Page 18 of The Meddling Matlocks (Pride & Prejudice Variations)
Chapter Eighteen
Elizabeth could not help the buoyancy of her step as she and Charlotte descended from the carriage, the crisp wintry air snapping at their cheeks. The day had been, in her estimation, near perfection. Darcy House had proved a treasure trove of genteel civility and quiet delight. Georgiana, dear, sweet Georgiana, had surprised Elizabeth with an earnest warmth that belied the shyness she had so often heard described. They had spent an hour at the pianoforte, laughing over missed notes and sharing favourite pieces, until Elizabeth began to feel a kinship with the girl that was wholly unexpected.
“She is a darling creature,” Elizabeth said aloud, though the remark seemed more to herself than Charlotte.
“Who?” Charlotte asked, tugging her shawl closer about her shoulders as they ascended the steps to the door of Matlock House.
“Georgiana, of course.” Elizabeth smiled happily. “I believe we are fast becoming friends. She possesses such good sense beneath all that timidity.”
“She does seem to have taken to you,” Charlotte observed with a small smile of her own, though her gaze drifted absently toward the street.
“Taken to me? Why should she not? I am entirely agreeable when I choose to be,” Elizabeth teased, nudging Charlotte lightly with her elbow.
“Not entirely disagreeable, at least,” Charlotte returned dryly, her tone laced with the easy humour that only the closest of friends could share.
“How gracious of you.”
They passed through the grand entrance of Matlock House, the butler bowing low as he held the door for them. Elizabeth’s eyes lingered momentarily on Charlotte, whose expression seemed oddly pensive as they removed their bonnets and pelisses. There was something different about her friend of late, a softness, a vulnerability that Elizabeth could not quite place. It was most unlike Charlotte to appear distracted, let alone dreamy.
“Tell me honestly, Charlotte,” Elizabeth began, her voice light but probing, “what do you make of Viscount Highton?”
“Viscount Highton?” Charlotte repeated, her tone carefully neutral. She glanced sideways at Elizabeth, who did not miss the faint twitch at the corner of her friend’s mouth. “He seems perfectly agreeable. Polished manners. A respectable fortune. Why do you ask?”
“Because I cannot help but notice that you find him far more compelling than you let on,” Elizabeth countered, her words accompanied by a mischievous smile. “You are hardly the sort to blush, yet I saw it plain as day when he complimented your wit.”
“Elizabeth,” Charlotte exclaimed, her cheeks pinkening even as the denials spilled from her lips, “pray do not start imagining fancies where none exist.”
“Fancies!” Elizabeth repeated with mock indignation. “And yet you grow rosy at the mere suggestion!”
Charlotte’s steps faltered slightly, and Elizabeth seized upon the reaction with glee.
“Ah-ha! I knew it!” Elizabeth crowed, her grin widening. “Viscount Highton! Tell me, Charlotte, do you find him handsome? Charming? Or is it his dreadful habit of quoting poetry at breakfast that has secured your affection?”
“Elizabeth Bennet,” Charlotte chastised, though her tone lacked its usual sharpness. “You are incorrigible.”
“Perhaps. But I am also correct!” Elizabeth declared triumphantly, looping her arm through Charlotte’s as they ascended the staircase. “Oh, Charlotte, how delightful this is! You, of all people, falling prey to romance! I must confess, I had begun to despair of ever seeing the day.”
“Spare me your theatrics,” Charlotte muttered, though there was a trace of a smile tugging at her lips. “And lower your voice, for goodness’ sake. The walls of this house have ears, and I would not have my private thoughts become fodder for Lady Matlock’s amusement.”
“Very well,” Elizabeth conceded, though her eyes sparkled with mischief. “But you cannot expect me to remain silent forever. This is too delicious a discovery. Shall I begin drafting wedding invitations at once, or shall I wait for the viscount to make his intentions known?”
“Elizabeth!”
“Very well, very well,” Elizabeth relented, holding up her free hand in mock surrender. “I shall say no more… for now.”
As they reached the parlour, Elizabeth cast a sidelong glance at her friend, a sudden pang of tenderness warming her heart. Charlotte, who had always been so steady, so pragmatic, seemed now to hover on the edge of something new, something fragile and lovely. For all her teasing, Elizabeth felt a genuine hope that her friend might find happiness, even if it came in so improbable a form as a viscount with a penchant for breakfast sonnets.
Her thoughts turned, unbidden, to another gentleman; a taller, darker figure whose presence had lingered in her mind far longer than she cared to admit. Mr Darcy. She had thought him insufferable once, but now… now he was something else entirely. There was kindness in him, hidden beneath layers of reserve, and a depth of feeling that she had glimpsed only briefly but could not forget.
“Elizabeth,” Charlotte’s voice broke into her reverie. “You are smiling. What are you thinking of?”
“Nothing of consequence,” Elizabeth replied quickly, though her cheeks betrayed her with a telltale flush. Nothing of consequence indeed! If only her heart would behave accordingly.
The parlour door had barely swung shut behind them when the clamour of carriage wheels on cobblestones reached their ears. Elizabeth went to the window to look out, and saw a grand black barouche, gleaming like polished coal, coming to an imperious halt before Matlock House. The crest upon its door caught the waning afternoon sunlight, a proud, ostentatious emblem that left no doubt as to its owner. Elizabeth had heard Mr Collins describe it in minute detail often enough that there could be no mistake.
“Whoever can that be?” Charlotte murmured from beside her.
“I believe that is none other than Lady Catherine de Bourgh,” Elizabeth said, her voice laced with quiet astonishment. Her good humour from earlier faltered slightly as she watched a tall, severe figure descend from the carriage, a footman scurrying to assist her. Lady Catherine’s gown was a stormy grey silk adorned with enough lace and embellishments to suggest she might be attending court rather than paying a call. Her expression was forbidding, her sharp features set in what could only be described as regal disdain.
“I wonder why she is here?” Elizabeth said under her breath, though unease coiled in the pit of her stomach. “Lord and Lady Matlock have made no mention that she was expected.”
“Perhaps it is merely a social visit,” Charlotte ventured, though the glance she shared with Elizabeth was anything but convinced. “Though I confess, such visits are not typically heralded by expressions that could curdle fresh cream.”
Before Elizabeth could reply, the sound of brisk footsteps echoed through the hall. The door to the parlour burst open, and Lady Catherine swept inside without so much as waiting to be announced. Her formidable presence seemed to fill every inch of the room, leaving the humble fire sputtering in apparent submission.
“Which one of you,” the dowager demanded, her piercing eyes sweeping over them as if appraising livestock at auction, “is Elizabeth Bennet?”
Elizabeth straightened instinctively, her chin lifting a fraction despite the discomfiting scrutiny. “I am she,” she replied evenly, though the calmness of her tone belied the quickening of her pulse.
“Ah,” Lady Catherine intoned, stepping further into the room with a rustle of silk and authority. “So you are the young lady I have heard so much about.” The words dripped with a mix of condescension and accusation, as though Elizabeth were the subject of some scandalous pamphlet distributed among the ton.
“Indeed, madam?” Elizabeth answered lightly, though her wariness deepened. “I hope it has been nothing too unflattering.”
“That remains to be seen,” Lady Catherine declared, her nostrils flaring slightly. She turned to Charlotte, who appeared torn between curiosity and a desire to flee. “Whoever you are, I must insist on speaking with Miss Bennet privately. You may go.”
“Of course,” Charlotte said after a brief hesitation, glancing at Elizabeth with a troubled frown as if silently asking whether she ought to remain. Elizabeth offered her friend a faint smile, a subtle reassurance that she would manage whatever tempest was brewing.
As Charlotte departed, closing the door softly behind her, Lady Catherine wasted no time in advancing closer, her posture ramrod straight. She surveyed Elizabeth as one might a poorly constructed piece of furniture, and Elizabeth, determined not to appear cowed, met her gaze with unwavering composure.
“Miss Bennet,” Lady Catherine began, her voice slicing through the air like a blade, “I have received reports of a most shocking nature regarding your conduct.”
“Shocking, madam?” Elizabeth repeated, arching a brow. “I assure you, I can hardly imagine what offence I might have committed to warrant such a description.”
“Do not feign innocence with me, young woman,” Lady Catherine snapped, her commanding tone brooking no argument. “It has come to my attention that you—you—” she paused, as if the very thought offended her sensibilities, “may have set your cap at my nephew! That you may be on the brink of accepting an offer of marriage from him!”
For a fleeting moment, Elizabeth could do nothing but blink, the sheer absurdity of the accusation robbing her of speech. When her wits returned, she felt an irrepressible urge to laugh, though she wisely refrained. Instead, she folded her hands neatly before her, tilting her head with polite incredulity.
“Forgive me, madam,” she said, her tone laced with just enough sweetness to be mistaken for sincerity by anyone less perceptive than her current adversary, “but I remain at a loss. To which nephew do you refer? I have met all three of the charming gentlemen, unless you have other nephews on the de Bourgh side?”
“Do not trifle with me, Miss Bennet!” Lady Catherine hissed, her face darkening to a shade that could only be described as puce. Her thin lips pressed together tightly, then parted to unleash the full force of her indignation. “You know very well that I refer to Mr Darcy!”
“Ah,” Elizabeth replied lightly, as though a great mystery had just been solved. “How curious! For unless he has been so uncommonly reserved as to forget to mention it himself, I daresay this is news to me.”
“Enough of your impudence!” Lady Catherine bellowed, her voice reverberating against the walls. Her gloved hand gripped the head of her cane so tightly that Elizabeth feared the poor object might splinter beneath her wrath. “Mr Darcy is engaged to my daughter, Anne! It is a match long decided upon, sealed by the wishes of his late mother!”
Elizabeth blinked, taken aback for no longer than a heartbeat before recovering her composure. “Engaged, you say?” she echoed, her brow arching. “Then I am to understand that Mr Darcy is a gentleman so entirely without honour or willpower that he would allow himself to be tempted from such a solemn duty? I must admit, madam, that does not sound like the man I have come to know.”
“Temptation has nothing to do with it!” Lady Catherine snapped, though colour rose high in her cheeks, betraying her agitation. “The engagement is... well, it is not precisely formalised. But it is the greatest wish of both myself and his dearly departed mother! Such wishes are not to be trifled with, nor ignored!”
“Not formalised?” Elizabeth repeated, feigning surprise as she took an innocent step closer. “Then it seems we are speaking of hopes rather than certainties. And surely, dear madam, if Mr Darcy is as dutiful as you claim, your confidence in his adherence to these familial wishes should render any interference on my part entirely irrelevant.” She smiled then, a polite, maddeningly composed smile that revealed not a hint of the inner satisfaction she derived from the flash of frustration that crossed Lady Catherine’s face.
“Do not twist my words!” Lady Catherine barked, her voice rising dangerously. “I demand your assurance, nay, your promise , that you will never engage yourself to my nephew! You will absolve him of even the faintest shadow of temptation.”
“Let us speak plainly, madam,” Elizabeth replied, her voice steady but edged with steel. “If Mr Darcy is indeed bound to your daughter, as you claim, then he is beyond my reach. And yet, if he is not...” Here she allowed herself a small, almost imperceptible shrug that conveyed a world of meaning. “Well, then I suppose the matter lies entirely between himself and any lady he may choose to court.”
For a moment, silence stretched taut between them, broken only by the faint ticking of the mantel clock. Lady Catherine’s mouth worked furiously, but no sound escaped. Her expression was a portrait of apoplexy, her imperious facade cracking beneath the weight of Elizabeth’s unrelenting poise.
Elizabeth stood her ground, her dark eyes bright with determination. Whatever storm Lady Catherine intended to weather upon her, she was certain of one thing: she would not yield. Not today, not ever.
“How dare you…” Lady Catherine began, but Elizabeth was not inclined to let her finish. The balance of power had shifted, and she intended to seize it with both hands.
“How dare I?” Elizabeth repeated archly, one brow lifting in defiance. “How dare you, madam, come into this house uninvited and cast aspersions upon my name—upon the name of a guest under Lord and Lady Matlock’s protection, no less? If your purpose was to intimidate me, I fear you shall find me most unaccommodating.”
“Intimidate you?” Lady Catherine’s voice reached a strangled pitch. “You insolent girl! Do you think yourself my equal? My superior? Do you imagine for one moment that I would suffer…”
“Enough!” Elizabeth interrupted, the word sharp as the crack of a whip. Her chest heaved with the force of her agitation, but her gaze remained steady, unwavering. “I will not be bullied into making promises I neither can nor wish to keep. You have no right, none whatsoever, to dictate the course of my life or anyone else’s. And if Mr Darcy is half the gentleman I believe him to be, he would never submit to such manipulation either!”
“Unthinkable! Outrageous!” sputtered Lady Catherine.
“Perhaps,” Elizabeth allowed, folding her arms across her chest, “but it is also the truth.”
At that precise moment, the door flew open with startling force, rebounding against the wall with a resounding thud. Both women turned sharply, their quarrel arrested mid-battle, to behold none other than Lord Matlock himself, striding into the room with the air of a general prepared to command his troops. His tall, broad figure filled the doorway, and his sharp blue eyes flickered over the scene before him like a hawk assessing its prey.
“Catherine,” he said crisply, his tone as cold and precise as the edge of a finely honed blade, “what, may I ask, is the meaning of this?”
“Henry!” Lady Catherine exclaimed, her imperious demeanour faltering slightly at the sight of her elder brother. “I… I am here on a matter of great importance. This young woman…” she gestured towards Elizabeth with a trembling hand, “has been attempting to ensnare our nephew, Darcy, in a most improper…”
“That will do,” Lord Matlock interrupted, his voice brooking no argument. He stepped further into the room, his presence commanding every inch of the space. “I have already heard enough to ascertain that you are once again meddling where you have no business. I must say, Catherine, I expected better from you, though I confess I am not surprised.”
“Better from me ?” Lady Catherine bristled, her chin jutting forward in defiance. “I am acting in the best interests of our family, of Darcy’s future! It is my duty as his aunt…”
“Your duty?” Lord Matlock’s laughter was sharp and humourless. “If you were truly concerned for Darcy’s future, you would cease this incessant campaign to bind him to Anne—a match which, I might add, I have always found wholly inappropriate. First cousins, Catherine? Have you entirely abandoned reason in favour of your own ambitions?”
“Wholly appropriate!” Lady Catherine retorted, her voice rising to a shriek. “It was the dearest wish of his mother that…”
“His mother is no longer here to voice her wishes,” Lord Matlock said firmly, his expression softening only marginally. “And as her surviving brother, I feel it incumbent upon me to ensure that her children are not subjected to plans that would do them harm—socially, emotionally, or otherwise. A marriage between Anne and Darcy would be disastrous, and I will not permit it.”
“Permit it?” Lady Catherine echoed, her voice trembling with outrage. “You cannot forbid what has already…”
“Enough, Catherine,” Lord Matlock said, cutting her off with a raised hand. “You have overstepped yourself in more ways than one. Not only have you interfered in matters that are none of your concern, but you have done so in my home, abusing a guest under my roof. It is unacceptable, and I will not tolerate it.”
Elizabeth, who until this point had stood quietly by, watching the exchange with a mixture of astonishment and quiet satisfaction, felt a small, involuntary smile tug at the corners of her lips. Whatever else could be said of Lord Matlock, he was certainly a man who knew how to wield authority when the occasion demanded it.
“Back to Kent with you, Catherine,” Lord Matlock declared firmly, his voice carrying the sort of authority that could silence even the most obstinate of duchesses. “I shall hear no more of this interference in Darcy’s affairs. You have meddled enough for one lifetime, and I will not have you upsetting my household further.”
Lady Catherine’s towering figure was now diminished, though only slightly, as she gathered her voluminous skirts with a jerky motion and swept past Lord Matlock, her face a mask of affronted dignity. Pausing at the threshold, her head snapped around like an indignant hawk seeking its prey. Her narrowed eyes landed on Elizabeth, who met the glare with an arched brow and a resolute lift of her chin.
“Mark my words, Miss Bennet,” Lady Catherine hissed, her voice quivering with suppressed outrage, “this is not the end of the matter.”
“On the contrary,” Lord Matlock interjected smoothly, his expression implacable, “it very much is.”
With that final pronouncement, Lady Catherine spun on her heel and stalked out into the hallway, her heels striking the polished wood floor with punctuated fury. Elizabeth exhaled a shaky breath and glanced at Lord Matlock, whose stern features softened just enough to suggest the faintest glimmer of satisfaction.
“Miss Lucas very sensibly came straight to fetch me,” he said. “Are you all right?”
Elizabeth nodded, not quite trusting herself to speak.
“You were holding your own quite magnificently.” A smile touched his lips. “I shall be sure to tell Darcy everything.”
She blushed, and Lord Matlock laughed gently, his humour apparently restored. “Shall we ensure Catherine takes her leave?” he said, offering his arm.
Curiosity piqued, Elizabeth accepted and accompanied him downstairs, her mind a whirl of disbelief and reluctant amusement. Lady Catherine de Bourgh—a woman who gave the impression she could cow royalty itself—had been sent packing like a misbehaving child. If Elizabeth had not witnessed the feat with her own eyes, she might have thought it the stuff of fanciful novels.
The brisk air struck Elizabeth’s cheeks as they stepped onto the stone steps outside. Lady Catherine was clambering into her waiting carriage, shouting imprecations at the footman who was a little slow to let down the steps. But inside the carriage, something caught Elizabeth’s attention, a pale oval framed by shadows, wide eyes blinking with an almost ghostly stillness.
“Good heavens,” Elizabeth murmured under her breath. “Is that…?”
“Anne,” Lord Matlock growled, his sharp eyes following hers. His tone was clipped and brimming with incredulity. Without hesitation, he strode forward, his long legs eating up the distance between himself and the carriage. Elizabeth hurried after him.
“Anne!” Lord Matlock barked as he yanked open the door of the carriage which the footman had just closed. The interior was dimly lit, but there was no mistaking the fragile figure seated stiffly inside, wrapped in a cloak far too thin for the chill of the London evening. Anne de Bourgh blinked at her uncle, her expression caught somewhere between trepidation and relief.
“Inside. At once,” he said, extending a hand to her. His voice, though firm, held none of the brusqueness he’d reserved for her mother.
“Uncle Henry, I…” Anne began, her voice little more than a whisper.
“Not a word, my dear,” he interrupted gently, his tone softening as if speaking to a frightened kitten. “You are half-frozen, and I will not allow you to remain another moment in this wretched state.”
Anne hesitated, casting a glance toward the imposing figure of her mother, who sat rigidly on the opposite bench, her lips pinched into a disapproving line.
“Do not look at her,” Lord Matlock instructed sharply, with a wave of his free hand. “She has forfeited any claim to your obedience by dragging you here and leaving you to shiver in a cold carriage while she terrorised an innocent young lady.”
“Who…” Lady Catherine began, her voice rising in protest.
“Enough, Catherine,” Lord Matlock cut her off, fixing her with a glare capable of silencing a battalion. “You have made a spectacle of yourself, and now you will return to Rosings without delay.”
“How dare you…” she attempted again, but he raised a finger, silencing her as effectively as a slammed door.
“Your daughter will remain here, where she will receive proper care and attention. And since you have seen fit to bring her to London, it is high time she was introduced to society as befits her station. My wife and I will see to it.”
“Margaret? Society?” Lady Catherine sputtered, her composure slipping as her indignation swelled. “You cannot mean…”
“That is precisely what I mean. Now, begone,” he said, turning his back on her without further ceremony. He offered his arm to Anne, who took it hesitantly, casting another furtive glance at her mother before stepping gingerly out of the carriage.
“Come, Miss Bennet,” Lord Matlock called over his shoulder. Elizabeth, who had been attempting to blend into the shadows with limited success, startled at being addressed directly.
“Yes, of course,” she replied, hastening to join them. As she followed Anne and Lord Matlock, she could not help but spare a fleeting glance at Lady Catherine, who sat seething in the carriage, her hands clenched into fists atop her lap.
“Coachman,” Lord Matlock barked as they ascended the steps, “see that Lady Catherine is taken directly home. Do not stop for so much as a lump of sugar along the way.”
The coachman touched his hat in silent acknowledgment, and with a sharp crack of the reins, the carriage rattled away. Elizabeth watched it disappear down the street, a strange mixture of triumph and unease settling over her.
“Well,” she murmured to herself, following Anne and Lord Matlock through the front door, “this promises to be interesting.”