Page 14 of Mr Darcy Gets Angry
But Lady Matlock shook her head gravely.
“I disliked her from the first moment. Call it a mother’s instinct.
She was too perfect. When you arrived here, you were fearful—that much was plain.
I did not desire Richard’s lady to be afraid, but to be a little overwhelmed by her situation—perhaps curious, perhaps eager.
But this one—she was perfection itself. No sentiment could be discerned upon that lovely countenance.
And then, her account of her family—so trivial!
After she departed, I asked my husband whether he recollected her late father’s occupation, or the place in the North where they lived—anything personal—but there was nothing.
She told us nothing. It was not merely the words she spoke, but all that she did not say.
I felt she wanted my son, but not in a romantic way.
“I must be certain before I can speak to him. He is in love and will be slow to believe in her ill intent. His brother is in Scotland, as I said; he might be here in a week—but no, it is better he should remain away. Darcy is far better suited to assist us—”
“We have taken the liberty of informing Mr Darcy. My uncle Gardiner wrote to him.”
“Good. You were right not to delay. Fitzwilliam and my son are like brothers. This has gained us a day.”
Elizabeth could not help but admire her. Though she still wished the news might prove unfounded, she saw that Lady Matlock was prepared for the truth.
“Miss Elizabeth, will you bring your family to dine with us tomorrow? My husband may wish to speak with you.”
Elizabeth did not hesitate. “With pleasure, my lady.”
The conclusion of the interview exceeded her hopes.
“Incredible!” cried Mrs Gardiner, with evident relief, as they drove away.
Elizabeth gave a brief account of the conversation, her satisfaction producing in all a cheerfulness which was shared the more readily from their common interest.
The waiting, Mrs Gardiner thought, had been even worse than the visit.
She had not confessed her full anxiety—that Elizabeth’s goodwill might be met with a cold or disagreeable return.
But Lady Matlock, it seemed, was of a different disposition from certain other ladies she had known.
Or perhaps her kindness was born of her own concern.
That she should invite them all to dinner was unexpected; she might easily have invited only Elizabeth.
Mrs Gardiner considered whether Mr Darcy might have spoken to his aunt with some degree of frankness, but quickly dismissed the idea; such people were not wont to confide in that manner.
She had observed them at Pemberley—kind, well-bred, yet not intimate.
It was a pity, she reflected, that ceremony could sometimes stand in the way of a deeper connection. We , she thought, are more direct; we have a warm family life; we avow our sorrows, and we share our joys . Such a life, she would not exchange for any accession to a higher rank.
“Do you suppose he will come to London?” Elizabeth asked, and her aunt alone understood the meaning.
“I do. He is much attached to Colonel Fitzwilliam, and a letter from your uncle must carry weight.”
Mary, watching them, felt no annoyance, though she did not fully comprehend all.
To be in their company, and to share in such an adventure, was the happiest experience she had yet known.
Seated beside her aunt, she reproached herself for knowing so little of her sisters’ lives.
She had seldom remained in the drawing-room with the ladies, and when she had, their discourse had seemed no more than a murmur, never penetrating her inward thoughts.
But now, to be with Elizabeth and their aunt was wholly satisfactory—and even engaging.
Yet the day’s interest was far from ended.
They found Mr Gardiner in the parlour, a glass of brandy in his hand—a sure token that something of consequence had occurred.
He invited them to be seated and gave Mrs Gardiner a letter.
“This has just arrived from brother Phillips. I had hoped we were mistaken—that it was all a misunderstanding.”
“But we were not!” cried Mrs Gardiner, reading aloud. “Mr Phillips has found the deed of sale for the house the Barringtons held in Meryton. The man who signed it is a certain Mr Henry. Miss Sophia Barrington is Mrs Henry.”
“The man who signed the papers is French,” Mary added. “Uncle Phillips observed that he spoke so little as to verge upon incivility, yet from the few words he uttered he discerned him at once. A few words sufficed.”
“Emmeline is Miss Henry. Such a coincidence cannot be. Her red-haired mother knows Mama and Aunt Phillips. The circle is closed,” Elizabeth uttered, and sorrow engulfed her.
A heavy silence fell upon the room. All were touched with sorrow at the colonel’s misfortune, that the woman he loved should be guilty of so grievous a treachery.
Elizabeth took the letter from her aunt’s hand.
It is certain that the young lady is the daughter of Mrs Sophia Henry, and the French gentleman is her father. In consequence of the danger such a family presents to Colonel Fitzwilliam, I enclose every particular I possess respecting them.
Mr Phillips had then added specific dates of birth and the address of the Southampton house.
I sincerely hope, by this means, to save the colonel from any perilous entanglement.
“Your opinion, my dear?” Mr Gardiner asked.
“I believe all the papers we now possess concerning the Henrys ought to be sent to Lord Matlock by express,” Elizabeth said, looking towards Mary and her aunt. They were all in agreement, though each with a heavy heart.