Page 14 of The Meddling Matlocks (Pride & Prejudice Variations)

Chapter Fourteen

Elizabeth stood before her mirror the following morning, absently smoothing the folds of her gown, a pale lavender muslin that had seen better days but still suited her well enough. She paused, her fingers hovering over a stray thread on her sleeve, and caught her own expression in the glass. Was that... anticipation she spied? A sparkle in her dark eyes that betrayed her restless thoughts? She pressed her lips together in mild self-reproach, but the corners tugged upward of their own accord.

“Foolish girl,” she murmured to her reflection. “You ought not to be so eager for the company of a man who scarcely knows how to smile.” And yet, there it was, the undeniable truth: she was looking forward to Mr Darcy’s visit.

Elizabeth turned towards the window, crossing her arms as she leaned against the sill. The garden below was quiet, a solitary robin hopping about in the flower beds, hoping for an early worm or two. It was too early for Mrs Bennet’s bustling commands or Lydia’s giggling fits to disturb the peace, and Elizabeth relished the calm.

But her mind refused to follow suit. It flitted like the restless robin between curiosity and speculation. What would Mr Darcy say about Mr Wickham? Would he deign to explain himself fully? Or would his pride manifest itself in vague half-truths and lofty insinuations? She could not decide whether her eagerness stemmed from a desire to confirm her suspicions about Mr Darcy’s character or to unravel the enigma of Mr Wickham’s charming duplicity.

“Perhaps both,” she admitted aloud, a wry smile curving her lips. “Though I suppose it is uncharitable to think so poorly of a man who has promised me the truth. Still, with Mr Darcy, one must always be prepared for a battle of wits.”

Her musings were interrupted by a knock at the door, followed immediately by Jane’s soft voice. “Lizzy, are you awake?”

“Very much so,” Elizabeth replied, moving to open the door. Jane entered, her serene countenance as composed as ever, though her cheeks bore the faintest flush of colour.

“Good morning,” Jane said, her tone warm but tinged with hesitation. “Lizzy… do you really think Mr Darcy will come to speak to you today?” They had talked the previous night after returning home, of course, going over every aspect of the ball into the small hours of the morning, both too excited to sleep.

“Indeed I do,” Elizabeth answered lightly, though her heart gave a small flutter at the mention of his name. “Though whether we shall gain anything useful from his visit remains to be seen. He is not a man prone to generosity, of words or otherwise, I think.”

“Perhaps he means to surprise you,” Jane offered with a hopeful smile, always quick to see the best in others.

“Mr Darcy? Surprise me?” Elizabeth laughed softly. “The only surprise he could offer would be a genuine smile.”

“Now, Lizzy,” Jane chided gently, though her eyes twinkled. “Do try to keep your wit within bounds. You might find Mr Darcy more agreeable than you imagine.”

“Agreeable?” Elizabeth echoed with mock incredulity. “My dear Jane, you must be speaking of another gentleman entirely.”

But despite her playful dismissal, Elizabeth felt her pulse quicken ever so slightly at the thought of Mr Darcy’s arrival. Whatever his revelations might be, she knew one thing for certain: the day ahead would not lack for intrigue.

“Will you come to breakfast?” Jane asked. “Nobody else is up, but I am sure there will be some fresh bread and jam, at least…”

Elizabeth shook her head. Her stomach twisted with a little unease; she refused to admit it was Mr Darcy’s impending visit which was making her feel this way. “No, I thank you Jane; I think I had a little too much wine last night. I shall go outside for a walk to clear my head.”

Elizabeth’s half boots crunched over frost-kissed leaves as she strolled into the ramble, her bonnet tilted just enough to let the crisp air brush against her cheeks. She had set out with the intention of clearing her restless thoughts and perhaps settling her nerves in anticipation of Mr Darcy’s visit; instead, she found herself distracted by the quiet beauty of the countryside. Her mind wandered, flitting between speculation on Mr Wickham’s character and faintly humorous imaginings of what Darcy’s “solemn declarations” might entail.

“Cousin Elizabeth!” called a voice behind her, startling her from her reverie. She turned sharply, only to see Mr Collins bearing down upon her like a ship in full sail, his black coat flapping and his round face flushed from exertion.

“Mr Collins,” Elizabeth greeted him, clasping her hands in front of her with all the composure she could muster. Her instincts warned her that whatever brought him to intercept her here, alone amidst the hedgerows, was unlikely to be pleasant. “You are abroad early this morning.”

“Indeed, cousin, indeed!” he puffed, coming to an abrupt halt before her and inclining his head in what he no doubt thought a gracious bow. “I was most fortuitously made aware of your solitary walk by one of the maids, and I deemed it my duty to join you at once. A young lady must always have the protection of a gentleman, after all.”

Elizabeth’s lips twitched in something that was not quite a smile. “How thoughtful of you,” she replied lightly. “Though I assure you, I am very capable of navigating Longbourn’s grounds without mishap.”

“Ah, but it is not mere mishap for which I must concern myself, dear cousin,” he said, stepping closer and lowering his voice to what he likely imagined was an intimate tone. “No, I come to speak with you on a matter of utmost importance. Indeed, it is a subject upon which I have long meditated, and I am convinced that now is the proper moment to address it.”

“How ominous,” Elizabeth murmured under her breath, though she already suspected the direction of the conversation. She glanced towards the house, wondering if she might make a timely retreat, but Mr Collins blocked her path with a ponderous step forward.

“Dearest cousin Elizabeth,” he began, inflating his chest with self-importance, “it has not escaped my notice that, as the esteemed heir to Longbourn, it is incumbent upon me to secure the future happiness and welfare of this family. Almost as soon as I entered this house, I realised that of all my charming cousins, you were by far the most fit to be my partner in life. With that in mind, and prompted, of course, by the most gracious counsel of my noble patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, I have resolved to offer you the greatest felicity which can befall a woman of your station: my hand in marriage!”

Elizabeth blinked. For a fleeting moment, she entertained the notion that she had misheard him, or that this absurd proposal was some elaborate jest. But the earnest expression on his ruddy face dispelled any such hope. He was entirely serious.

“Your... hand in marriage?” she repeated, her voice lifting slightly with incredulity.

“Yes, indeed!” he exclaimed, clearly mistaking her astonishment for admiration. “I flatter myself that I possess many qualities which render me a most desirable match. My profession! My sense of duty! My close association with Rosings Park, where her ladyship herself has deigned to honour me with her favour!”

“Mr Collins,” Elizabeth interrupted, holding up a hand to forestall further ridiculousness, “please stop. I cannot accept your proposal.”

For a moment, his mouth worked soundlessly, as though her words were incomprehensible. Then, recovering himself, he gave a nervous laugh. “Ah, I see! How charmingly modest you are, Cousin! I assure you, there is no need for coyness. My intentions are perfectly sincere.”

“Of that, I have no doubt,” Elizabeth said dryly, “but I meant what I said. I do not wish to marry you.”

“Preposterous!” he cried, his face darkening. “Surely you cannot mean to refuse me? Have you properly considered the advantages of such a union? The security it provides? The esteem of my patroness?”

“Properly, thoroughly, comprehensively,” Elizabeth replied, her voice entirely steady. “And my answer remains unchanged. I cannot marry a man I do not respect, Mr Collins, nor one whose chief argument in favour of matrimony appears to be the approval of Lady Catherine de Bourgh.”

“Cousin Elizabeth!” he spluttered, his indignation rising to new heights. “This is unpardonable! I am offering you a life of comfort, an eventual position as mistress of Longbourn, and you repay me with disdain? Do you not realise how few women in your circumstances would dare to reject such generosity?”

“Perhaps fewer than ought to,” Elizabeth shot back, her eyes flashing. “But, Mr Collins, I make no apology for valuing my own happiness over the empty promises of your so-called ‘generosity.’ Now, if you will excuse me…” She moved to step around him, but he planted himself firmly in her way.

“Cousin Elizabeth,” he said gravely, his tone now carrying an edge of menace beneath the bluster, “you may wish to reconsider your choice. I shall have no alternative but to appeal to your parents!” His chest puffed out, as though he expected this pronouncement to strike terror into her heart. “I shall seek their support in rectifying your misguided refusal. Surely, they will see the wisdom in uniting our families.”

Pausing mid-step, Elizabeth turned slowly to face him, arching one brow with exasperated amusement. “By all means, Mr Collins,” she said sweetly, folding her hands before her. “I encourage you to do just that. My father, I assure you, will offer no encouragement whatsoever. And as for my mother,” her tone grew pointed, “she has already expressed her belief that my sister Mary would be the most suitable match for you. You may find her wishes align more closely with your own than mine ever could.”

The effect of her words was immediate. Mr Collins’ ruddy complexion deepened to a shade approaching beetroot, his lips flapping silently as if searching for a rebuttal that refused to materialise. At last, with an audible huff, he whirled around, his heels crunching against the gravel as he stormed off toward the house, muttering invectives about insolence and ingratitude under his breath.

For her part, Elizabeth let out a long, weary sigh, pressing her fingertips gingerly to her temples. The man possessed a singular talent for inducing headaches, she thought ruefully, not least because every encounter with him seemed to demand the utmost reserves of her patience. She stood there for a moment, surrounded by the crisp chill of the morning air, willing the tension in her head to subside.

“Of all the absurdities,” she murmured aloud, shaking her head slightly.

Her musings were interrupted by the sound of wheels crunching along the drive. Glancing up, she saw an elegant carriage emblazoned with the Fitzwilliam crest come to a stately halt before Longbourn’s modest facade. Her breath caught, not from any particular surprise—after all, Darcy had mentioned he would call—but from the sight of him alighting from the carriage, followed by the distinguished figure of Lord Matlock.

While Lord Matlock disappeared indoors with measured strides, Darcy, his sharp gaze scanning the garden, spotted her almost immediately. He hesitated only briefly before beginning a purposeful approach, his tall figure cutting an imposing silhouette against the pale winter sky. Elizabeth, acutely aware of her wind-tossed curls and the lingering flush of irritation on her cheeks, straightened her posture and summoned what she hoped was an appropriately polite smile.

Henry Fitzwilliam stepped into the cool, dimly lit corridor of Longbourn with a sense of both nostalgia and trepidation. The house was precisely as he recalled from his visits many years ago, cosy but in need of repairs that Mr Bennet, no doubt, had long postponed. A faint scent of lavender and beeswax polish hung in the air, though it could not entirely mask the more domestic aromas wafting from what he assumed was the kitchen. Somewhere above his head, muffled voices—no, shouting—disturbed the otherwise genteel atmosphere.

“Good heavens,” Lord Matlock murmured to himself, pausing just outside the study door. He tilted his head slightly, his brows knitting together in mild consternation. The unmistakable sound of raised voices echoed through the ceiling: one high-pitched and shrill, the other deeper but no less agitated. The earl’s discerning ear placed the latter as Mr Collins, the sycophantic fool his sister Catherine had seen fit to make her personal clergyman and who had presented himself to Henry’s notice in a most unfortunate manner the previous evening.

“Is this how they conduct family business here?” he mused dryly, one corner of his mouth twitching upwards in reluctant amusement. Whatever fracas was unfolding above, it appeared to be the sort of domestic drama that Mr Bennet would surely meet with trademark indifference—or better yet, sardonic wit.

“Ah, Henry!” came a genial voice from within the study, interrupting his thoughts. Mr Bennet had evidently heard his steps in the hallway and now stood framed in the doorway, a book tucked under one arm and his spectacles perched precariously on his nose. “Do come in before you are swept up in the maelstrom occurring upstairs. I assure you, it has nothing to recommend it.”

“With an invitation such as that, how could I refuse?” Lord Matlock replied, stepping over the threshold with a graceful nod. He clasped Mr Bennet’s hand warmly. “You seem remarkably untouched by the commotion above. Is it your practice to let your roof rattle without intervening?”

“Intervening only makes matters worse, I am afraid. No, I find the best course is to wait for the storm to blow itself out. They tire eventually, you see.” Mr Bennet gestured toward a well-worn chair near the hearth, its upholstery faded but comfortable enough. “The dulcet tones of my cousin Mr Collins, I believe.”

“Your cousin?” Lord Matlock shook his head slowly. “The same gentleman who penned that florid preamble to your inheritance arrangements? I remember thinking at the time that his style would make even an obituary writer blush, and then when I met him last night, thought him even sillier than I expected.”

“One and the same,” Mr Bennet confirmed with a faint smirk. “He has taken it upon himself to secure a wife from among my daughters, a situation which, as you may imagine, has provided considerable entertainment for those of us not directly involved.”

“Or considerable aggravation for those who are.” Lord Matlock’s tone was dry, but his eyes glinted with intrigue. He folded his arms across his chest, leaning back slightly in his chair. “And whom has this paragon chosen as his intended victim?”

“Elizabeth, poor girl,” Mr Bennet said with a shake of his head. “I think he may have been silly enough to propose to her this morning, and do not doubt she would have set him straight directly. No doubt he has gone above stairs to enlist my wife’s support in overturning Elizabeth’s decision.”

“Ah.” The Earl inclined his head thoughtfully. “A sensible choice if one is inclined toward matrimonial martyrdom. Your second-born strikes me as far too clever to endure such a man in silence.”

“Indeed,” Mr Bennet agreed, a note of pride in his voice. “But I fear Mr Collins lacks the self-awareness to recognise that particular flaw in his plan. Still, I suppose we must all suffer fools occasionally. It is, perhaps, our duty as gentlemen.”

“Some duties are better avoided,” Lord Matlock observed with a wry smile. Another thump sounded from above, followed by an unintelligible but impassioned exclamation. “Though I suspect that philosophy has yet to reach your upper floors.”

“Quite so,” Mr Bennet replied serenely, reaching for the bell-pull. “Let me ring for tea, and we can select some fresh reading matter to discuss while we await the inevitable collapse of Mr Collins’ scheme?”

“Gladly,” the Earl said, thinking, not for the first time, that there were few men in England who entertained him more than his old friend Thomas Bennet.

A few minutes later, the door to Mr Bennet’s study burst open with such force that the hinges gave an audible groan of protest. Lord Matlock, half-hidden behind a towering shelf of leather-bound tomes, paused mid-reach for a particularly enticing volume on the lives of the Plantagenets. His brows lifted, and he turned just enough to peer around the edge of the bookshelf.

“Mr Bennet!” exclaimed Mr Collins, his boots thudding across the carpet as though he were storming the gates of a fortress rather than entering a gentleman’s private retreat without so much as the courtesy of a knock. He came to a halt before his host’s desk, chest heaving with righteous indignation and face flushed an unbecoming shade of puce. “I must, nay, I am compelled to speak with you on a matter of utmost urgency!”

“Indeed?” drawled Mr Bennet, not bothering to look up from the folio laid out before him. He turned a page idly, the very picture of nonchalance. “On what matter might that be? Have you come to request my advice on a pressing subject, such as which waistcoat most flatters your complexion?”

“Sir!” Mr Collins puffed himself up like a cockerel preparing for battle, his hands clutching at the air as if the sheer weight of his grievances could not be contained within his person. “This is no time for levity! Your daughter—your most obstinate, ungrateful daughter—has had the audacity to refuse my offer of marriage! Me! A man blessed with the patronage of the illustrious Lady Catherine de Bourgh!”

“Refused you, has she?” murmured Mr Bennet, finally deigning to glance up. His expression was mild, but there was a tell-tale gleam in his eye that suggested he found this declaration far less distressing than Mr Collins might have hoped. “How very expected.”

“Expected?” sputtered Mr Collins, his voice climbing to a pitch that caused Lord Matlock to wince and step back further into the shadows of his chosen refuge. “It is downright scandalous! An affront to propriety! To decency! To me!”

“To you, indeed,” agreed Mr Bennet, his tone as dry as the pages of the book Lord Matlock held. “A tragedy of Shakespearean proportions, no doubt.”

“She is wilful,” Mr Collins continued, oblivious to the sarcasm dripping from every syllable of his host’s reply. “Headstrong! Foolish beyond measure! Does she not understand the honour I have done her by proposing? She ought to be on her knees with gratitude, not flouncing about the garden as though my suit were some trivial inconvenience!”

“Well, now, let us not be hasty,” Mr Bennet said, leaning back in his chair and steepling his fingers beneath his chin. “You say she is foolish and headstrong. I confess those traits do narrow the field somewhat. I have several daughters who might fit such a description, but I find myself uncertain as to which one has inspired your ire. Would you care to clarify?”

Lord Matlock, who had been struggling valiantly to maintain his composure, bit down hard on the inside of his cheek as a chuckle threatened to escape. The Earl’s shoulders shook with suppressed mirth, and he quickly ducked further behind the bookshelf, lest his amusement give away his presence.

Mr Collins, his face florid with indignation and his chest heaving like a bellows, stamped his foot—a petulant motion so absurd that Mr Bennet’s brows shot up in mute astonishment.

“Elizabeth!” bellowed Mr Collins, the name reverberating through the study as though he were a tragic actor upon the stage. “It is Elizabeth who has spurned me, Elizabeth who has demonstrated a shocking lack of gratitude for the honour I have bestowed upon her! Such wilfulness, such…” He paused, searching for a word sufficiently damning to convey the depths of her depravity. “…impertinence! She must be made to see reason!”

Well now. That was quite enough of that, Lord Matlock thought, and he stepped out of the shadows of his hiding place. “Must she, indeed?” he said, his tone colly sardonic.

Both Mr Bennet and Mr Collins turned sharply, the latter recoiling as though someone had dropped ice-cold water down his back.

“Lord Matlock,” Mr Bennet said mildly, though his eyes were alight with suppressed mirth. “I trust you are finding my library diverting?”

“Diverting enough,” replied the Earl, his tone dry. He fixed Mr Collins with a gaze so piercing that the clergyman’s lips began to twitch nervously. “Though I confess,” Lord Matlock continued, “the impromptu theatrics have proven far more engaging than any volume on these shelves.”

“Th-theatrics?” Mr Collins stammered, his complexion deepening to a shade that could only be described as beetroot. “I… I beg your pardon, sir, but I fail to comprehend what you mean.”

“Do you, indeed?” Lord Matlock arched a brow, his expression one of polite incredulity. “Well, allow me to enlighten you. If I understand correctly, you have just admitted to proposing to Miss Elizabeth Bennet, a young lady whose intelligence, wit, and beauty are universally acknowledged, and are now lamenting the fact that she declined your offer. Moreover, you seem to believe that she owes you some manner of fealty for this… honour .“ The Earl’s mouth quirked ever so slightly, though whether it was in amusement or disdain was difficult to determine. “Do I have the right of it?”

Mr Collins puffed himself up like an indignant pigeon. “Miss Elizabeth is a gentleman’s daughter of modest means, and I am…” Here he straightened his spine, as though the very act might elevate his stature. “…a man of the cloth, under the esteemed patronage of Lady Catherine de Bourgh. Not only that, but the heir to Longbourn, charged with the sacred task of ensuring the futures of all my cousins! It was only natural to assume that she would accept my proposal with alacrity.”

“Natural, you say?” Lord Matlock’s smile did not reach his eyes. “Forgive me, Mr Collins, but I find myself compelled to disagree. While Miss Elizabeth undoubtedly possesses qualities that would make her a credit to any household, she is also spirited, intelligent, and uncommonly forthright. Admirable traits, certainly, but ones which I suspect would chafe against the temperament of my sister.”

“Lady Catherine?” Mr Collins said, his expression clouding with confusion, as though wondering whether the earl might be referring to a different sister entirely.

“Indeed,” Lord Matlock affirmed. “As you so humbly reminded us, you are in her employ. Have you truly considered whether Miss Elizabeth would suit the expectations of such a patroness? Lady Catherine values deference above all else. A bride for her clergyman must be meek, yielding, and utterly without pretensions to independence of thought. Do you truly believe Miss Elizabeth, with her sharp mind and tenacious spirit, would find favour with Lady Catherine?”

“Miss Elizabeth,” Mr Collins insisted, though his wobbling voice betrayed his uncertainty, “will… uh… she will learn to hold her tongue in the presence of her betters! She will be... moulded into a more suitable disposition through time and guidance.”

“Will she indeed?” Lord Matlock’s lip curled ever so slightly, his expression caught somewhere between astonishment and revulsion. “So that is your grand design! To crush her spirit until it conforms to your satisfaction? How very... noble of you.”

“Crush her spirit?” Mr Collins puffed up indignantly, though his attempt at grandeur fell flat under Lord Matlock’s unrelenting gaze. “You misunderstand me, my lord! I mean only to say that Miss Elizabeth’s intelligence, while admirable in its way, could be... tempered. A wife must know her place, after all, and surely…”

“Surely,” came Mr Bennet’s dry interjection, cutting cleanly across Mr Collins’ bluster, “you are mistaken in thinking that any daughter of mine could be thus tempered. Pray, do not insult us further by suggesting otherwise.”

The room seemed to contract around Mr Bennet’s words, the former easy humour in his tone replaced by a chill that made even Lord Matlock glance sideways at his old friend. Seated behind his desk, Mr Bennet appeared perfectly at ease, save for the glitter of hard resolve in his eyes. His fingers tapped once on the armrest of his chair before he continued, his voice taking on an edge sharper than Elizabeth’s wit.

“Let me be unequivocal, Mr Collins. I will never, under any circumstances, give my consent to you marrying Elizabeth. You would do well to reconsider your choice entirely, especially given that my wife has already offered you her most sensible advice regarding which of our daughters would suit you best. A suggestion you, in your infinite wisdom, appear to have disregarded.”

Mr Collins blinked rapidly, his face reddening like an overripe tomato. He opened his mouth, perhaps to argue, but whatever words he intended were swallowed by the thunderous silence that followed Mr Bennet’s pronouncement. His gaze darted from Mr Bennet to Lord Matlock, searching for some hint of reprieve, but found none.

“Well!” he finally spluttered, his voice rising to a pitch that would have startled the birds outside the window. “It seems I am not appreciated in this household as I ought to be!”

“On that point, we are in complete agreement,” Mr Bennet replied smoothly, leaning back in his chair with an air of supreme indifference.

“Good day to you, sir!” Mr Collins barked, stamping his foot with such vigour that the floorboards groaned beneath him. Without so much as a bow, he turned on his heel and stormed towards the door, his heavy steps reverberating down the hallway long after he had gone.

“Ah,” Mr Bennet said at last, exhaling deeply and allowing a wry smile to tug at the corner of his mouth. “What a pity. I was just beginning to enjoy myself.”

Lord Matlock let out a low chuckle, shaking his head in disbelief. “Thomas, I’ve witnessed many absurdities in my time, but that man…” He gestured vaguely toward the door through which Mr Collins had departed, words evidently failing him.

“Yes,” Mr Bennet agreed, reaching for the decanter on his desk and pouring himself a measure of brandy. “A man of rare talents, wouldn’t you say? Chief among them is the ability to irritate everyone within a ten-mile radius.”

“Rare indeed,” Lord Matlock murmured, though his thoughts had drifted, unbidden, back to Elizabeth. That such a vibrant, intelligent young woman could have been subjected to the likes of Mr Collins filled him with equal parts relief, for her escape, and disgust at the clergyman’s audacity. It was a match too ludicrous to contemplate, and yet there had been something chilling in Mr Collins’ muttering. Learn to hold her tongue , indeed. The very idea of Elizabeth Bennet, so lively and sharp-witted, being cowed into silence by that pompous blowhard was enough to make his stomach churn.

Mr Bennet shook his head slowly, staring at the carpet as though it held the answers to all life’s mysteries. “Elizabeth is… singular,” he said at last, his tone softening, tinged with paternal pride. “Too spirited, too intelligent for most men to appreciate. It would break my heart to bestow her upon someone who could not value her as she deserves.”

“Commendable sentiments,” Lord Matlock remarked, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. “Though I hope you are prepared for the consequences of raising a daughter who can outwit half the county. She will have her choice of suitors, I’d wager, but finding one worthy of her?” He gave a theatrical shrug. “A daunting task, indeed.”

“Perhaps,” Mr Bennet allowed, a faint smile playing about his lips. “But when the time comes, I shall trust Lizzy to make her own choice. She has never been one to suffer fools gladly, or at all, for that matter, and I dare say she’ll manage to weed them out without much assistance from me.”

“Wise words,” Lord Matlock murmured, though his attention had drifted to the window. Rising from his seat, he crossed to the casement, his hands clasped behind his back, and peered out into the garden. His sharp eyes quickly found their quarry: two figures walking side by side along the gravel path, their heads bent close together in quiet conversation. Darcy’s tall, dark form cut an imposing silhouette against the frost-dusted hedges, while Elizabeth’s curls escaping from beneath her bonnet gleamed in the wintry sunlight. There was an ease to their movements, a harmony in the way they leaned ever so slightly toward each other, as though drawn together by some invisible thread.

“Ah,” Lord Matlock said softly, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “That day may be closer than you think, Thomas.”

“Indeed?” Mr Bennet rose from his chair and joined his friend at the window, following his gaze. His expression shifted from curiosity to surprise, then settled into something resembling satisfaction as he observed the scene. “Well,” he said after a moment, “if anyone were to succeed in winning Lizzy’s regard, it would be a man of uncommon perseverance. And Darcy, from what I gather, is nothing if not persistent.”

“True enough,” Lord Matlock replied, his tone laced with dry amusement. Yet as he watched his nephew and the young woman stroll further down the garden path, their animated gestures suggesting a lively exchange, he felt a glimmer of hope stir within him. Perhaps, just perhaps, this unlikely pairing might prove to be the making of them both.