Page 37 of Expectations (Obstinate, Headstrong Girl #7)
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
PAYING CALLS
“ W ould you like to visit an earl, Cassandra?”
Cassandra had been sulking—it being Tommy’s turn to ride out with Darcy if only the weather would cooperate, which it obligingly had—and Elizabeth had interrupted her complaints of abandonment and abuse. She immediately perked up.
“An earl? Does he live at the palace with the king? Might I wear my white dress with the pale pink roses?”
“It is Papa’s uncle, and he does not live with the king in a palace, although his house is very fine. Yes, you may wear your new dress. The earl has been ill, however, and he may not be up to visitors. We shall not know unless we try.”
A relieved-looking nursery maid went to fetch the dress, while Elizabeth left to make arrangements for a carriage.
Elizabeth gave her card to a neat maid, and they were promptly shown into the large parlour to which she and Darcy had been admitted the last time.
The place was as gloomy as she remembered it. Cassandra stared around, wide-eyed, at the shadowy interior, so very much the opposite of the light and softness of Darcy’s home. “Are there ghosts here, Mama?” she asked.
“No ghosts,” Elizabeth replied, hoping she was telling the truth.
It was not long before the ancient butler entered and bowed, a wide smile upon his wrinkled face. He glanced curiously at Cassandra.
“Hastings,” Elizabeth greeted warmly. “My niece and I have come to see Lord Matlock, if he is feeling up to visitors.”
“She is my mama now, not my auntie,” Cassandra corrected. “Good afternoon, sir,” she added brightly, after a quelling look from Elizabeth.
“I will see whether the earl is receiving,” Hastings said solemnly. The look he gave her was not promising, but it was not many minutes later that he returned to say that if she would wait, the earl would be with them shortly.
Hastings’ idea of ‘shortly’ was not Cassandra’s.
“What is taking so long?” she asked, wandering to large windows swathed in heavy velvet. She shoved the fabric back, allowing in weak sunlight. “Why does he keep it so dark?”
“The earl has not been well, as I have already told you.” Elizabeth refrained from calling the child to return to her seat; the view beyond the draperies was probably far more interesting than this bleak room.
Between the dark rugs and the dark furnishings, it was much more like visiting a tomb than a welcoming drawing room.
Even the portraiture, two massive oils of—presumably—earls in the clothing of yesteryear, each wearing identical forbidding expressions of displeasure, cast a condemning cloak of censure over the chamber.
After a few minutes, Cassandra abandoned her window view to sit beside Elizabeth once more, regarding the portraits thoughtfully.
“Why are Papa’s pictures here, and him in such silly clothing? Why does he look so unhappy and…as if he ate something horrible and his belly is sour?”
Elizabeth re-examined the portraits, and this time saw past the cold expressions and old-fashioned attire. They could have been Darcy’s brothers. She had not before noticed much resemblance between her husband and the earl, except for his eyes—but here it was obvious.
“I assume they are the earl’s father and grandfather—which means they are Papa’s grandfathers, too. They probably were not unwell, only very solemn about having their portraits painted.”
“Papa is going to have our family picture done. He must be sure to smile oftener, else he might appear just like them. Who would want to be in such nasty looks, hanging about where everyone can see?”
“I am sure you will remind him.”
Elizabeth glanced back up at the pictures, at the stern countenances.
Was that how she had viewed Darcy, once upon a time?
Hostile, cruel even? It was almost impossible to remember, now that his dark eyes warmed whenever they shared a look, now that they had already a treasure of many private moments and private jokes, even, between them.
The image she carried in her mind of her husband was of a good-humoured, patient, generous, even sensual man, with nothing of coldness anywhere about him.
Finally, Hastings reappeared. “The earl will see you now,” he said, and led them upstairs, again to his library.
Despite its pleasant size, with two fireplaces, tall ceilings, carved mouldings and shelves full of books, it was just as dark and dismal as the drawing room, although warm fires burnt in the hearths.
Lord Matlock was seated beside one of them, directing them to the settee across from his chair.
“Forgive me if I do not rise,” he said, his voice sounding not quite so crisp as it had previously.
And was his skin more sallow? His man, Elizabeth noticed, stood at attention in a shadowy corner—the valet who, it was probable, did not ever leave his side.
Cassandra took her hand in an unusual act of shyness, and she led the girl to the settee. “I am sorry if we have disturbed you, sir. I wonder if I might introduce you to my niece, Miss Cassandra Bingley.”
“She is my mama,” Cassandra added stubbornly, not cowed enough to let this pass without comment. Elizabeth squeezed her hand in both reassurance and warning.
The earl looked down his hawkish nose at them. “Mama, eh?”
“Cassandra and her twin brother, Thomas, lost their parents to a carriage accident several months ago. Darcy and I are raising them.”
“I am going to be adopted,” Cassandra put in. “I shall be Miss Cassandra Elizabeth Darcy. Tommy wants to stay a Bingley. I don’t know why. I think ‘Thomas Darcy’ sounds grand.”
“Also, Thomas Bingley sounds very well. Please remember that you are not to tease him about it,” Elizabeth reproved.
Lord Matlock scowled. “My children were taught to never speak unless spoken to—children who must be seen should not be heard.”
“Were you a cruel papa, then?” Cassandra asked interestedly.
“Cassandra,” Elizabeth warned. But the earl’s frown faded into a gloom matching their surroundings, it seeming as though the question itself had drained him of his limited energy.
“Why did you come today, Mrs Darcy?” His enquiry was laced in despondency, as if he no longer cared why. As if he wanted her to simply…go.