Page 11 of The Meddling Matlocks (Pride & Prejudice Variations)

Chapter Eleven

The rain lashed against the tall windows of Netherfield, each drop a sharp reminder of the tempest without. Fitzwilliam Darcy resisted the urge to drum his fingers on the polished surface of the table—a habit unbecoming of a gentleman, as he had been so frequently reminded by his late father. Instead, he forced himself to focus on the letter from his estate steward before him, though the words swam in and out of clarity with alarming obstinacy.

His thoughts, the wretchedly disobedient things, had once again wandered far from their proper occupation. No matter how firmly he sought to anchor them to the mundane matters of estate management, they slipped through his grasp like the proverbial eel, darting instead towards a certain pair of dark, sparkling eyes, framed by unruly curls that seemed to defy all attempts at containment.

Elizabeth Bennet.

Darcy exhaled sharply, tilting his head back against the high leather chair as though the motion might shake her image from his mind. It did not. Indeed, it only brought forth another memory; of her standing in the morning sun, cheeks pink from the brisk countryside air, her smile teasing yet genuine. How utterly infuriating it was to recall the way she could unsettle him with nothing more than a glance, an arch of her brow, or heavens forbid, a clever remark that left him floundering between admiration and irritation.

“Four days,” he muttered to himself, his voice low and grim. “Four days of this infernal weather, and I am no closer to regaining my senses.” The rain had trapped him indoors, with little diversion save for his own restless musings. He had paced the halls of Netherfield so often that he had tried even eternally affable Charles Bingley’s patience, and had retreated to his room to deal with his correspondence.

Tomorrow night, however, ah, tomorrow night promised salvation. The Netherfield ball would draw Elizabeth Bennet into his orbit once more, and he found himself striding a precarious line between anticipation and dread. What precisely he expected—or hoped—would occur, he dared not articulate even to himself. For while he could not deny the keen interest she had awakened in him, the practicalities of such an attachment loomed large and foreboding in his thoughts. Her family… well, her family alone posed difficulties too numerous to recount, though none of them, in truth, were of her own making.

“Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” he murmured, testing the sound of her name. It felt almost treasonous to utter it aloud, and yet, there it was. A wry smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he conceded to himself that, despite all his efforts to remain unaffected, she had managed what few ever had: she had lodged herself firmly in his thoughts.

Still, there was the nagging awareness of propriety and duty, both of which dictated that he ought to think no further on the matter. And yet, as the wind howled outside and the rain danced its relentless rhythm, Darcy allowed himself the smallest indulgence. He imagined her at the ball, her laughter ringing out amidst the din of conversation, her wit as sharp as ever, and perhaps, just perhaps, her gaze lingering on him for but a moment longer than necessary.

“Fool,” he chastised himself, rising abruptly from his chair before moving to the window, where he stood watching the rain streak down the glass in uneven rivulets. Somewhere beyond the storm lay Longbourn, and within it, Elizabeth Bennet. The thought was both exhilarating and maddening.

“Tomorrow,” he said quietly, as though the word itself held some power to hasten the hours. Tomorrow, he would see her again.

The commotion of voices and the unmistakable crunch of carriage wheels on gravel reached Darcy’s ears before he saw them. He had been pacing the drawing room for no apparent reason, a habit he detested in others but found himself indulging in more frequently these days. His thoughts had begun to spiral, Elizabeth Bennet’s image flitting through his mind with the frustrating ease of a bird escaping its cage. But now there was unmistakable relief in the distraction as he strode to the hallway.

“Darcy! There you are, looking as grim as ever,” came the cheerfully exasperated voice of Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, who was already shedding his travel-worn coat like a man entirely comfortable in any surroundings. Behind him, their cousin James Fitzwilliam, Viscount Highton, stood brushing an imaginary speck of dust from his sleeve with the languid precision only a nobleman could master.

“Richard, James,” Darcy greeted them with a nod that might have passed for warm, by his standards anyway. “You’ve braved the weather, I see.”

“Braved it? We conquered it,” Richard said, shaking droplets of rain from his hat with a flourish. “Though James here spent the better part of the journey lamenting the state of the roads, as though his complaints might inspire the heavens to cease their downpour.”

“One does not expect to encounter such barbaric conditions in Hertfordshire,” James replied smoothly, his tone carrying just the right amount of disdain to suggest that even the rain itself ought to recognise the rank of a viscount. “But then, one does not expect much of Hertfordshire at all.”

“Indeed?” Another voice entered the fray: sharp, honeyed, and unmistakably artificial in its warmth. Caroline Bingley descended the staircase with the grace of someone fully aware they were being observed, her eyes fixing on James with a focus that might have unnerved a lesser man. “I must disagree. Hertfordshire has its charms, though they are perhaps... subtle.”

“Subtle indeed,” James murmured, offering her a faint bow. His disinterest, while expertly veiled, was palpable enough to Darcy, who had long since learned to recognise the signs of his cousin’s polite deflections. Caroline, however, seemed undeterred, her expression brightening as though she had detected a challenge worth pursuing.

Darcy sighed and made the necessary introductions. Awful as it would be to have Caroline Bingley marry into his family, he could almost wish James was interested; at least with a viscount’s attentions, Caroline would surely have no more inclination to pursue Darcy!

“How delightful it is to have such distinguished company join us at last,” Caroline purred once the formalities were complete, her smile widening. “Surely this dreary weather will be more bearable now with your presence to enliven our spirits.”

“Miss Bingley, you flatter me,” James said, his tone betraying no particular feeling. Richard, standing slightly behind him, caught Darcy’s eye and raised a single brow in silent amusement.

“Shall we take tea, then?” Darcy cut in brusquely, steering the conversation away before Caroline could extend the verbal sparring match any further. He gestured towards the drawing room, where refreshments awaited. Richard clapped him on the shoulder as they entered, leaning in just enough to mutter, “I see Miss Bingley has found her next victim.”

“Perhaps,” Darcy replied under his breath, though the hint of a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth despite himself.

Later, when the tea service had been cleared and James had been successfully monopolised by Caroline’s relentless charm offensive, Darcy finally seized the opportunity to draw Richard aside. They retreated to the library, where the scent of leather-bound volumes mingled with the faint smokiness of the fire crackling in the hearth.

“Well, what is it, cousin?” Richard asked, settling into an armchair with his characteristic ease. “You’ve had the look of a man with something pressing on his mind since we arrived. If this is about the ball tomorrow, I assure you, I’ll dance with every wallflower in the room if it spares you the trouble.”

Darcy ignored the jest, his expression turning sombre. “It’s Wickham,” he said tersely. “He’s here, in Meryton, attached to the militia.”

“Ah,” Richard said, his light-hearted demeanour shifting instantly to intent focus. He straightened, his military bearing coming to the fore. “What mischief is he up to this time?”

“None that I’ve observed directly,” Darcy admitted, “but his mere presence is enough to give me cause for concern. You know as well as I do that wherever Wickham goes, trouble follows.”

“Trouble indeed,” Richard said, his tone laced with dry humour. “Perhaps it’s time someone dealt with him permanently. A duel, perhaps? I’d make short work of it, I assure you.”

“Richard,” Darcy warned, though the ghost of a chuckle escaped him. It was precisely this irreverent pragmatism that made Richard both infuriating and indispensable as a confidant. “We’ve been over this. No duels.”

“Fine, fine,” Richard said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “No pistols at dawn, then. But surely we cannot allow him to linger here unchecked. That man is a veritable blight upon society.” He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing slightly. “And mark my words, Darcy, if he’s set his sights on anyone here, it won’t end well.”

“That is precisely what concerns me,” Darcy admitted, his tone low. “You know how he operates, Richard. A charming word here, a fabricated tale there, and suddenly he’s the injured party, wronged by those who dare call him dishonest. Worse still, I fear he may attempt to use Georgiana’s name to bolster his falsehoods.”

“Georgiana?” Richard’s easy demeanour shifted to something sharper, more calculating. “He wouldn’t dare.”

“Wouldn’t he?” Darcy’s voice carried a note of bitter certainty. “You know as well as I do that his audacity knows no bounds. A whisper here, perhaps even a direct claim that he was wronged by her, and her reputation might suffer irreparably. Society is quick to believe the worst when it comes to women, and the truth rarely matters once scandal takes root.”

“True enough,” Richard admitted, his jaw tightening. For all his humour and charm, there was a steeliness to him when it came to family. “Well, if he tries anything of the sort, I’ll see to it personally that he regrets it. But honestly, Darcy, do you think anyone worth their salt would take Wickham’s word over yours? The man has all the credibility of a drunken poet.”

“Credibility or not, he has the advantage of appearance,” Darcy countered grimly. “A handsome face and a glib tongue can turn suspicion into sympathy. And while I care little for what society thinks of me, Georgiana...” His voice faltered slightly, and he glanced away. “She deserves better than to have her name sullied by association with that man.”

“Then we shall ensure it doesn’t happen,” Richard said firmly, rising from his seat and crossing to stand beside his cousin. “Though I must say, I think you’re giving him too much credit. Most people see through his act eventually. Not all, mind you, there are always a few gullible souls willing to fall prey to a pretty face and a charming lie. Speaking of which,” his tone grew lighter, teasing, “I hear there are some very pretty local ladies about. No doubt Wickham’s already planning his conquest. And a little bird told me,” he cast Darcy a knowing look, ”that would be greatly to your inconvenience.”

Darcy turned sharply, his brows drawing together. “My inconvenience? What precisely do you mean by that?”

“Only that you seem... invested in the goings-on of Meryton,” Richard said innocently, though the twinkle in his eye suggested otherwise. “Unusually so, for a man who claims no interest in its inhabitants.”

“Do not be absurd,” Darcy muttered, resuming his pacing with renewed vigour. “My concern is purely practical. Wickham’s history speaks for itself, and I would rather spare others the pain of learning it first hand.”

“Of course,” Richard said smoothly, folding his arms and leaning casually against the mantelpiece. “Purely practical. Just as your pacing is purely accidental, and your brooding entirely coincidental.”

Darcy came to an abrupt halt mid-pace, his boots scuffing against the polished floorboards of the library. The rain lashed furiously at the windows, a relentless percussion that seemed determined to match the storm within his own mind. He turned to find Richard lounging in one of the armchairs, legs stretched out with all the indolence of a man who had no pressing concerns, though the glint in his eye suggested he was far from idle.

“Out with it,” Darcy demanded, his tone clipped. “Whatever you are so clearly bursting to say, I would rather hear it now than endure your smirking insinuations any longer.”

Richard raised his hands in mock surrender, his grin widening. “Cousin! You wound me with your suspicion. Have I not always been honest with you?”

“Honesty is not the same as incessant provocation,” Darcy countered, folding his arms tightly across his chest.

“Very well, if you insist,” Richard said, straightening in his seat but still wearing that infuriatingly self-satisfied expression. “I had not intended to mention this until I was certain of its significance, but since you seem so eager...” He paused dramatically, relishing the moment. “Mama mentioned a certain Miss Elizabeth Bennet in her letter of invitation. A charming young lady, she says, whose family are old acquaintances of the Matlocks.”

Darcy froze. His heart gave one traitorous thud before resuming its usual measured pace. “Miss Elizabeth?” he repeated cautiously, his voice betraying none of the tumultuous thoughts that immediately followed.

“Indeed,” Richard said, watching him closely. His tone was casual, almost bored, but there was something sharp and deliberate in his gaze. “It seems my dear mother believes you may have a certain... admiration for her.”

“Admiration?” Darcy’s voice rose slightly, his composure fracturing just enough to make Richard’s grin positively wolfish. “That is absurd. I hardly know Miss Elizabeth.”

“Ah,” Richard said with a knowing nod. “The classic refrain of a man caught unawares by his own feelings. ‘Hardly know her,’ indeed.”

“Do not be ridiculous,” Darcy snapped, his discomfort mounting. He strode to the window, staring unseeingly at the rain-streaked panes. “This is precisely why I dislike meddling in domestic correspondence. Your mother means well, but she is mistaken. Whatever she has imagined…”

“Mother is rarely mistaken,” Richard interrupted smoothly, his tone maddeningly placid. “You know as well as I do that she has a talent for reading people. And,” he tilted his head thoughtfully, “she is the last woman on earth to press a match for the sake of it. Her own marriage was entirely too fortuitous for her to wish anything other than happiness for her children—and, it seems, for you.”

“Enough,” Darcy said sharply, turning back to face his cousin. His expression was thunderous, but the faint flush creeping up his neck betrayed his agitation. “There is no attachment, imagined or otherwise. I am merely acquainted with Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Nothing more.”

“Nothing more,” Richard echoed lightly, though his raised brow suggested he found the assertion highly unconvincing. “Well, if that is truly the case, then you have nothing to worry about. Mother will doubtless lose interest once she realises her mistake.”

“Precisely,” Darcy muttered, though the words tasted hollow. He turned away again, gripping the edge of the writing desk as though it might anchor him. The image of Elizabeth Bennet’s fine eyes, alight with intelligence and mischief, rose unbidden in his mind, and he cursed inwardly.

“Of course,” Richard added slyly, “if there is some truth to her observation, you might consider that Mother’s approval is not easily won, and yet she seems to hold Miss Bennet in high regard already. That is no small thing, cousin.”

Darcy turned abruptly, the tails of his coat brushing against the edge of the writing desk. He strode to the window, though there was little comfort to be found in gazing at the rain-slicked panes.

“Enough of this nonsense,” he said stiffly, his tone brooking no argument. “I am not here to discuss Lady Matlock’s fanciful notions or my supposed admiration for Miss Elizabeth…” His voice caught on her name, a traitorous hitch that he hoped Richard would fail to notice. “We have more pressing matters to attend to.”

“Ah, Wickham,” Richard drawled behind him, the scrape of a chair signalling his return to his seat. “How fortunate for you, cousin, that we can always rely on that scoundrel to provide an escape from awkward conversations.” His words were accompanied by the clink of crystal as he poured himself another measure of port.

Darcy turned back to face him, his expression taut with displeasure. “This is no jest, Richard. His presence here is intolerable, and dangerous! You are well aware of the damage he could inflict if left unchecked.”

“Indeed I do,” Richard replied, his earlier levity tempered by a note of steel. He swirled the port in his glass thoughtfully, his gaze fixed on the deep garnet liquid. “And you are quite right to be concerned. Wickham has a talent for mischief that far surpasses what one might reasonably expect from even the most disreputable rake.”

“That is an understatement,” Darcy said darkly, crossing the room to lean against the mantle. His fingers drummed against the polished wood, betraying his agitation. “If he so much as whispers Georgiana’s name in Meryton, it could be ruinous for her, for all of us.”

“Yes, yes,” Richard said, waving a hand as though dismissing the spectre of scandal. “I shan’t allow it to come to that. He’ll hardly dare to show his face here, after all, and after the ball tomorrow evening, I will speak directly to his commanding officer. A few pointed remarks about his gambling debts and his... shall we say, unsteady character, should ensure he is kept firmly under the watchful eye of his superiors.”

“That will not be enough,” Darcy objected, his brows drawing together. “He has a way of charming those around him, convincing them that he is the wronged party. It is maddening how easily some are taken in by his lies.”

“Then perhaps we must arm ourselves with the truth,” Richard said, setting his glass down with a decisive clink. “A word to the wise in certain circles should suffice to warn others of his true nature. Mother is rather adept at such subtle manoeuvres, wouldn’t you agree?”

Subtle was not the word Darcy would have chosen, but he inclined his head nonetheless. “If she could manage it without implicating Georgiana…”

“Naturally,” Richard interrupted. “Mother would never endanger her reputation. She will tread carefully, as she always does.” A glint of humour returned to his eyes as he added, “Though I suspect she will relish the opportunity to wield her influence for good. It is rather like a game to her, is it not?”

“Hardly a game,” Darcy said sharply, though his cousin’s smile was contagious enough to soften his grim expression. He allowed himself a brief exhalation, as though expelling the weight of the conversation thus far. Yet even as they spoke of strategies and safeguards, his thoughts strayed, unbidden, to Elizabeth Bennet and the peculiar lightness she brought to his usually burdened mind.

“Very well,” Darcy said at length. “I daresay Lady Matlock will know what to say. She might simply mention it to Mrs Bennet, casually, of course. That should suffice to safeguard her daughters from Wickham’s schemes. And that woman has a tongue sharp enough to fell an oak tree and a penchant for endless chatter. Within half an hour of such a ‘casual mention,’ every household within a five-mile radius will know of Wickham’s villainy.”

Richard chuckled, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “No doubt she will have Wickham’s character shredded to ribbons before the next tea tray has been cleared. A rather brilliant strategy. I almost pity Wickham. Almost.”

Darcy gave him a pointed look, though the corner of his mouth threatened to twitch upwards despite himself. “This is not a laughing matter, Richard. If it were merely my pride at stake, I would not trouble myself overmuch. But Georgiana…” His throat tightened briefly, and he turned his gaze to the flames, which leapt and danced as though mirroring the storm within him. “She deserves her name unsullied. Her future unmarred by... association with him .”

“Of course,” Richard said softly, his tone turning uncharacteristically serious. He straightened in his chair, his teasing expression slipping into something akin to sympathy. “You know I would not jest about Georgiana. Nor about you, for that matter.”

For a moment, silence reigned, save for the crackle of the fire and the faint tapping of raindrops against the glass. Then, as if sensing the need to lighten the mood once more, Richard added with a sly smile, “And this Bennet family...”

“Richard…” Darcy began, his stern warning already forming, but his cousin lifted a hand to forestall him.

“Do not feign ignorance, Fitzwilliam. Mother’s letters are never without intention, and her most recent one was positively dripping with intrigue. ‘Elizabeth Bennet,’” Richard said, savouring the name as though it were a fine vintage. “I hear she is quite the enchantress. Lively, intelligent…”

“Enough,” Darcy interrupted, though his ears burned traitorously. He could feel the heat creeping up his neck, no less discomfiting than if he had leaned too close to the fire. “I hardly know Miss Elizabeth. My acquaintance with her is... is entirely superficial.”

“Is it, though?” Richard countered, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “Mother is not one to imagine things where there is nothing to imagine. And, dare I say it,” he leaned back with the air of a man thoroughly enjoying himself, “you do not strike me as someone easily enchanted by mere superficialities.”

“Richard.” Darcy pushed away from the mantelpiece, the edge in his tone unmistakable now. “You are insufferable.”

“Perhaps,” came the cheerful reply. “Nevertheless, I am very much looking forward to making Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s acquaintance. All this talk of her wit and charm has piqued my curiosity, and I daresay yours as well.”

“Richard,” Darcy warned, his voice low and strained.

“Say no more,” Richard said cheerfully, rising from his chair with an exaggerated bow. “Consider the matter dropped—for now. Though I must admit,” he cast Darcy one final, mischievous glance, “I am most intrigued to meet this paragon of wit and beauty who has so thoroughly unsettled you.”

“Unsettled?” Darcy spluttered, but Richard was already striding towards the door, whistling a jaunty tune.

“Goodnight, cousin!” Richard called over his shoulder, leaving Darcy alone with the rain and the distinct sensation that he had somehow lost a battle he hadn’t even realised he was fighting.