spring anyway. Or perhaps there is someone else for you."
Although disheartened, Richard knew Mr. Martin's advice was sound. "What of my disrespect at losing my temper?"
"What is your sense of the best course of action?"
"I suppose an apology would be judicious, but my experience in making them is rare--especially to my father."
"You are a proud man, in many ways like your father. I know it is your desire to overcome that Fitzwilliam stubbornness, as you call it. This is an excellent opportunity for you, hard as it will be. Did you not relate to me how your father's apology earlier this year was pivotal in restoring your rapport?"
"Yes."
"Then use that as a model and see humility as a means to restoration rather than as a sign of weakness."
Richard let the thought sink in for a moment and then rose. "Thank you, sir. I appreciate your wisdom. I believe I see things more clearly now."
"You are welcome." Mr. Martin placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "I can tell you have gleaned much from your daily readings in Proverbs. You are to be commended for your diligence. But navigating life's choices with wisdom is often still difficult. Though I am neither an expert nor a constant correspondent, should you desire counsel, please write."
Richard spent the next hour soothing his soul with his cello and then sat in his room nursing his disappointment over Charlotte with a glass of wine. A glance at his pocket watch told him there lacked only a half-hour until dinner. He needed to apologize to his father. Praying, he gathered his courage. ...see humility as a means to restoration rather than a sign of weakness. Mr. Martin's words echoed in his mind as he strode from his chamber and then hesitated at the earl's door.
Three short raps provoked a response from within. Crossing the threshold, he found his father attending his cravat before the dressing room mirror. When Richard's reflection came into view, the man turned. "Richard." With a nod of the elder's head, the valet disappeared.
It took all of Richard's courage to continue into the room. Taking a deep breath, he drew himself up and looked his father in the eye. "I want to apologize for losing my temper this afternoon. Please forgive me." With the words out, he dropped his gaze, missing the beginnings of a smile from the earl.
"I am proud of you, son. I forgive you." A full smile spread across the man's face. "This Fitzwilliam stubbornness is a damnable thing, I know. I believe I am not the only one who has inherited it, eh?"
Richard chuckled under his breath.
"It was an unpleasant revelation when you pointed out the similarity of my temperament to my sister Catherine. It was easy to see fault in her. But you were right. It is my curse as well. Since then, I have been making an effort to change--to see things from the perspectives of others and to apply the Golden Rule. But change is difficult. Reversing fifty-seven years of habit is an uphill battle."
Richard had never heard his father admit to needing any sort of change. "That is why I am seeking to rule over it rather than have it rule over me. I shudder to think I could become like Aunt Catherine, but unchecked, I could grow into that."
"I have detected a difference in you. I encourage you to continue in whatever it is you are doing." He clapped his son on the back. "You had better dress, or you will be late for dinner."
Richard wanted to tell his father what had prompted the changes. He took a deep breath and began to form a word but exhaled and smiled with a nod instead. His father was an imposing man.
"My dear," Lady Matlock walked towards the ornate bed where her husband reclined reading, "did you notice our second son was not himself this evening? He seemed distracted--reserved. And he retired early."
Lord Matlock expelled a deep breath and closed his book, focusing on his wife. "He asked for my blessing today."
"Your blessing?" She moved towards him, tying her paisley dressing gown closer.
"He wished to wed Mrs. Collins."
"And you did not grant it." She knew the answer as soon as she had spoken the words.
"She has no money. How could I?"
With a sigh, she nudged his knee over and perched on the edge of the bed, facing him. "My heart aches for him. You know how I love that boy and so wish to see him happily situated. Under that unyielding exterior is a kind heart," she reached to stroke her husband's face, "like someone else I know." She looked at him under her lashes in a manner that always softened him.
He dropped his gaze before going on. "I am at a loss to what he sees in her. She is rather plain--"
"Oh, my dear, they were childhood companions and have loved each other ever since. Do you not recall them at Lady Heath's birthday celebrations? Though encouraged otherwise, they were inseparable. Even at dinner last night, he could not take his eyes off her."
"I never gave it any thought. She was never a worthy prospect for marriage. He must accept the reality of his situation and concentrate on aligning with a woman with a reasonable dowry."
She sighed. "I thought several years ago he had resigned himself to it. At that last picnic he attended, he was distraught--as tonight. He never joined us again for either the birthdays or the opera. But when I saw him at your sister's funeral, I knew he still loved her. My heart broke for the both of them. You know she has always been dear to me as well."
"A pity she has no money. I suppose they are well suited. I can see how she would make a good wife." He brought his eyes back to her with a smile. "Like someone else I know." He gathered her in his arms and kissed her brow.
Lying awake in the darkness, Lord Matlock pondered his second son. Indeed he had never given any thought to the country girl from Hertfordshire. But as he recalled Richard dancing with her at the balls and partnering with her for picnic games many years ago, the vision of a young man with a broad smile emerged. It had been many years since he had seen his son so contented. Richard could certainly be charming. But when any other women had shown interest, he became smoothly aloof. Had Richard loved her all these years?
Eleanor shifted beside him in the bed. His thoughts drifted back to the first time he had danced with her when she was twenty. A sly smile crept across his lips. He had found himself seated next to her during supper at the engagement party for her friend who was to marry the second son of Lord Heath, their neighbour. Though Eleanor's family was untitled and her dowry only respectable, he was instantly drawn to her wit and charisma, as was every other eligible young man present. At last he had met someone who could match him in conversation. When they danced, she had teased and baited him as no other woman ever had. He was smitten and had charmed her into accepting his proposal of marriage over that of a marquis just two months later.
He had been fortunate. As heir to the Matlock earldom, a handsome dowry had not been essential. The truth was, he had married for love. So had his youngest sister, Anne. A pang of guilt struck him, realizing he was denying the same to his son. His sister Catherine had married well as had Andrew. Did he want the same for Richard? Perhaps the boy was right, a satisfying wife was equal to a suitable one, though in an odd sort of way. He could scarce believe his train of thought as it so contradicted everything he had ever accepted as right and proper.
He sighed and rolled over, unwilling to think on it any more. Had Charlotte even a meagre dowry to afford them the life befitting Richard's status, he could embrace her. But she did not... and that was that.
Continued In Next Section