Page 13 of The Meddling Matlocks (Pride & Prejudice Variations)

Chapter Thirteen

Elizabeth’s gloved hand rested lightly in Mr Darcy’s, the pair of them moving across the floor with precise elegance as the dance continued. The lively strains of the orchestra filled the air, but her mind was far too occupied to take notice of the melody. She glanced up at him, his jaw set, his gaze steady, his movements faultless if a little stiff, and marvelled again at the curious turn this evening had taken.

“Your offer was most unexpected, sir,” Elizabeth began. “But I cannot help but wonder why you would choose to confide such matters to me.” Her eyes searched his face as she spoke, her steps keeping time with his, though her thoughts threatened to trip over themselves.

Darcy’s brow furrowed slightly, and for a moment, he seemed to weigh his response with the same gravity he might apply to a legal contract. “Because, Miss Bennet,” he said at last, “it is a matter of some importance, and I trust your judgement.”

“Indeed?” Elizabeth arched an eyebrow. “You hold my judgement in higher esteem than I suspected, Mr Darcy.”

“Perhaps you underestimate yourself, madam,” he replied, his tone so even that it was impossible to tell whether he meant it as a compliment or a simple observation. He paused for half a beat, then continued, his words slower now, as though carefully selecting each one. “George Wickham has a talent—a deplorable one, to be sure—for making himself agreeable. Especially to young ladies. But he is not a man to be trusted.”

Elizabeth faltered, her foot nearly missing its mark before she caught herself and resumed the rhythm of the dance. His words, spoken with such quiet conviction, startled her more than she cared to admit. She tilted her head, studying him with sharp curiosity, her expression betraying a mix of surprise and doubt.

“Not to be trusted? That is a grave accusation,” she said, her voice low enough to ensure their conversation would not reach inquisitive ears nearby. Her dark eyes sparkled with the challenge of extracting more from him. “You must know, Mr Darcy, that many in Meryton already think very highly of Mr Wickham.”

“Yes, I am well aware,” Darcy answered, his mouth tightening as though the mere mention of Wickham’s popularity left a sour taste. “He excels at presenting himself as amiable. A skill he has honed to great effect. But appearances can be deceiving, Miss Bennet, and I assure you, in his case, they are. I tell you this not to alarm you, but because I believe you should know. Wickham’s charm conceals a nature that is far more calculating, and far less honourable, than his easy smiles would suggest. It is my hope that you, and those dear to you, will not fall prey to his schemes.”

There was something in his expression, something unguarded and fervent, that struck Elizabeth with surprising force. She did not quite know what to make of it. Was this concern truly for her welfare, or merely part of his incomprehensible pride, an effort to assert his superior knowledge and judgement? Whatever the case, she was suddenly acutely aware of the warmth of his hand beneath hers and the intensity of his gaze fixed upon her.

“Mr Darcy,” she said at last, her voice softer now, the teasing edge tempered by something closer to sincerity. “I thank you for your candour. However bewildering it may be.” Her lips quirked into a small, wry smile. “Though, if I may be frank, I suspect there is much more to this story than you presently care to share.”

“There certainly is,” Darcy said grimly. “You will note, of course, his absence tonight. He was invited, as were all the officers, yet he does not appear.”

“Perhaps he is merely preoccupied,” she suggested breezily, though her curiosity was undeniably piqued. “Or perhaps he has grown tired of balls altogether. It would not be the first time someone has felt such a sentiment this evening.” Her teasing smile flickered, daring him to rise to the bait.

“Unlikely,” Darcy replied, his tone betraying no amusement, only certainty. “Wickham avoids me, Miss Elizabeth. He will contrive any excuse to evade my presence. And now,” his gaze sharpened, “with the arrival of my cousins, the Fitzwilliam brothers, I daresay even the thought of attending tonight’s ball became untenable for him.”

“Your cousins?” Elizabeth tilted her head, intrigued despite herself. “And what part do they play in this curious drama? Surely Colonel Fitzwilliam,” she emphasised the title with playful exaggeration, “is not so fearsome as to send poor Mr Wickham into hiding?”

“Fearsome? No,” Darcy allowed, though his expression softened with a trace of something akin to fondness. “But resolute, yes. You see, Miss Bennet, my cousin Richard has little patience for dishonourable men. And on the last occasion he encountered Wickham... well, let us say, I was forced to intervene before matters escalated beyond repair.”

“Beyond repair?” Elizabeth repeated, her brow furrowing. “What precisely do you mean by that, Mr Darcy?”

“Richard had every intention of challenging Wickham to a duel. And he would have done so had I not restrained him.”

Elizabeth’s breath caught as she stared at Mr Darcy, her hand momentarily faltering in its rhythm with his during the dance. His words hung in the air between them. A duel ? This was no trifling quarrel over a clergyman’s living; this was something far graver, something that sent an unbidden chill down her spine.

“Well,” she managed at last, her voice faltering for perhaps the first time that evening. “That... that is not a claim one hears every day.”

“Indeed,” Darcy said gravely. He looked at her then, his dark eyes searching hers, as though gauging how much more of this tale she could bear to hear, or how much he was willing to say in this public place. “My cousin has always been guided by a strong sense of justice. But Wickham’s provocations are... singular, and his offences many. It is fortunate that my cousin valued my counsel enough to stay his hand, for the moment at least.”

Elizabeth swallowed hard, her mind reeling. She had thought herself rather well-acquainted with the ways of men—at least, as much as any woman might claim—but the idea of such violent discord, of pistols and paces at dawn, seemed plucked from the pages of some lurid novel rather than the genteel drawing rooms of Hertfordshire. And yet here stood Mr Darcy, tall and unflinching, speaking of it as fact.

“Then I must thank you,” she said finally, the words coming slowly as though she were still piecing them together. “For warning me... and my family.” Her gaze fell briefly, the gravity of the situation pressing on her shoulders. Raising her head again, she added, “You said earlier there was more to tell. If you will call upon us in the morning, sir, I shall be pleased to receive you and hear all you have to impart.”

Darcy inclined his head, his relief evident only in the slight easing of tension at the corners of his mouth. “I would consider it my duty, Miss Elizabeth.”

The last strains of the music came to an end, and with a bow and curtsy, their dance concluded. Elizabeth stepped away, her thoughts a whirl of questions and uncertainties. But before she could dwell too long on what the morrow might bring, supper was announced, and the company moved en masse towards the dining room.

Supper passed without incident, or, at least, without incidents of note. The food was plentiful, the wine flowing, and the general atmosphere one of cheerful indulgence. While others were eating, however, Mary, full of her usual sense of purpose, approached the pianoforte. Elizabeth, seated nearby, closed her eyes briefly as though bracing for impact.

“Must she always insist on performing at every gathering?” Elizabeth muttered under her breath, though there was no real malice in her words. She glanced at her father, who sat comfortably nearby conversing with the Earl of Matlock, entirely oblivious—or perhaps wilfully so—to Mary’s impending assault on the keys.

Mary began to play, her fingers striking the notes with such earnest determination that the melody was almost lost beneath it, before her thin, reedy voice raised up to further damage the song. Elizabeth winced visibly, her lips pressing into a thin line as the piece lumbered on. Poor Mary, she thought, wishing desperately that her sister might one day realise that musical skill required more than enthusiasm alone.

When the final, jarring chord was struck, there was a polite smattering of applause, though Elizabeth noted more than one guest exchanging glances behind gloved hands and Caroline Bingley openly laughing with Mrs Hurst. Mary smiled, clearly emboldened by what she must have taken as encouragement, and looked as though she meant to select another piece.

“Papa,” Elizabeth whispered sharply, leaning towards her father with a meaningful glance. Surely he would intervene now?

Before Mr Bennet could muster so much as a sigh, however, Lord Matlock stepped forward, his silver hair gleaming beneath the candlelight. “Miss Mary Bennet,” he declared, his voice rich and genial, “might I make a request?”

Mary, startled but evidently flattered, nodded eagerly.

“Wonderful!” Lord Matlock clapped his hands together. “There is a particular song I am most fond of, a simple tune, but one that never fails to lift the spirits. Would you indulge an old man and play it?”

Elizabeth watched in astonishment as her sister quickly located the requested sheet music, a mercifully less ambitious piece, and began to play anew. This time, the notes flowed more smoothly, and when Lord Matlock began to sing, his deep, resonant baritone filled the room with such warmth and charm that even the most critical among the guests seemed enchanted.

Elizabeth’s lips curved into a smile despite herself. By the time the last note faded, the entire party erupted into genuine applause, and Mary, flushed with newfound confidence, beamed at her audience.

“Well done, indeed!” Lord Matlock proclaimed, bowing gallantly to Mary and offering her his arm gallantly to escort her from the pianoforte. One eyelid dropped in a mischievous wink as he passed Elizabeth, and she smiled back at him in happy relief.

For once, she thought, the Bennet family’s reputation might just emerge from an evening unscathed, though how long that might last, she dared not predict.

Elizabeth stood near the edge of the crowded ballroom, her fan idly oscillating in rhythm with the lively strains of the orchestra. The floor was a kaleidoscope of vibrant silks and satins, the dancers weaving intricate patterns as they moved through a spirited reel.

“Well,” she murmured to herself, lips quirking upwards in a sardonic smile, “it seems Mr Collins is determined to make himself universally beloved, by every young lady but one.”

Indeed, Mr Collins appeared to be on a mission. His stout figure bobbed earnestly among the dancers like a cork adrift at sea, his movements as enthusiastic as they were inelegant. He bestowed awkward bows and effusive compliments upon each new partner, all while managing to conspicuously avoid Mary. Elizabeth’s gaze slid towards her sister, who sat composedly near their mother, her hands clasped over her lap as though in resigned acceptance of her exclusion.

“Poor Mary,” Elizabeth thought, though not without a trace of humour. “To be overlooked by Mr Collins may, on some occasions, be considered a blessing, but tonight it must sting just a little.”

Her attention shifted as Lord Matlock approached Mary with a warm smile and an extended hand. Elizabeth watched as surprise flickered across her sister’s face before being replaced by a shy but genuine smile. Rising gracefully, Mary allowed herself to be led to the floor.

“Well done, my lord,” Elizabeth muttered under her breath, her respect for the older gentleman increasing even further.

The scene grew even more amusing as Mr Darcy himself—tall, forbidding, and so often reluctant to join such frivolities—approached next, requesting Mary’s hand for the following set. Elizabeth nearly laughed aloud at the sight of the solemn Mr Darcy attempting to converse with her equally serious sister. Their expressions were a study in mutual earnestness, and yet, there was something oddly endearing about the pair.

“Who would have imagined,” she mused, “that Mary should find herself partnered with such illustrious company this evening? First Lord Matlock, now Mr Darcy… what next, I wonder?”

As if summoned by her thoughts, Colonel Fitzwilliam appeared, smiling cheerfully as he bowed low to Mary and claimed her hand for a country dance. Even Mr Bingley, perpetually cheerful and accommodating, was soon seen whirling Mary across the floor, his affability drawing a rare laugh from her lips. Elizabeth shook her head in astonishment.

“She is certainly not left out tonight,” Elizabeth admitted quietly, a twinge of satisfaction warming her chest. Perhaps, just perhaps, Mary might look back on this evening with a touch of pride.

But it was not only her sister who caught Elizabeth’s notice. Across the room, another unlikely pairing had formed. Charlotte Lucas, her plain features softened by an uncharacteristically radiant smile, was deep in conversation with none other than Viscount Highton. Elizabeth raised her brows, intrigued.

The Viscount, tall and broad-shouldered, carried himself with an effortless poise that seemed to put Charlotte entirely at ease. They had danced twice already, and now stood at the refreshment table, the Viscount leaning slightly toward Charlotte as she spoke. Whatever she had said must have been particularly clever, for he chuckled, a rich, genuine sound that seemed to ripple through the air. Charlotte, for her part, looked almost girlishly delighted, her cheeks tinged with colour and her practical demeanour momentarily replaced by something softer, more playful.

“Well, well,” Elizabeth murmured, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. “It appears Charlotte has found herself a most attentive listener. How delightful.”

“Delightful, indeed,” came a voice at her elbow. Startled, Elizabeth turned to find Mr Darcy standing beside her, his dark eyes following the same scene she had been observing. There was a faint curve to his mouth, an expression that could almost be called approving.

“Your friend Miss Lucas seems to have captivated my cousin,” he remarked, his tone measured but not unkind. “I cannot recall the last time I saw James laugh quite so freely.”

“Then perhaps your cousin is in need of better company,” Elizabeth replied lightly, though her gaze lingered on Charlotte’s transformed countenance. “And Charlotte, it would seem, is in need of someone willing to listen.”

“A rare quality,” Darcy agreed, though his eyes flicked briefly to Elizabeth, as though the words held a deeper meaning.

For once, Elizabeth did not rise to the bait. Instead, she returned her focus to Charlotte and the viscount, her amusement tempered with genuine joy for her friend.

“Perhaps,” she said softly, “this evening shall hold unexpected surprises for more than one of us.”

“Is that gentleman your cousin? The one you danced with at the beginning of the evening?” Mr Darcy inquired, and Elizabeth sighed, supposing she should introduce him to Mr Collins.

“I fear so,” she murmured, turning to look at where Mr Darcy gestured. “Oh, no…” for Mr Collins was advancing upon Lord Matlock with a determined gait and a smile so obsequious it seemed to curve unnaturally across his round face. Her instincts screamed that disaster loomed, yet she could not tear her eyes away. It was much like watching an over-laden cart teetering on the edge of a muddy ditch.

“Ah, there he goes,” Elizabeth murmured under her breath, more to herself than to Jane, who came up beside her just then, clutching at her arm.

“But he has not been introduced!” Jane exclaimed in horror as Mr Collins executed a bow so deep and prolonged that Elizabeth briefly worried for the integrity of the buttons on his waistcoat. Lord Matlock, standing tall and regal with a glass of wine balanced effortlessly in one hand, raised a single silver eyebrow in bemused curiosity.

“Your lordship,” began Mr Collins, his voice carrying across the room in a manner that suggested he had mistaken this ball for the pulpit of his church. “It is an honour most profound to make your acquaintance. I am but a humble clergyman, yet fortune and divine providence have seen fit to place me under the illustrious patronage of your sister, the estimable Lady Catherine de Bourgh.”

Elizabeth pressed her fan against her lips, half-heartedly attempting to conceal her laughter as Mr Collins continued unabated. The man’s vocabulary appeared to grow more convoluted by the second, as though sheer verbosity might elevate him in the esteem of his audience.

“Lady Catherine,” Mr Collins went on, emphasising each syllable as though pronouncing holy scripture, “has graciously condescended to take an interest in my modest position, guiding me with wisdom unparalleled and,” here he glanced around the room dramatically, “a benevolence that shines like a beacon to those fortunate enough to dwell in its radiance.”

“Good heavens,” muttered Jane, her cheeks flushing pink with mortification, though whether it was for Mr Collins or herself, Elizabeth could not quite discern.

“Do you suppose he rehearsed?” Elizabeth whispered, unable to suppress her grin.

“Must he rehearse?” Jane replied, sounding resigned. “I fear such effusions come naturally to him.”

Lord Matlock, who had thus far listened to Mr Collins’ monologue with the patience of a man accustomed to enduring all manner of social absurdities, finally inclined his head in polite acknowledgement. “You do credit to my sister’s judgment,” he said dryly, his rich baritone cutting through Mr Collins’ stream of words like the crack of a whip. “She has always exhibited a singular talent for finding those who are uniquely suited to her preferences.”

“Precisely so, my lord!” Mr Collins exclaimed, mistaking the comment for praise. “Her ladyship’s discernment is without equal.”

Before Mr Collins could further elaborate on Lady Catherine’s virtues, or indeed launch into another impassioned soliloquy, Lady Matlock appeared at Elizabeth’s elbow, her arrival marked by the faint scent of lavender and an air of quiet authority.

“Dear me,” Lady Matlock sighed. “How very typical of Catherine. She does seem to collect sycophants as others might collect curiosities.”

“Mr Collins does possess a certain… enthusiasm,” Elizabeth ventured, her tone laced with irony. “I must apologise for him.”

“Enthusiasm is one word for it,” Lady Matlock replied, her lips curving in a faint but knowing smile. “Though I suspect his zeal is directed less toward God’s commandments and more toward Catherine’s.”

“How observant of you, ma’am,” Elizabeth said, her own smile widening despite herself.

“Years of practice,” Lady Matlock returned smoothly, glancing once more toward Mr Collins, who was now nodding enthusiastically at some inscrutable point Lord Matlock had made. “One learns to recognise the signs. I must confess, I am intrigued by this… gentleman’s connection to your family. Is he merely an acquaintance, or does he have some claim upon Longbourn?”

“Ah,” Elizabeth replied, suppressing a sigh. “Mr Collins is, in fact, my father’s cousin. And, regrettably, the heir to Longbourn.”

Lady Matlock’s brows lifted in unfeigned surprise. “Indeed? I had not realised he was the beneficiary of the entail. That explains his rather inflated sense of self-importance, though it does little to excuse his lack of decorum.”

“His conduct is hardly improved by the encouragement of his esteemed patroness,” Elizabeth said dryly. “Lady Catherine has instructed him, quite unequivocally, that he ought to marry one of the Bennet daughters to secure his inheritance.” Her lips twitched with amusement. “A most generous suggestion on her part, would you not agree?”

“Generous?” Lady Matlock repeated, her tone laced with incredulity. She pressed a gloved hand to her chest as if the mere idea threatened her composure. “And has he… chosen an object for his affections?”

“At present,” Elizabeth began, a wry smile playing at the corners of her mouth, “he appears undecided, or perhaps disconcerted by my persistent refusal to oblige his suit.”

“Yours?” The single word escaped Lady Matlock in a gasp, her blue eyes widening in horror. “Surely you jest! I observed him dancing the first two with you earlier this evening, but… No, I cannot believe he presumes to…” She broke off, shaking her head as though the very notion were too dreadful to articulate.

“Alas, he does presume,” Elizabeth confirmed. “But I can assure you, ma’am, I have made every effort to discourage him. My mother, meanwhile, has taken some pains to redirect his attentions towards Mary, whom she deems a more suitable match.”

“Mary?” Lady Matlock echoed, her brow furrowing. Though her features retained their elegance, there was a distinct note of pity in her gaze. “Your sister who played the pianoforte earlier this evening?”

“Yes,” Elizabeth replied, her grin widening slightly as she added, “She is far better equipped to appreciate Mr Collins’s sermons and discourses than I could ever hope to be.”

“Well, Miss Elizabeth,” Lady Matlock said. She accepted a glass of lemonade from a passing footman with a nod of thanks, but did not immediately raise it to her lips. Instead, she turned her sharp blue eyes on Elizabeth, a soft smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “I must confess, I am much relieved to learn that you have so deftly navigated the… attentions of your cousin. A young lady of your wit and spirit shackled to that man? It scarcely bears considering.”

“Indeed, it does not,” Elizabeth agreed, though her amusement was tempered by a deep-seated relief that Lady Matlock seemed to share her disdain for the prospect. “Though I fear his affections are like ivy; quick to cling and difficult to deter.”

“Indeed.” Lady Matlock gave a delicate laugh, the sound tinkling like fine china. “Yet you, my dear, seem adept at pruning such unwelcome growths.” Her gaze grew momentarily distant, as though weighing something unsaid. Then, with a faint shake of her head, she added, “It is a quality that will serve you well in time, I think.”

Elizabeth tilted her head slightly, curious. “In time, my lady?”

“Yes,” Lady Matlock said, her tone suddenly taking on a cryptic note. She leaned in just enough for their conversation to remain private amidst the din of departing guests. “For I cannot help but feel that you are destined for greater things.”

Elizabeth blinked, momentarily caught off guard. Was there a deeper meaning behind those words? The thought amused her as much as it puzzled her. “Greater things, my lady?” she echoed, arching an eyebrow. “You speak as though you are some oracle foretelling my future.”

“Perhaps I am,” Lady Matlock replied with a knowing smile, her manner entirely unruffled. “Though, in truth, it requires no great foresight to see that you possess qualities far beyond what many would expect from a young woman of your situation.”

“How very flattering,” Elizabeth said, though her wry tone ensured the compliment did not go unexamined. “Pray, do not let my mother hear you say so, or she will begin to envision me as mistress of some grand estate, or worse, a duchess!”

“Your mother may dream as she wishes,” the countess replied, her smile deepening. “But I suspect the reality will prove far more interesting than even her most ambitious imaginings.”

Before Elizabeth could respond, the rustle of skirts and the low hum of voices signalled the approach of Charlotte Lucas, who wore an expression of quiet satisfaction.

“Elizabeth,” she said, her cheeks a little pinker than usual, “I believe Viscount Highton is searching for you to bid farewell. He mentioned you by name and seemed most insistent.”

“Did he indeed?” Elizabeth asked, her lips twitching as she glanced at Lady Matlock, whose face betrayed only mild interest. “Well, I suppose I must oblige him, lest he think me discourteous.”

“Go on, my dear,” Lady Matlock urged, gesturing gracefully toward the doorway where the tall figure of the Viscount could be seen scanning the room. “And remember…” She paused, her eyes sparkling with something that might have been mischief. “Destiny has a curious way of revealing itself, often when one least expects it.”

“That is a comfort, my lady,” Elizabeth said dryly, suppressing a smile as she curtsied. “For tonight, I expect nothing more than my bed and a reprieve from Mr Collins’s effusions.”

“Then let us hope destiny does not intrude upon such modest expectations,” Lady Matlock replied, chuckling softly.

As Elizabeth made her way to Viscount Highton, her mind lingered on the Countess’s enigmatic remarks. Greater things? It was a notion both intriguing and absurd, though, as she exchanged pleasantries with the Viscount, she found herself wondering what exactly Lady Matlock had meant.