Page 13 of Mr Darcy Gets Angry

It was the third time Mary recounted the tale; yet, on this occasion, Elizabeth did not interrupt her.

Mrs Gardiner was a person Mary knew well.

Her former timidity seemed, at last, to have deserted her, for she now found herself, for the first time in her life, the object of general attention.

Listening, Elizabeth admired the clearness with which she set forth the facts, and the order she gave them, which lent them a natural authority.

I shall do the same with Lady Matlock , she resolved.

Yet before her lay a mission of difficulty.

The story was not beyond all doubt; some particulars were wanting, while others might be just imagined.

Should it prove false, she would hazard forever any hope of advancing towards a relationship with Mr Darcy, who would think her nothing but a dealer in idle gossip.

At this thought, despite the warm day and the oppressive air within the carriage, Elizabeth felt a sudden chill.

“What is wrong, my dear?” asked Mrs Gardiner, observing the troubled expression that overspread her fair countenance.

“I have just realised that our story may not be true. I am going to wait upon Lady Matlock, and even the visit itself is perplexing. We never spoke of continuing our acquaintance in London, and yet here am I at her door with a tale that even a novelist might hesitate to invent—”

“It is by no means incredible, my dear. From what I have learnt from Mary, it bears a true aspect. How many young ladies with hair of that colour have a mother so well acquainted with Meryton as to possess such particulars respecting its inhabitants?”

“We are still ignorant of the name of Sophia’s husband. That would be a solid piece of information.”

“Yes, but your uncle Phillips has undertaken to search for it amongst his papers, and he is persuaded he once set it down. He is a methodical man and a scrupulous solicitor.

“You are not going there to beg a favour. You may be said to be performing a benevolent office for the benefit of a gentleman whom you hold in the highest esteem.”

Yet nothing her aunt, nor even her uncle, could urge was sufficient to quiet her mind.

In truth, it was not solely the Betrothed Story —as she named it with a touch of humour—that agitated her; it was also the knowledge that she was to meet a member of his family.

Her uncle had reminded her that she had no personal concern in uncovering the truth, but she knew that this was not wholly so.

Beyond her desire to serve Colonel Fitzwilliam, there lurked a secret wish to see Mr Darcy.

I do not wish to reproach myself for that longing , she thought, yet she could not dismiss the sense that she was withholding the whole truth from her family—and from his.

Still, in observing her sister’s altered manner, she perceived that her undertaking might serve another end: it might impart to Mary a greater confidence in herself.

Speaking with their aunt, she was quite another creature.

It was grievous to reflect that, through all those years, so little had been done to aid Mary in finding her proper place within life, or even within the family.

I shall never again permit you, sister, to be neglected , she vowed.

The thought brought a measure of comfort amidst the tumult of her mind, which was full of moving images—Lady Matlock, the red-haired lady with some dark design, and then Darcy, again and again.

She wondered whether her uncle’s letter might already have drawn him from Pemberley.

The journey to London passed swiftly. In former days, when she had been eager to arrive, it had seemed to take an age.

Then, amid her restless thoughts, she found herself in the Gardiners’ library with her aunt and Mary, who were assisting her in composing a message to Lady Matlock.

Upon the desk lay two or three sheets already torn.

At length, they settled upon a brief, impartial form:

My lady,

Following certain events affecting my family, we are in possession of intelligence which might place Colonel Fitzwilliam in danger. I am in London, and I humbly request an interview.

Respectfully yours,

Elizabeth Bennet

Mrs Gardiner was obliged to take the paper from her hand, lest she attempt another version.

“Enough, my dear. It is but a message, and the rest lies in her ladyship’s hands.”

No sooner had the note been despatched than another anxiety rose in Elizabeth’s mind.

“What shall I wear if Lady Matlock should invite me?”

At last—a problem Mrs Gardiner could solve. The following morning, after breakfast, Elizabeth tried on every gown she had brought, but none satisfied her.

“We shall go and find something pretty,” said Mrs Gardiner. “I know a place where they keep gowns already made, and with your figure, all will become you.”

It was a wise decision, but a little after noon, a message arrived for Elizabeth. She regarded it with incredulous eyes, not daring to open it.

“What can she possibly have written to me?” she asked, and looked on in surprise as her aunt laughed.

“My dear Elizabeth, she is not the Queen of England. You must not be so fearful,” said her aunt, taking the letter.

Miss Elizabeth,

I shall expect you today at four o’clock.

I remain,

Diana Matlock

“I can scarcely believe it,” Elizabeth murmured. “Today?” She glanced at the clock upon the mantel, and her mind was thrown into confusion once more. “I have but two hours to prepare.”

“Fear nothing. We shall accompany you,” said Mrs Gardiner, showing the note to Mary, who received it with a solemn nod.

“But—” Elizabeth began, intending to say they were not invited, but her aunt anticipated her meaning.

“We shall wait for you in the carriage, or take a turn in that fine neighbourhood. There is a park nearby, if I recollect.”

They left the house much earlier than was needful, for Elizabeth was so solicitous not to arrive late that Mrs Gardiner yielded to her entreaties.

“Now, Elizabeth, you must compose yourself. Should Lady Matlock reject our account, she will yet be civil enough to thank you for your pains and to dismiss you politely. Nothing dangerous will ensue. The worst you may endure is an unpleasant quarter of an hour. Be the young lady I know you to be. Only breathe.”

Yet, as they halted before Matlock House, even this simple counsel was hard to follow.

However, the moment she crossed the threshold, her agitation was unexpectedly dispelled.

Perhaps it was owing to the butler, who greeted her with a smile and then announced her with the utmost courtesy, far from the grim Cerberus she had imagined.

After all, I am awed by this world , she reflected as she curtseyed, and in owning to herself this genuine fear, she felt some relief.

“We are alone, Miss Bennet. My eldest son and his wife are in Scotland. They went directly from Pemberley,” said Lady Matlock.

Her manner of speaking of her family, and of Pemberley, seemed to imply that their former days together were not forgotten; and this, Elizabeth thought, was an auspicious beginning.

“I thank your ladyship for receiving me.”

Lady Matlock smiled, and by her silence invited Elizabeth to proceed.

“I shall be very brief, my lady.”

But Lady Matlock, who had begun to pour the tea, paused and set the pot upon the table when she heard the name that followed.

“It concerns Miss Henry.”

She leaned back with a sigh and murmured, “That girl,” in a tone so melancholy that Elizabeth felt an immediate compassion for her. “My mother-in-law never liked me.”

The unexpectedness of such a confidence caused Elizabeth, for a moment, to forget her own anxieties.

“I was a well-brought-up young lady, from a family of the first respectability, and yet she would not approve of me, and made her dissatisfaction known all her life. When my sons were born, I resolved never to act in the same manner towards my daughters-in-law. I tried, with all my heart, to welcome Miss Henry.”

A silence followed, and Elizabeth was uncertain how to proceed.

“Pray, Miss Elizabeth, tell me what has occurred.”

Elizabeth, who had practised her speech half the night, now found herself delivering it far better than in her rehearsals. Speaking with simplicity, she gave no conjectures of her own, but confined herself to plain recital, as Mary had advised.

“I confess,” she concluded, “that we have not learnt the name of Sophia Barrington’s husband. Yet the rest of the history may serve to indicate that she is Miss Henry’s mother.”

From her reticule, she drew two papers. “I allowed myself to translate the letter, with the assistance of my sister Mary. Here are both,” she said, laying them on the table. Lady Matlock regarded them for a time before taking up the English version, which she read through more than once.

“If she were concerned solely with marriage, you would not be here, I presume? This is not a matter of common morality.”

Elizabeth inclined her head, though with renewed apprehension. “Considering that we are at war with France, certain of her actions might suggest an interest of a more dangerous kind than the wish to become Colonel Fitzwilliam’s wife.”

“That may indeed be so,” Lady Matlock said, with evident pain.

“There are too many coincidences. I must still hope she harbours some ordinary secret, rather than the dreadful one your tale implies. But without certainty, we cannot speak to Richard. Please, Miss Elizabeth, we must discover that lady’s married name.

Even the letter is not proof enough that she pursues my son with a design so vile. ”

“My uncle Phillips is searching for any paper that might bear the name. He believes the deeds of sale were signed by Mr Barrington, but his son-in-law also had a few documents to sign.

Lady Matlock nodded. “Thank you.”

“I hope we are mistaken; and if so, you may be angry with us for causing needless alarm.”