Page 1 of The Meddling Matlocks (Pride & Prejudice Variations)
Chapter One
Rain lashed against the carriage windows with unrelenting ferocity, each droplet drumming its protest against the polished glass. Inside, Margaret Fitzwilliam, the Countess of Matlock, shifted in her seat, a delicate handkerchief pressed lightly to her lips as she sighed. The interior of the coach, usually a haven of orderly refinement with its velvet cushions and gilt trim, now felt damp and oppressive, the air thick with the scent of wet wool and frayed tempers.
“Well, my dear,” she remarked, her tone arch, “it appears the heavens themselves have taken exception to our journey. Perhaps they thought Derbyshire too fine a place to leave behind.”
“Or perhaps they are merely ensuring we do not leave it without a proper soaking,” replied her husband, the Earl of Matlock, lowering the book he had been attempting to read by the dim light filtering through the rain-smeared window. His voice carried that particular blend of resignation and humour only found in husbands long acquainted with their wives’ subtle barbs.
“Do you intend to drown us in wit, Henry, or shall I be spared at least until Hertford?” Margaret arched a brow at him, though her blue eyes sparkled with amusement.
“Spare you? Never, my dear. You did marry me for my wit, after all,” he said, one corner of his mouth lifting in a faint smile.
“Ah, so that is what you believe I married you for,” she retorted, folding her hands neatly in her lap. Her wedding ring gleamed faintly in the dim light, a subtle reminder of more than thirty years of matrimony, give or take a handful of arguments about travel arrangements.
“Would you prefer I suggest it was my fortune, or my title?” His brows lifted over the rim of his spectacles, which now sat slightly askew after the jostling of the carriage.
“Fortune fades, titles grow tedious, but your ability to endure my company remains quite unmatched, Henry,” she returned, jumping slightly and wincing as another clap of thunder roared overhead.
“Then let us hope it continues to serve me well,” he murmured, adjusting his spectacles with a finger and returning to his book, apparently unconcerned about the tempest without.
Margaret turned her gaze back to the window, where the countryside blurred into indistinct shapes beneath the torrent of rain. The horses whinnied sharply outside, their hooves splashing noisily through puddles, and the carriage rocked precariously as the wheels navigated the uneven road. She gripped the edge of the seat discreetly, mindful not to wrinkle her traveling gown—a pale lavender affair with ivory trim, better suited to sunny promenades than this dismal deluge, though it was warmly lined and she wore a thick cloak atop it.
“Do you suppose,” she ventured, after a moment of contemplative silence, “that the storm might abate before we reach London?”
“Margaret, my love,” said Henry, his voice taking on the droll patience of a man who had endured many such inquiries during similar journeys. “I cannot claim to possess the meteorological foresight of a shepherd or a sailor. However, given the current state of affairs, I daresay we shall arrive looking more like bedraggled field mice than members of the peerage.”
“Field mice!” She laughed softly, shaking her head. “Speak for yourself. I shall endeavour to maintain some semblance of dignity, even if the rain seeks to undo me.”
“Your dignity is indomitable, my dear,” he said, glancing at her over his spectacles once more. His expression softened, and for a brief moment, the Earl of Matlock looked less the imposing lord of the manor and more the devoted husband who had won her heart despite their arranged marriage.
“Flattery will not hasten the miles,” she replied, though she allowed herself a small smile in return.
Outside, the storm showed no signs of relenting, and the carriage gave another alarming lurch as it hit a deeper rut in the road. Margaret steadied herself again. The rain might soak the world beyond, but within the confines of the carriage, there remained a sense of warmth, of companionship. Even amid the discomforts of the journey, she could not help but feel that such moments, however imperfect, were part of the peculiar joys of life together.
“Tell me, Henry,” she said, turning her attention back to him with a teasing glint in her eye. “When we do finally reach London, do you think I might convince you to take a day’s rest before burying yourself in those dreadful parliamentary papers?”
“Convince me?” He looked at her with mock incredulity. “My dear, I am entirely at your mercy. Though I must warn you, I cannot promise to be as charming when deprived of sleep.”
“Charming has never been your strongest suit,” she said lightly, earning a low chuckle from her husband.
The carriage jolted to a halt with an unpleasant lurch, the sudden motion causing Lady Matlock’s bonnet to tilt askew. She reached up with a sigh of vague exasperation, straightening the ribbons beneath her chin as she cast a glance out of the rain- streaked window. The scene beyond was dismal: a smattering of buildings shrouded in mist and gloom, their outlines softened by the relentless downpour.
“Well, what is it now?” she muttered, more to herself than anyone else, though her tone carried just enough bite to invite answers nonetheless.
“My lord, your ladyship,” the coachman’s voice filtered through the door as the man opened it the slightest crack, accompanied by a gust of damp air that made Margaret wrinkle her nose, “I regret to say we may not reach London tonight. The weather’s made the roads treacherous, and nightfall will only worsen matters.”
“Not reach London?” Her voice rose slightly, betraying her displeasure. With a deliberate movement, she turned toher husband, who had thus far remained entirely too composed for her liking. Lord Matlock appeared utterly unperturbed, one brow arching faintly as if to suggest he had anticipated this very outcome.
“Henry,” she began, with a sharpness that masked her growing unease, “surely you do not expect us to endure the night in one of those establishments.“ Her gloved hand gestured vaguely, but pointedly, toward the inn visible across the way—a structure whose peeling paint and sagging roofline did not inspire confidence.
“Margaret,” he replied with maddening calm, his deep voice carrying just a hint of mischief, “I daresay even the humblest coaching inn would survive our presence for a single evening. Though I admit, the quality of their tea leaves much to be desired.”
“Tea!” she exclaimed, fixing him with a look of disbelief. “You are concerned about the tea while I am contemplating the certain indignities of such accommodations? No, no, I refuse! There must be someone nearby we can appeal to. Surely we know someone of consequence who resides in this dreary corner of England.”
“Off the top of my head? No,” Henry said, leaning back against the squabs with a languid air that suggested he found her agitation rather amusing. “But then, my dear, your memory for such things has always been far superior to mine.”
“Very well,” Margaret retorted briskly, her mind already racing through possibilities. “Gillian!” she said, shifting her attention to her companion, who had been seated silently beside her all the while. Mrs. Gillian Whiting, ever reliable and ever practical, looked up from her embroidery with a placid expression that belied the increasingly dire circumstances at hand.
“Yes, my lady?”
“Do you recall whether we have any acquaintances in this region? Someone who might extend their hospitality under these most unfortunate circumstances?”
Mrs. Whiting paused, her needle hovering mid-air as she considered the question. A thoughtful crease formed between her brows before her face brightened with recollection. “Did you not receive a letter recently from your nephew Mr. Darcy, my lady? I seem to recall he mentioned being in Hertfordshire, staying with a friend?”
“Darcy?” Margaret echoed, her irritation momentarily replaced by interest. “Yes, yes, I believe you are right! He did write to me just last week, but what was the name of the house? Let me have my travelling-case, Gillian, I am sure I put the letter in it.”
Mrs. Whiting soon handed over the writing-case Lady Matlock liked to travel with, and she sorted briskly through her correspondence before plucking out a letter. “Darcy’s hand. One could recognize that stiff precision anywhere.” She smiled with satisfaction, unfolding it. “Here it is, I knew it! ‘I am presently in Hertfordshire, staying at Netherfield, an estate which my friend Mr Bingley is leasing for the autumn.’ There, you see? It seems fate may yet smile upon us, Henry. You will inquire, of course, whether Netherfield is within reasonable distance?”
“Of course,” he said obligingly, though his lips twitched with amusement. “Though I must confess, my dear, there is a certain irony in the lengths to which you will go to avoid an inn’s tea service.”
“Tea, Henry,” she said severely, “is the least of my concerns. Think of the beds .”
“Ah, yes. The beds. For which we have brought our own linens, in cases of extremity such as this.” His wry tone earned him a sharp look, but Margaret did not deign to respond further, instead signalling to the coachman with all the authority of a general preparing for battle.
“Find out how far Netherfield lies,” she instructed crisply. “And take care not to waste time doing so. This rain shows no intention of abating, and I should prefer to arrive before we are forced to light candles.”
The coachman made his way over to the inn to inquire, and received the happy news that Netherfield was not six miles distant, just off the St. Albans road.
“Six miles!” Margaret exclaimed, her fraught expression softening into one of unmistakable satisfaction. “Why, that is nothing at all. We shan’t even need a second set of horses.”
“Indeed not, your ladyship,” the coachman agreed with a nod, though he cast a wary glance at the muddy road. “The going’s slow in weather like this, mind, but it’s close enough.”
“Excellent.” Margaret closed the door, brushing a few wayward raindrops from her sleeve with a flick of her glove. She turned to Mrs. Whiting, her earlier irritation entirely banished. “Six miles, Gillian. I daresay we shall arrive in time for dinner!”
“Very good, my lady,” Mrs. Whiting said, though there was a trace of amusement in her tone.
“How pleased Darcy will be to see us, and what an excellent notion to pay a call upon him, do you not think, Henry?”
Lord Matlock glanced up from the book balanced precariously on his knee, his silver brows arching in faint amusement. The corners of his mouth twitched, threatening a smile before he schooled his features into a facade of mild indifference. He knew this game well, for Margaret’s gentle manoeuvrings were as much a part of their marriage as the gilded crest on the carriage door, and he found himself no less enchanted by them now than when they were newly wed.
“Dear Margaret,” he drawled, closing the book with deliberate leisure and setting it aside. “Your concern for our nephew’s sensibilities is truly touching. Though I suspect your aversion to the coaching inn may weigh somewhat heavier on the balance.”
“Henry!” she exclaimed, placing a hand delicately over her heart as though wounded by the accusation. “You do me an injustice. You know how I despise imposing upon others, but family, surely, is another matter entirely.”
“Is it?” he teased. “I wonder if Darcy will agree when we appear at his friend’s doorstep, dripping rainwater onto the carpets and demanding tea.”
“Dripping, indeed!” Margaret sniffed, casting a disdainful glance at the neatly tucked hem of her traveling gown. “I assure you, I have no intention of being anything less than presentable. Besides, ” her tone softened, taking on a coaxing quality, “you know as well as I that Darcy has always been happiest in the company of his family. It will be a pleasant surprise for him.”
“Pleasant for Darcy, perhaps,” Lord Matlock said dryly, though his smile betrayed him at last. “But what of this Mr. Bingley? Are we to presume upon his good nature as well?”
“Mr. Bingley is precisely the sort of gentleman who would welcome unexpected visitors, even in weather such as this. We met him last spring, if you recall, at Lady Chatterfield’s soirée. A charming young man, full of good cheer and without a trace of artifice.”
“Ah, yes,” Lord Matlock murmured. “The paragon of charm and cheer whose father made his fortune in trade, if I recall correctly?”
“New money, certainly,” Margaret allowed, tilting her chin with a graceful nod. “But no less agreeable for it. In fact, I found his manners more pleasing than many of our so-called peers. There is a refreshing eagerness about him, a willingness to please, that one rarely encounters amongst those born to their privilege rather than having earned it.” She smoothed an invisible wrinkle from her sleeve. “And, truly, Henry, I am quite happy that Darcy has such a friend. It does the boy good to be around someone so... unburdened by solemnity.”
“Unburdened by solemnity, indeed,” Lord Matlock echoed, his lips twitching with suppressed laughter. “Well, my dear, I suppose we must hope that Mr. Bingley does not share your aversion to spontaneity, or we might find ourselves turned away at his door.”
“Aversion to spontaneity?” Margaret cast him a sidelong glance that sparkled with mock indignation. “I daresay you mistake me entirely, sir. I am perfectly capable of appreciating impulsiveness when it is tempered by good sense. Though,” she added, her expression softening into something more pensive, “I must confess to hoping that Mr. Bingley’s sisters have remained in town.”
“Ah,” Lord Matlock said knowingly. “Miss Caroline Bingley, I recall? The encroaching one?”
“Encroaching, indeed,” Margaret said, her nose wrinkling ever so slightly at the memory. “She reminds me of nothing so much as a cat that has decided it belongs on your lap, despite all protestations to the contrary. Very pretty, of course, but altogether too self-assured for her own good. And her attentions toward Darcy…” She let the thought hang delicately in the air, shaking her head with a faint smile. “I shall simply say that I hope she has found other diversions since last we met.”
“Poor Miss Bingley,” Lord Matlock said, his voice laden with mock sympathy. “To have incurred such distaste on your part from a single meeting is misfortune indeed.”
“Poor Darcy, more like,” Margaret retorted, arching an elegant brow. “Though I suspect he is far too wise to encourage her affections, however persistently they may be offered. Now, hush, Henry; let us focus our energies on arriving at Netherfield intact. One can hardly make a favourable impression while drenched to the bone.”
As the carriage jostled onward through the muddy lane, Margaret folded her hands neatly in her lap, her thoughts straying to the faces she might encounter at Netherfield. Mr. Bingley’s open smile came easily to mind, but accompanying it was the sharp-edged memory of Miss Caroline Bingley’s calculating gaze.
Yes, she hoped Miss Bingley had remained in London and left the peace and quiet of the countryside to her brother.
The moment Lady Matlock stepped into Netherfield’s grand yet decidedly overdecorated foyer, she was struck by the unmistakable sound of chaos, a clamour that no amount of gilded panelling or Turkish carpets could disguise. Voices echoed down the hall toward the dining room, high-pitched and agitated, punctuated by the hurried patter of servants’ feet on polished floors. Margaret exchanged a sharp glance with Mrs. Whiting, who lifted her chin with an expression that spoke of readiness for battle.
“Good heavens,” Margaret murmured, shaking the rain from her cloak as a footman hurried forward to assist. “One would think a country estate might provide a measure of tranquillity. I suppose I was overly optimistic.”
“Perhaps Mr. Bingley is hosting a theatrical performance?” Mrs. Whiting suggested dryly.
“That would explain the dramatics,” Margaret replied, handing off her gloves. “But let us not leap to conclusions.”
“Lord Matlock, Lady Matlock!” A familiar voice rang out suddenly, and there in the hallway stood none other than Miss Caroline Bingley, resplendent in a gown of orange satin so garish it nearly distracted from her harried expression—or perhaps enhanced it. She descended upon them like a bird of prey with particularly frazzled feathers. “We are honoured by your presence! Welcome to Netherfield.”
“Miss Bingley,” Margaret greeted smoothly, inclining her head. “We found ourselves in the neighbourhood and thought to call.”
“Fortuitous indeed,” Miss Bingley said, though her tone suggested quite the opposite. She cast a nervous glance over her shoulder toward the dining room. “I regret to inform you that my brother and Mr. Darcy are not at home this evening. They have gone to dine with militia officers in Meryton. Such a shame! I am certain they would have been thrilled to dine with you.”
“Undoubtedly,” Margaret replied, arching a brow. “But I gather something far more pressing occupies your household at present?”
“Pressing? Oh, well…” Miss Bingley waved a languid hand, though her darting eyes betrayed a lack of true indifference. “It is nothing, really. A trifling matter. A guest was overcome at dinner. A fragile constitution, I fear.”
“Overcome?” Margaret repeated sharply, her posture stiffening. “Is she unwell? Pray, do not tell me she remains at table.”
“She has been removed,” Miss Bingley replied, with all the sensitivity one might use to describe relocating a wilting potted fern. “My sister Louisa saw to it.”
“Removed where?” Margaret pressed, already marching past the younger woman and toward the source of the commotion, her skirts swishing with purposeful stride.
“To the drawing room!” Miss Bingley called after her, sounding affronted. “There was hardly any need for undue alarm…”
“Mrs. Whiting,” Margaret snapped, ignoring Caroline entirely, “fetch a maid immediately and have her prepare hot water and fresh linens. And send word to the kitchen for tea—no, broth.” She turned back briefly, her gaze steely. “And summon the nearest doctor without delay.”
“I shall take care of that, my dear,” Lord Matlock said amiably, already turning back towards the front door as Mrs. Whiting scurried away.
“Really, Lady Matlock,” Miss Bingley protested, trailing behind like a particularly indignant shadow. “I assure you, it is nothing serious. The young lady merely fainted…”
“Then she requires care, Miss Bingley, not conjecture,” Margaret cut in, her tone brooking no argument.
They entered the drawing room to find a pale figure stretched awkwardly across a chaise, her golden hair slightly dishevelled and her complexion alarmingly wan. A maid hovered nearby, wringing her hands uselessly, while Louisa Hurst fanned herself listlessly in a corner.
“Mrs. Whiting will oversee preparations,” Margaret announced, taking command of the scene with practiced ease. “You,” she gestured to the nearest servant, “bring more pillows here at once. This poor girl needs proper support.” She stepped closer and placed a cool hand on Jane’s forehead. The girl stirred faintly under her touch, her eyelids fluttering. “Why, she is quite fevered! We must get her to bed immediately. She cannot remain here in this state, not when comfort and quiet are so readily available upstairs.”
“Bed?” Miss Bingley exclaimed, her face twisting into a dissatisfied pout. “Surely there’s no need to go to such extremes…”
“Miss Bingley,” Margaret interrupted, turning to face her with a serene but implacable smile. “Do sit down. Your assistance, while doubtless well-meant, is rather counterproductive just now. What is the young lady’s name?”
“Bennet,” Louisa Hurst said, when Miss Bingley made no reply. “Miss Jane Bennet.”
“Very well. Now,” Margaret continued, addressing the maid, “help me lift her carefully—yes, just so. We must avoid jostling her unnecessarily. She is fortunate indeed to have endured no injury in her fall.”
“Truly,” Mrs. Whiting agreed, as they began to guide a dazed Jane upstairs. “Though I dare say it is even more fortunate that you arrived when you did, Lady Matlock.”
“Fortune had very little to do with it, Mrs. Whiting,” Margaret replied, her tone light despite the urgency of the moment. “That was merely my innate gift of impeccable timing.”