Page 15 of The Meddling Matlocks (Pride & Prejudice Variations)

Chapter Fifteen

The crunch of gravel beneath his boots was the only sound Mr Darcy allowed himself to focus on as he approached Elizabeth Bennet, standing in Longbourn’s winter-bare garden, her cheeks kissed pink by the chill of the morning air. She turned at the sound of his approach, and for a moment, the world seemed to pause. Her expression brightened, unmistakably pleased, though there was something faintly preoccupied about her gaze, as though her mind lingered on matters elsewhere.

“Mr Darcy,” she greeted, her voice carrying the warmth that her surroundings lacked. “Welcome to Longbourn.”

“Miss Bennet,” he replied, bowing slightly, his words measured but laced with an earnestness he could not entirely suppress. “It is a pleasure to find you outside. The day would be far less agreeable without such company.”

Her lips curved into an amused smile, and he thought, not for the first time, how dangerously compelling her expressions were. “I must thank you for so gallant an observation,” she said lightly. “If I did not know better, sir, I might accuse you of flattery.”

“Then it is fortunate,” he said, his tone softening, “that you do know better.”

There was a beat of silence, broken only by the faint whistle of the winter wind weaving through bare branches. Darcy hesitated, then extended his arm, a gesture both deliberate and tentative.

“Perhaps,” he ventured, “a turn through the garden might provide some distraction from whatever occupies your mind?”

Elizabeth blinked, clearly startled by the offer, but her surprise quickly gave way to acceptance. “A walk sounds delightful,” she said, placing her gloved hand lightly upon his arm. If she noticed the slight stiffness of his posture, she chose not to remark upon it.

Their pace was unhurried as they explored the wintry expanse of Longbourn’s grounds. The garden, though stripped of its summer brilliance, held a quiet charm: frost clung to the hedgerows like lace, and the skeletal trees stood in stark elegance against the pale sky. Darcy could feel the warmth of Elizabeth’s presence beside him, a subtle contrast to the brisk air. It was both a comfort and a distraction, one he welcomed despite himself. He cast a sidelong glance at her, her bonnet tied neatly beneath her chin, her dark eyes bright with curiosity despite her pensive expression. She had not withdrawn her arm from his yet, which he took as both an encouragement and a torment.

“Miss Bennet,” he began, his voice low but steady, though his heart felt far less cooperative. “I came to discuss with you matters regarding a certain gentleman whose acquaintance we unfortunately hold in common.”

Elizabeth’s brow arched faintly, though she said nothing at first. Her silence, coupled with the slight dip of her chin, suggested she was prepared for whatever revelations might follow. Still, Darcy hesitated; the words that pressed against his throat were not ones he gave lightly.

“Perhaps you are already aware,” he continued, “that Mr Wickham and I share a history extending back to our boyhood. My father held his family in high regard, particularly his father, who long served as steward at Pemberley. This connection afforded George Wickham opportunities far beyond what his own circumstances might have allowed, including an education alongside my own.”

“How fortunate for him,” Elizabeth remarked, her tone even but edged with a hint of scepticism. “Your father was a generous man.”

“Unquestionably so,” Darcy said, his jaw tightening slightly. “My father esteemed him almost as a second son. It was his earnest wish that Wickham should enter the church, a profession which, in theory, would suit an intelligent young man of good character. To that end, my father’s will directed that upon taking holy orders, Mr Wickham would receive the living of Kympton parish, along with a legacy of one thousand pounds. However,” he paused here, his gaze fixed on the frosted hedgerows ahead “we were still at school when I came to understand that Wickham’s character was wholly unsuited to the clergy, or indeed, any position requiring integrity and restraint.”

“Ah.” Elizabeth’s voice was quiet, yet there was no mistaking the flicker of understanding, or perhaps disbelief, in her expression. “And… your father did not perceive this?”

“Regrettably, he did not,” Darcy admitted. “Even during our years at Cambridge, while I observed Wickham’s increasing propensity for dissipation, indulgence, and deception, my father remained unwavering in his faith. It was not until after his passing that the full extent of Wickham’s nature became apparent.”

“After his passing,” Elizabeth repeated slowly, her brows knitting together. “You mean when Mr Wickham was left to his own devices?”

“Precisely. The thousand pounds bequeathed to him by my father vanished within six months, spent on pursuits I need not enumerate.” Darcy exhaled sharply, the memory of those turbulent months still souring his thoughts. “When next he approached me, it was not to fulfil my father’s wishes and take orders, but rather to declare his intention to study law, a claim I knew even then to be spurious. Nevertheless, he proposed a bargain: in exchange for relinquishing all claim to the living at Kympton, he would accept three thousand pounds.”

“Three thousand pounds!” Elizabeth exclaimed softly, astonishment breaking through her usual composure. She stopped walking, turning fully towards him now, her expression alight with incredulity. “And you agreed to such terms?”

“Reluctantly,” Darcy replied, his tone clipped, though not unkind. “It seemed the lesser evil. At least this way, Kympton would be spared his influence, and I could consider my obligations to him fulfilled. Fool that I was, I believed it would secure his independence and prevent any further entanglements between us.”

“Yet it did not,” Elizabeth surmised, her voice tinged with quiet reproach.

“Clearly, it did not,” Darcy conceded, meeting her gaze with a steady resolve. “Mr Wickham is a man for whom no sum, however generous, is sufficient.”

For a moment, neither spoke, the chill of the winter morning settling between them like an uninvited guest. Then, Elizabeth tilted her head, a contemplative smile curving her lips.

“Your candour surprises me, Mr Darcy,” she said finally. “But I believe I ought to thank you for it. Few men would speak so plainly of matters so personal, and so frustrating.”

“Frustration, Miss Bennet, has been my constant companion where Wickham is concerned,” Darcy said, allowing himself the faintest trace of a self-deprecating smile. “But if my sharing this knowledge spares others from his machinations, then I cannot regret it.”

Elizabeth regarded him thoughtfully, her expression unreadable save for the faint flush that coloured her cheeks. “Four thousand pounds, in total,” she said at last, breaking the silence with a tone that carried equal parts astonishment and disbelief. “Good heavens, Mr Darcy, that is… quite a fortune! Enough for any man to live comfortably without needing to trouble himself with notions of employment, militia or otherwise!” She glanced up at him, one dark eyebrow arched, her expression caught somewhere between amusement and incredulity. “Pray, what could he possibly have done to exhaust such a sum?”

Darcy’s lips pressed into a thin line, and he exhaled through his nose, his breath misting in the cold air. “Miss Bennet, you are entirely correct in your assessment,” he answered her. “It should have been an amount sufficient to provide for a modest yet secure existence. Alas, Wickham’s habits ensured that no amount, however generous, could long remain unspent.”

“Habits?” she repeated, her tone sceptical but tinged with curiosity. “You speak as though he had taken up some ruinously extravagant hobby, like commissioning a fleet of gilded carriages or hosting a never-ending parade of feasts.” Her teasing smile played at the corners of her lips, and Darcy felt an unfamiliar tug at the corner of his own mouth, a smile threatening to escape, despite his better judgement.

“Nothing so imaginative, I assure you,” he replied. “His tastes are far less grand and yet infinitely more destructive. Gaming, drink, and…” He stopped abruptly, clearing his throat as he adjusted his cravat with a quick, nervous gesture. “Other indulgences. None of which lend themselves to frugality or prudence.”

Elizabeth’s steps slowed, and she tilted her head, studying him with an intensity that made him wish he had kept his words more guarded. “I see,” she said thoughtfully, though her voice betrayed the fact that she did not entirely. “And yet, you gave him three thousand pounds after he squandered the first? You are either remarkably generous, Mr Darcy, or…” She hesitated, her eyes narrowing slightly as if searching for the proper word. “Forgiving?”

“Perhaps neither,” Darcy admitted quietly, his gaze fixed firmly ahead. “At the time, I believed it was the most expedient way to sever our connection. A rather costly lesson, to be sure, but one I thought necessary.” His stride faltered for just a moment before he continued. “Though, as you have already noted, my efforts were not successful.”

“Indeed,” Elizabeth murmured, her expression pensive. For several moments, they walked in silence, the only sound the rhythmic crunch of their steps and the occasional rustle of wind through the skeletal branches overhead.

Darcy found himself glancing at her out of the corner of his eye, noting the slight furrow of her brow and the way her teeth worried at her lower lip. She was clearly piecing together some conclusion, though whether it would work in his favour or against it, he could not say. It was maddening, this uncertainty, this inability to predict or control her thoughts. And yet, there was something exhilarating about it as well, as though he were navigating uncharted waters with no map to guide him.

“Mr Darcy,” she said at last, her voice cutting through his reverie. “Forgive me, but I cannot help wondering why you would tell me all of this? Surely airing grievances against Mr Wickham cannot be a pleasant topic for you.”

He hesitated, his steps slowing as he turned his gaze fully to hers. For a brief, reckless moment, he considered telling her everything—the whole sordid truth about Georgiana, the near-catastrophe that had nearly destroyed her reputation and his peace of mind. But no. He could not. Not yet. To burden Elizabeth with such knowledge when their acquaintance was still so tenuous would be both imprudent and unfair.

“Because,” he said finally, choosing his words with care, “you deserve to know the sort of man you might trust, unwisely, with your good opinion.”

“Ah,” Elizabeth said softly, her lips curving into a small, enigmatic smile. “A warning, then. How very gallant of you, Mr Darcy.”

“Gallantry has little to do with it,” he replied gravely, though his pulse quickened at the sight of her smile. “It is merely the truth, though I am aware that the truth can sometimes be unwelcome. At this very moment, my cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, is visiting Colonel Forster with the express purpose of warning him about Mr Wickham’s… tendencies. It is not only his predilection for gambling, though that alone would suffice, but his entire manner of conducting himself. Wherever Mr Wickham goes, he leaves behind him a trail of debts and broken trust, whether among tradesmen or gentlefolk of good standing.”

Elizabeth tilted her head. “An impressive feat, truly. To leave such a mark, one must be both charming and unscrupulous in equal measure.”

“Charming, yes,” Darcy allowed, though his tone turned colder than the wind biting at his face. “It is his charm that makes him most dangerous. A wolf in sheep’s clothing, if you will. He has a way of persuading others to believe him honourable until it is far too late to regret doing so.”

“How fortunate we are, then, to have you and your cousin to unmask him.” Her words were laced with humour, but her expression had grown thoughtful, even solemn. She released his arm and turned slightly to face him, her hands clasped before her. “Truly, Mr Darcy. I thank you. Your warning may well spare the people of Meryton, not to mention my own family, a great deal of trouble. Perhaps even heartache.”

The sincerity in her voice struck him, unexpected and deeply affecting. His chest tightened, and for a fleeting moment, he forgot the chill in the air, the stiff propriety of their surroundings, even the ever-present weight of duty pressing upon him. There was only Elizabeth, her gratitude shining as brightly as the winter sun breaking through the clouds above.

“Miss Bennet,” he said softly, inclining his head in acknowledgment. “If my words can serve any good purpose, however small, then they are well worth speaking.”

“Small?” she echoed, arching a brow. “You underestimate the value of your candour, sir. Though I daresay Mr Wickham would disagree.”

“That,” Darcy replied with a faint smile, “is a disagreement I am more than willing to endure.”

She smiled and turned away, and they began to walk again, settling into that comfortable mutual silence he had so enjoyed in Netherfield’s library.

Darcy glanced down at his boots as they crunched upon the frosted path, the brittle sound a sharp contrast to the quiet tension simmering between them. He could feel Elizabeth’s presence beside him: steady, thoughtful, and maddeningly distracting. Her dark curls, escaping the brim of her bonnet to frame her face, caught the pale sunlight filtering through the bare branches of the garden. She walked with an ease that belied the gravity of their conversation, her gaze fixed somewhere ahead.

He cleared his throat, though it did little to loosen the knot tightening in his chest. Darcy prided himself on precision, of thought, of action, of speech; and yet, in her company, he was plagued by hesitation, each word weighed down by the fear of misstep. Nevertheless, this particular matter could not wait, and certainly not when her safety, her honour, might be at risk.

“Miss Bennet,” he began at last, his voice low, deliberate. “There is… one further matter I must bring to your attention.”

She turned her head towards him, her expression expectant but unguarded, the faintest hint of curiosity flickering in her dark eyes. It only made the task more difficult.

“Though it pains me to speak so plainly on such a delicate topic,” Darcy continued, his gaze fixed firmly ahead, “my aunt, Lady Matlock, intends to discuss the subject with your mother shortly. You see, there is a specific danger posed by Mr Wickham which extends beyond mere financial impropriety or deceitful conduct. It concerns…” He faltered for a moment, cursing inwardly at his own lack of composure. “It concerns the question of a young lady’s honour.”

Elizabeth halted mid-step, her brows knitting together in a mixture of confusion and concern. “My honour?” she repeated, her voice softer now, touched with incredulity.

“Not yours specifically,” he said quickly, though the heat rising at the back of his neck suggested otherwise. “At least, I should hope not. But young ladies of good society in general. Wickham has never been scrupulous in his dealings with women, and there was an incident…” His words slowed, his jaw tightening. “This was the matter over which Colonel Fitzwilliam nearly called him out. Only with great effort was he restrained from duelling Wickham.”

“Duelling?” Elizabeth’s eyes widened slightly, and a breath escaped her lips, part astonishment, part disbelief. “You implied as much last eve, but surely you cannot mean it?”

“Indeed, I do,” he replied gravely. “And though I am not at liberty to divulge the particulars, suffice it to say that Wickham’s intentions are seldom honourable where young women are concerned.”

The silence that followed seemed to stretch endlessly, broken only by the distant call of a bird somewhere in the barren hedgerows. Darcy glanced sidelong at Elizabeth, whose gaze had drifted downward, her gloved fingers twisting together. He felt a pang of guilt for burdening her with such unpleasant knowledge, yet he knew it was necessary.

“Miss Bennet,” he said again, his voice softening. When she looked up, her cheeks were tinged with a delicate blush, though whether from the cold or the nature of their discussion, he could not tell. He hesitated, then pressed on, his heart beating faster than he cared to admit. “I would not, for the world, see Wickham impose himself upon you.”

Her eyes met his then, wide and searching, and for a fleeting moment, it seemed there was no air between them, no frost, no garden, no propriety; only her gaze holding his and the unspoken depth of what lay beneath his words.

“Or… or any of your sisters,” he added hastily, retreating into himself as though realising he had stepped too close to some unseen edge. “Naturally, I include them in my concern.”

Elizabeth blinked once, twice, then drew in a steadying breath. The corners of her mouth curved upwards, though it was not quite a smile. “Mr Darcy,” she said softly, her tone far gentler than he had expected, “thank you. Truly. Your warning… your concern… I am most grateful.”

Her sincerity struck him once again, though he concealed its effect with a slight bow of his head. “It is nothing less than your due, Miss Bennet,” he murmured.

The crunch of wheels on the gravel drive interrupted their quiet stroll. Darcy turned sharply towards the sound, his eyes narrowing against the low winter sunlight as a familiar carriage came into view. Before the horses had fully halted, the door swung open with what could only be described as enthusiastic haste, and out leapt Bingley, his cheeks ruddy with cold and unmistakable purpose.

“Darcy! Miss Bennet!” he exclaimed breathlessly, though his gaze barely skimmed them before darting eagerly toward the house. “A fine morning, is it not? Or…” He paused, glancing at the bare, frostbitten hedges that surrounded them. “Well, perhaps not fine, but certainly… promising!”

Darcy raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching at the corners. “Promising indeed,” he drawled, watching as Bingley adjusted his coat and hurried up the steps to Longbourn, practically bounding past Hill, who had just opened the door. “I daresay he may be on a particular errand this morning.”

“An errand?” Elizabeth echoed, tilting her head in curiosity. She glanced between the retreating figure of Mr Bingley and Mr Darcy’s expression, which betrayed just a hint of amusement. Her eyes brightened with understanding. “Ah, I see. A most pressing one, no doubt.”

“Indeed,” Darcy replied, allowing himself the luxury of a small smile. “One might even call it urgent.”

Elizabeth’s answering grin was joyous, and Darcy found himself momentarily disarmed by its brilliance, though he hid the lapse behind a clearing of his throat. The moment, however, was short-lived, for another figure emerged from the carriage, descending with an elegance that could belong to no other than Lady Matlock herself.

“Fitzwilliam!” she called out, her silver-streaked hair catching the light as she stepped gracefully onto the path. Her sharp blue eyes immediately honed in on him, though they softened as they took in Elizabeth standing beside him. “And Miss Elizabeth. What a pleasant surprise.” Her tone shifted, lightly scolding as she faced Darcy. “Though I must say, you have left us quite abandoned, nephew. Rushing off with my husband as if the devil himself were at your heels!”

“Forgive me, Aunt,” Darcy said, offering a slight bow as his aunt approached. “It was not my intention to inconvenience you.”

“Not inconvenient so much as exasperating,” Lady Matlock replied, though her words carried no sting. She cast a knowing glance at Elizabeth, her voice turning warmer. “But I see now you were otherwise engaged. Perhaps I ought to forgive you after all.”

“Your generosity knows no bounds, madam,” Darcy said wryly, earning himself a soft chuckle from his aunt.

“Generosity would have been permitting me the use of my own carriage this morning,” she countered, raising a pointed brow. “As it stands, poor Mr Bingley was forced to have his own brought out, and at such an hour! One can only hope the exertion will not diminish his good spirits.”

“Judging by his demeanour, I think his spirits remain very much intact,” Darcy observed, glancing back toward the house, where Bingley had disappeared without so much as a backward glance.

“Yes, well,” Lady Matlock sighed, though her expression was fond. “Young men in love have an endless supply of energy, as we both know.” She shot Darcy a sidelong look, and though her tone remained teasing, there was an edge of expectation beneath it that made him stiffen slightly.

“Shall we go inside, Aunt?” he said smoothly, avoiding her gaze under the pretext of extending an arm for her to take. “I imagine Miss Bennet has other matters to attend to than enduring our conversation in the cold.”

“Quite right,” Lady Matlock agreed, taking his arm with a gracious nod. “Though I am always glad to converse with Miss Elizabeth. A most entertaining young lady.”

“One does one’s best, Lady Matlock,” Elizabeth replied with such irreverent cheer that Darcy nearly stumbled over his own feet. His aunt, for her part, laughed lightly, evidently charmed.

“Indeed, Miss Elizabeth,” she said warmly. “Indeed.”

With that, the three of them began their walk toward Longbourn’s front door, Darcy acutely aware of each step that brought them closer to the company within, and to whatever awaited them next.