Page 20 of The Scarred Duchess
The young lady held out her hand. He grasped it and shivered from the shock that ran up his arm. A whispered, “Oh, my!” from the young lady returned him to reality. He shook the water out of his ears and took in Miss Edgecombe’s eyes. Magical.
A footman closed the door after the ladies rose and left their dining companions; the atmosphere changed from waggish to weighty.
“What plans are you hatching, Matlock?” asked Lord Tewkesbury. He lifted his bushy eyebrows, then focused on cutting his cigar.
“I shall yield the floor to our young friend,” replied Lord Matlock. “Gardiner, explain your scheme. My friends will no doubt find your plans captivating.”
Gardiner repeated his plan concerning those in the aristocracy who traded on their name past their ability to pay their debts. Lord Matlock supported his plans with his opinion.
“War will come. The kingdom must be ready, especially within our borders. Those available for purchase or chantage add sedition to our worries.” He seemed to take a straw poll. “We cannot win a war on two fronts, especially if one is internal.”
Declarations of ‘Hear, hear!’ followed.
“Besides Matlock here, what connexions can you offer?” asked Lord Bickham.
“My brother Bennet, of Longbourn, with whom many of you are intimately familiar.”
“I have seen him fence,” said Lord Tewkesbury. “A finer swordsman or gentleman I have yet to encounter.”
The group returned to business and confirmed their support pledges to Gardiner.
“Will it be enough for you to make a difference, Gardiner?” asked Lord Newbury.
“It will not. Next week, I meet with a contingent from the northern counties. They are eager to invest, as they recognise the changing economic situation.”
“Anyone we may know?” queried Lord Bickham.
“They are tradesman all. One is very wealthy. His mills and factories produce most of the carriages in the kingdom.”
“Then you shall meet with my good friend Mr Lewis Bingley,” added Lord Tewkesbury, “of Scarborough. Bingley Carriage Works.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
June 1795, Pemberley
“The soup is excellent, is it not?”
George Darcy nodded to his wife, then turned to his son. “Major Carstens has informed me that you have, once again, outgrown your fencing uniform.”
“Yes, it appears that stirrups are made to be let out. Clothing, not so much,” replied Lady Anne.
“I am querying Fitzwilliam, as his masters have given positive reports of his progress.”
His son looked up. He seemed hesitant to speak. Darcy waited. “What have my tutors reported, Father?”
Darcy nodded. “Your preference for study has earned you high praise. Continue on this path. Your future role as Master of Pemberley will demand much. Our loyal tenants, the townspeople of Lambton, the livings under our…”
Fitzwilliam had returned to staring at his food before Darcy had finished speaking. He exhaled his frustration but chose not to speak further. Lady Anne cleared her throat.
“Yes, my dear?” he asked.
“It is incumbent upon me to inform our family party of a visitor,” she announced in a delightfully pompous manner, catching his attention. “We shall have coffee in the blue parlour and I shall tell you about it. Come, Fitzwilliam, escort me.”
Fitzwilliam eagerly offered his arm, upon which his mother regally placed her hand. With perfect posture, she walked through the doors opened by another footman. Darcy followed them into the drawing room.
Lady Anne sat with Fitzwilliam. He leant into her side; her arm lazily draped across his shoulders. Darcy, left with little choice, sat in the chair to her right. Moments later, a footman entered with a coffee pot and a maid followed with a dessert tray.
“On the sideboard, please,” instructed Lady Anne.
