Lady Matlock reclined in her parlor nursing a most dreadful headache with her Cook's famous tea blend. A splash or two of brandy in the cup made the warm beverage a balm to sooth the Countess of Matlock's throbbing veins. Before her lay a complicated arrangement of invitations as the height of the London Season came into full swing. Many families would arrive from the country as Easter was the following weekend, but given the scandals of Georgiana and now Fitzwilliam and the girl from the theatre, the Matlocks had elected to remain in town to help parry whispers.
Sipping a long draft from her fine china, the sound of a carriage rolling up to the house outside piqued her interest. While dressed impeccably for the day and able to accept callers, truly Margaret Fitzwilliam had no interest in playing social games as she still suffered from late hours of the previous evening's ball at Lady Sefton’s town home.
Relief washed over her as her dear husband strolled into the parlor, until she viewed his expression.
"Reginald, sit down. You look as if you are to suffer an apoplexy." His wife beckoned for him to find a chair. Instead, the Earl of Matlock paced the parlor floor in front of the grand windows looking out upon the busy street.
"That son of yours, Margaret, shall be the death of us."
"Which son is that pray tell? We do have two."
"Richard! I had business with our solicitor and I notice papers with his name written upon them. Now, I ask you, what business does Richard have with our lawyers that I am not aware of? I know he confides in you.”
Margaret Fitzwilliam mulled for a moment, and continued sipping her tea.
The Earl halted in his track as this wife's playacting and stormed over to her table in a deliberate double-quick march. Placing both hands on the edge, he peered closely until his nose was directly in front of his wife's teacup that she held so delicately. “Margaret, tell me what you know."
Lady Matlock leaned back in her chair and fluttered away her husband's face with a slight wave of her hand. Reginald returned to a standing position and folded his arms across his chest. The position was a similar stance he shared with both of his sons, a similarity Margaret always found highly amusing.
"I have not spoken to Richard in weeks. Why not visit him at his barracks and seek your answers directly from him?"
"I did just as you say and he's not there! He’s gone! I was told by some bloke in a red coat the Colonel has leave and is visiting his relations in Kent!”"
Lady Matlock gasped.
"Margaret, I'm going to ask you this once more. What is our son planning and where is he?"
"He wouldn't . . . they wouldn't . . ." Margaret Fitzwilliam's furrowed her brows and placed her teacup down. She flattened her palms against her temples and pushed as she tried to find any evidence her supposition was wrong. Surely those two boys did not think they could take on their Aunt Catherine, alone, without reinforcements?
"We must ready the carriage. We must leave for Rosings at once!”
"Whatever for?" The Earl of Matlock called after his wife as she hastily stood up from the table and began pulling on cords to summon the housekeeper. There was much to plan and little time to accomplish it all.
“Richard's going to marry Anne, and your negotiations with the Duke of Northumberland will fall to shambles.”
"What!" The Earl roared, much in a similar fashion as his son. The Earl's lip glistened with perspiration and his wife approached him to place her hand on his arms.
"I'm certain we shall be there in time. If Darcy and Richard had pulled off this coup, we both know Catherine would be standing and shouting in our parlor at this very moment.”
Still the Earl said nothing and only breathed huskily in and out. Finally, he listened to his wife's good sense.
"We shall leave tomorrow, I cannot miss the dinner tonight at the Burrells. If they have not accomplished it as yet, tis better I shore up any loose ends now."