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Note:
Thank you!!!
The response to this story has been absolutely fabulous. Thank you all for your comments! I worried that the plot was too crazy and complex, that I had taken it a step too far this time but I can't decide what to write, the stories just fall into my head from who knows where.
This is the last chapter and I would love your opinion on the title of the complete story, here are the options (or make your own).
Master of Puppets (my concern for this title is that it is Puppet master that is the correct term. I wonder if it sounds awkward this way.)
Rocks and Ridges
No Sentimentalist
Hearts Made of Glass
Blackened State of Mind
I want something that reflects the dark ambience of the book.
Chapter 27 Hearts Made of Glass
Tranquillity had descended on Càrn Gorm Castle despite the mournful circumstances. Mr Darcy had been given three weeks to reunite with his wife and son, get to know his grandchildren and daughter by marriage but his heart had been too weak. He died with his affairs in order. The deed on Pemberley had already been signed over to his youngest son, Georgiana and Emma were married and had received their fortunes but his will left them some sentimental pieces of furniture and jewellery. His fraudulent wife was left with the fortune she had entered the marriage, not a poultry sum but the interest of ten thousand pounds was hardly enough to sustain Mrs Susan Darcy's usual expenses had she not been confined on an Orkney Island.
The funeral had to wait until the family had had time to travel north. It was his last wish to be buried in the Highlands with his wife, she agreed and the laird could hardly deny a dying man his last wish.
They were all gathered in the large hall of Càrn Gorm Castle, currently functioning as a dining room. It had not all gone according to plan when Elizabeth had insisted they must all come. She had not known that Georgiana's husband, always referred to as the General, was her husband's cousin on his mother's side. The astute gentleman had taken one look at the laird and released a litany of curses worthy of a soldier who had fought Napoleon and escaped victoriously. It had taken the better part of three days, a funeral and a patient wife to calm him down and accept the decisions made by all but it had eventually been accomplished.
The following supper was a quiet affair, everyone was weary in body and sorrowful at heart.
Elizabeth let her eyes glide across the occupants of the table. Lady Annabel had taken her loss with a peace she had not yet seen. She preferred to be grateful for every second she had been afforded as opposed to counting her losses.
Besides, she regarded their separation as momentarily and she predicted, of shorter duration than their previous.
At Lady Annabel's right sat a squirming Mrs Caroline Darcy. Elizabeth wondered how long she would postpone to hand over the jewellery Georgiana and Emma had inherited. If Mr Darcy did not force the matter, Elizabeth foresaw an eternity and then some.
Fitzwilliam was conversing animatedly with another Fitzwilliam, General Fitzwilliam was, after all, his cousin. They resembled each other but little in countenance or body. Her husband being tall and broad-shouldered while the general was a stout, barrel-chested ox of a man albeit somewhat shorter in stature than her husband. Neither were their temperaments similar with her husband being reserved and serious compared to the jovial but forward general. Yet, she sensed a common ground in their interests and thoughts. They certainly conversed easily enough, like old friends rather than new acquaintances.
Georgiana had bloomed under the gentle ministrations of her husband who might puff and bluster but he was soft as a kitten in his dealings with his wife.
Emma needed no bolstering of courage, she needed someone grounded and Mr Knightley was her perfect match. One might even draw some similarities between herself and Emma but in reality, they were very different. Of the more pronounced dissimilarities, Emma loved being in the centre of attention whilst Elizabeth did not mind being in the background.
"This is a well-appointed room, although nothing to Pemberley's ballroom, it is more than expected of a Highland cottage," Mrs Caroline Darcy grated on to no one in particular since Elizabeth's mind had wandered off into her thoughts.
"Thank you, Mrs Darcy, I have no cause to repine. I must admit that I have grown to love the Highlands, the beauty, the untamed wilderness and the warmth of the people living here."
She needed not to raise her head to notice the eyes that bore into her but she did anyway, just to bask in the intensity of feeling they conveyed. She offered him a ghost of a smile to reassure him she was well, undaunted by the little slurs she had grown used to in Hertfordshire and later, Pemberley. Mrs Caroline Darcy was an expert deliverer of those small stings that hurt but were difficult to reply to. It did her no favours though—she had plenty of acquaintances but no real friends as no one seemed to like her enough to become intimately connected.
#
After supper they all removed to the gallery, it felt right to look at the ancestry of clan Eilein at Càrn Gorm Castle as they mourned another soul who had left for the hinterland. The row of portraits stretched over centuries. A fine linage to belong to, Elizabeth mused as the entrance door opened up to a very unwelcome guest.
"Where is Mr Darcy, I have a hen to pick with him. Does he not believe I know the difference between north and south?"
Everyone in the hall froze but the laird himself stepped forward.
"You are too late, my father passed over a week ago. He was buried today in the family mausoleum. If you want to pay your last respects, your son will escort you there before you leave my home."
"What do you mean?"
Mrs Darcy looked genuinely bewildered as the colour drained from her countenance and her hands flew to her chest. A little too late, the laird thought as tears welled in her eyes. Either she was an excellent actress or she had truly loved his father. He did not know her well enough to determine which one it was but he did notice when her expression changed from utter despair—to indignation—to pure hatred. Yet, he did not anticipate what she did next as she pulled a small, feminine pistol out of her reticule. He was not worried; she had had no time to load it unless she came prepared. He stepped sideways to shield Elizabeth, should she be her intended victim.
"I had to come and see for myself if what Lady Wilhelmina had told me of your circumstances were true. She is Mrs Grant's intimate friend and after visiting her at Doune in the spring of 1812, she came back with some interesting tidbits to relate. Supposedly, my husband possessed a double ganger in the Scottish Highlands, residing in a new and well-appointed castle overlooking Loch Eilein. I knew, of course, that Anne's mother stemmed from clan Eilein but I was under the impression that the medieval castle was on the verge of caving in.
"It was too much of a coincidence and a search of Mrs Reynolds room revealed a stack of very interesting letters. I am sorry I underestimated your stealth in concealing your whereabouts at Pemberley or you would have died without heirs..."
Too late, he realised that he was the object of her rage. The firearm pointed directly at him at a close distance when it went off. At least, he heard the gunshot and waited for the pain to reverberate through his body. He would work against it and remain standing for as long as it took Elizabeth to run to safety.
"Elizabeth..." he managed to choke out before Mrs Darcy crumpled to the floor with a red stain spreading across her abdomen.
His wife ran to aid Mrs Darcy but he caught her around the waist and crushed her to his chest. She fought him with all her might.
"Please, Elizabeth, calm down, she still has the pistol."
She melded into him, trembling like a translucent autumn leaf. He ran his hands over her back and tucked her wet cheek under his chin.
The general took charge, the army as much ingrained in him as he was in the army. The laird saw him put down his pistol on a table, it would most likely leave a burn mark as the barrel was still smoking. It was not Mrs Darcy's weapon but his own he realised. It must have been the general who had shot Mrs Darcy.
The general felt her pulse but she was not dead, not yet. He removed the firearm from her hand and inspected it.
"It is a Remington type Deringer, the flintlock and trigger guard is made by Sturman. The floral engravings with silver inlays indicate it was made for a woman, this one, I believe." The general waved his free hand over the prone lady beside him who was being tended to by her irate son.
"How could you shoot a defenceless lady!" he accused the general.
"I could not, this woman one the other hand, was no wilting flower. Look, the pistol is loaded. Since she has had no time to load it inside, she must have come prepared with malicious intent. Should I have waited until she had finished off your brother, completed the job she started two and thirty years ago?"
"She had a family!"
"Yes, two grown children while the laird of Eilein has two infants with a third on the way, your brother, I might remind you—again. Who would you have saved, Mr Darcy?"
"There had to be another way..."
"Yes, I saw you running to your brother's defence and your valiant efforts to dissuade your deranged mother!" The general's voice rose with his escalating outrage. "Would you rather have her committed to bedlam or worse, Newgate, dangling from the hangman's noose? Take your pick of your preferred conclusion, Mr Darcy."
"Gentlemen!"
It amazed Elizabeth how her husband could get everyone's attention without ever raising his voice. The quarrel stilled instantly. She was released by the laird into Emma's tight embrace. They held each other for dear life while Mr Knightley hovered over them both.
"Mrs MacGregor, open the door to the infirmary. George, help me carry her."
Mr Darcy stared blankly at him, the laird took the matter into his own arms and carried Mrs Darcy into the room where Mrs MacGregor waited for him. She had thrown a blanket over the bed that always was at the ready for any injured worker or as in this instance, a guest.
Mrs Darcy was still alive with her eyes open in wonder but her breathing was laboured and rattling. Her hands clamped the injury and Mrs MacGregor had to pry them off to inspect the wound.
Maids came running with water and clean linens. Mrs MacGregor put a cloth over the wound, looked at the laird and gave her head an almost imperceptible shake. She did not believe there was any hope but Mr Darcy did.
"Call for the doctor!"
"I shall, Mr Darcy, he should be here in a couple of hours," Mr McGregor offered.
"A couple of hours? That is outrageous! There must be someone else?"
"I am afraid not, George. You should try to comfort your mother as best you can. Besides, should the doctor get here, we shall be forced to explain why the general had to shoot her. I suspect it would be for the best that as few people as possible know. There is no reason to tarnish her reputation and by association, yours."
The room suddenly quieted when Lady Annabel drifted into the room, trembling with her chin raised. She approached the struggling lady who had usurped her rightful place by her husband's side, so many years ago. She looked the wide-eyed lady in the eyes.
"You are not fond of chocolate, I presume?" Susan Vernon whispered.
"He never loved you but the lord does, may you rest in peace." Lady Annabel proclaimed, turned on her heels and walked rigidly out of the room as Mrs Darcy drew her last breath.
#
Càrn Gorm Castle was asleep for days after their guests left. Mr and Mrs Darcy chose to take their mother home to Pemberley for her burial. The rest of their guests left to show their last respects although several had departed with the promise to visit summer next. Elizabeth would not be able to travel with a new infant to care for. A son, as it would turn out to be, named George for the grandfather he would never have the pleasure of meeting...
The End
Explanations:
Ratafia was a sweet liqueur flavoured with peach or cherry kernels. The Regency society was ignorant of cyanogenic glycosides that lurked in the kernels. Once ingested, these glycosides broke down into prussic acid, also known as hydrogen cyanide. If you drink enough of it, ratafia would drive you mad before it kills you. ( http/the-history-girls./2017/01/high-times-in-18th-century-by-debra.html?m=1)
Cyanide poisoning results from exposure to any of several forms of cyanide. Early symptoms include headache, dizziness, fast heart rate, shortness of breath and vomiting that might be followed by seizures, slow heart rate, low blood pressure, loss of consciousness and cardiac arrest. Some survivors have long term neurological problems (Wikipedia). Permanent disabilities vary from various extrapyramidal syndromes to postanoxic vegetative states. (https/journals./euro-emergencymed/Fulltext/2013/02000/Cyanide_poisoning_by_fire_smoke_inhalation_a.2.aspx).
The year without a summer happened during a time period known as The Little Ice Age that started in the 14th century and ended in the first half of the 19th century. It had already caused considerable agricultural distress for the farmers in Europe when the volcano; Mount Tambora erupted 5-15 of April 1815, sending clouds of dust into the atmosphere. It is the world's largest volcanic eruption in historic times and caused a temperature drop of 1 degree in addition to the already cool climate. This event also coincided with the Dalton Minimum, a period of relatively low solar activity which ran from December 1810 to May 1823. The lack of irradiance during this period was exacerbated by the atmospheric opacity from volcanic dust. The result was the 11th coldest year on record since 1659, the third coldest summer and the coldest July. Storms and heavy rainfall caused Europe's rivers to flood, harvests to fail, followed by famine. Malnourishment caused by the famine precipitated the typhus outbreak in Ireland and Scotland. Riots, arson and looting all over Europe was another consequence.
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