Page 19 of The Meddling Matlocks (Pride & Prejudice Variations)

Chapter Nineteen

The wind howled outside Matlock House, rattling the windows and sending an icy draught down the chimney. Elizabeth Bennet shivered and hastily tossed another log onto the fire to combat the chill. She turned her attention back to the frail figure huddled on the settee before her.

Anne de Bourgh looked like nothing so much as a frightened woodland creature, pale and trembling, her delicate hands clutching at the edges of the shawl Elizabeth had hastily wrapped around her shoulders. Her wide, doe-like eyes darted nervously about the room, as though expecting her formidable mother to materialise from the shadows at any moment.

“Charlotte,” Elizabeth called briskly over her shoulder, her voice cutting through the tense silence. “Fetch another blanket, would you? And perhaps some tea, nice and hot, with plenty of sugar.”

“Of course,” Charlotte replied, already halfway out the door, her practical nature well-suited to moments of crisis.

“Miss de Bourgh,” Elizabeth said gently, kneeling beside Anne and adjusting the shawl around her shoulders. “You are safe now. No one here will harm you.”

“Th-thank you,” Anne stammered, her voice barely above a whisper. She cast a nervous glance towards the window, as if the very mention of safety might tempt fate. “I… I did not mean to impose…”

“Impose?” Elizabeth arched a brow, offering a small, reassuring smile. “On the contrary, we are delighted to meet you. Though I must admit, your arrival was somewhat unexpected.”

Anne’s lips twitched into what might have been a timid smile, though it vanished almost as quickly as it appeared. Before Elizabeth could press further, the sound of carriage wheels on the cobblestones once again reached her ears.

“Lady Matlock and Jane are returned,” Elizabeth murmured, glancing out of the window. A flicker of relief crossed Anne’s face, though it was tinged with apprehension. Elizabeth watched her carefully, noting the way her thin frame seemed to shrink further into the settee, as though she might disappear entirely if only she tried hard enough.

“Do excuse me, Miss de Bourgh,” Elizabeth said lightly. “I shall just let Lady Matlock know you are here. You are in capable hands, I assure you.”

As she slipped out into the hall, Charlotte returned with a thick blanket draped over one arm and a steaming cup of tea balanced on a saucer in the other. “The poor thing looks ready to faint,” she remarked, pausing beside Elizabeth. “I can scarcely believe Lady Catherine allowed her to travel in such bitter weather.”

“Allowed?” Elizabeth repeated wryly. “Dragged, I think would be a more accurate description, though for what purpose I cannot fathom.”

“The poor thing,” Charlotte said, shaking her head. “Either way, she is frozen to the bone.”

“Indeed,” Elizabeth agreed, her tone softening. “But we shall restore her to warmth and health soon enough, or rather, Lady Matlock shall, if I know her at all.”

True to form, Margaret Fitzwilliam expressed no more shock than a raised eyebrow when Elizabeth told her the news. With a serene nod of her head as she handed her gloves to the butler, she swept into the parlour with the air of a general marshalling his troops and marched straight over to her niece and took Anne’s hand in her own. “There, my dear. You are among friends now. Whatever troubles you have faced, they are behind you now.”

“Thank you, my lady,” Anne whispered, her voice trembling with emotion. Her eyes brimmed with unshed tears, and Elizabeth felt a pang of sympathy for the fragile creature before her.

“Jane,” Lady Matlock continued, casting a glance over her shoulder, “be so good as to fetch Mrs Whiting. If Miss de Bourgh is to recover, she will require something more substantial than tea and blankets.”

“Of course,” Jane said promptly, hurrying from the room.

“Now then,” Lady Matlock said, turning her full attention back to Anne, “let us see about setting you to rights.”

Elizabeth watched as Anne visibly relaxed under Lady Matlock’s soothing ministrations, her rigid posture softening ever so slightly. It was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless. As she observed the scene before her, a smile played at the corners of Elizabeth’s lips. This household had a way of drawing people in and making them feel at home. Even those who had never known such comfort before.

The morning sun spilled through the high, arched windows of St. George’s Church, casting a dappled glow upon the polished wood pews and the bowed heads of the congregation. Elizabeth straightened her bonnet as they exited the churchyard, the crisp air nipping at her cheeks. Beside her, Anne de Bourgh moved with tentative steps, clutching Charlotte’s arm for support. Though still pale, her colour had improved, and with it, her demeanour. Freed from the oppressive shadow of Lady Catherine, she had revealed herself to be a gentle, thoughtful creature, with a shy smile that emerged like a timid ray of sunshine breaking through a cloud.

“Did you not think the sermon most uplifting?” Anne ventured softly, her voice so delicate that Elizabeth had to lean slightly closer to hear her above the rustle of parishioners dispersing around them.

“Indeed,” Elizabeth replied warmly, “uplifting enough to make one wish to embrace one’s fellow man—though perhaps not Mr Collins.” She cast a sidelong glance at Charlotte, who stifled a laugh behind her gloved hand.

“Anne, over here, dear,” Lady Matlock said, beckoning to her niece, and Anne obediently disengaged from Elizabeth’s arm. Elizabeth was about to follow when someone said her name.

“Miss Bennet,” came a low, familiar voice from just behind her. Elizabeth turned swiftly, her gaze colliding with that of Mr Darcy. He stood taller than usual, or perhaps it was merely the effect of his sombre Sunday attire rendering him even more imposing. Beside him, Georgiana offered a polite nod, though her eyes lingered curiously on Anne’s retreating figure.

“Mr Darcy,” Elizabeth said, adjusting her shawl as if that small act might shield her from the intensity of his scrutiny. “Good morning.”

“May I have a word?” he asked, and though it was framed as a request, there was a gravity in his tone that brooked no refusal.

“Of course,” she replied, though she could not suppress a flicker of unease. Charlotte gave an obliging smile and offered her arm to Georgiana, who accepted it, and the two of them walked away to join Lady Matlock. Darcy waited until they were out of earshot before speaking again, his expression carefully guarded.

“Miss Bennet,” he began, his voice lower now, “I could not fail to notice that my cousin is unexpectedly in your company. Might I enquire how this came to pass?”

“Unexpectedly” was putting it mildly, Elizabeth thought, but she refrained from saying so. Instead, she chose her words with care. “Lady Catherine made an appearance at Matlock House, and she was... less than pleased.”

“Lady Catherine is rarely anything else,” Darcy muttered, his jaw tightening.

“She seemed to believe,” Elizabeth continued with feigned nonchalance, “that I harboured designs upon…” She paused, suddenly finding the tips of her boots very interesting. “Well, upon someone of her acquaintance.”

“Designs?” Darcy repeated sharply. “What designs , and upon whom?”

“Yourself, sir,” Elizabeth admitted, bracing herself for his reaction. “It appears Mr Collins has been... creative in his interpretations of my actions.”

“Collins!” The name escaped him like a thunderclap, and several passers-by turned their heads in alarm. Lowering his voice, Darcy continued, his tone vibrating with indignation. “What possible business is it of Mr Collins to comment upon your intentions, or anyone else’s, for that matter?”

“One might argue,” Elizabeth said archly, “that he believed himself entitled to such commentary, given our, er, prior association.”

“Association?” Darcy echoed, his dark eyes narrowing. “What association ?”

“His proposal,” she said simply, meeting his gaze with a steady resolve, though her cheeks betrayed her with a betraying warmth. “I declined, of course. But it would seem that he took my refusal as evidence of some grander scheme.”

For a moment, Darcy made no reply. He stared at her as though she had just informed him that the moon was made of cheese. Then, slowly, his features rearranged themselves into something resembling comprehension, though the furrow in his brow remained firmly etched.

“Mr Collins...” he began, as if testing the words for absurdity, “proposed marriage to you ?”

“Yes,” Elizabeth said with a touch of impatience. “And quite persistently, I might add.”

Darcy’s lips parted as though he intended to speak, yet no sound emerged. Finally, he managed, “And you refused him.”

“Naturally.”

“Naturally,” he repeated, almost to himself, and then shook his head as if to dispel the ridiculousness of the notion. “Forgive me, Miss Bennet, but I find myself utterly astounded.”

“Then we are in agreement,” Elizabeth said lightly, though her heart was inexplicably pounding. “It is, indeed, an astounding tale. One I would rather forget, if you please.”

“Quite,” Darcy murmured, though his expression suggested he was far from forgetting anything.

“And so,” Elizabeth returned to the original question he had asked her, “once Lord Matlock routed Lady Catherine—which was a marvellous sight, I assure you—we discovered that Anne had been in the carriage all along, quite catching her death of cold. Lord Matlock ordered her into the house and Lady Catherine back to Kent, where I must say, I wish she and Mr Collins great joy of each other’s company.”

A sharp bark of a laugh escaped Darcy, though there was little humour in it. He shook his head slowly. “I am surprised by no part of this, except that Mr Collins thought for one moment you would make him a suitable wife. You would have been utterly wasted,” he said at last, his voice low but firm, as though the words had been wrested from him after a great internal struggle. He took a step closer to Elizabeth. “A woman of your intelligence, wit, and spirit…” His tone faltered slightly, as if he dared not trust himself to continue. “To be married to him ? It is unthinkable.”

Elizabeth blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the earnestness in his expression.

“Thank you for your concern, Mr Darcy,” she managed lightly, though her breath seemed to catch somewhere between her ribs and throat. “But I assure you, my refusal was made with no hesitation and even less regret, and fully supported by my father, at least, though my mother had some misgivings.”

“Even so,” he replied, his gaze fixed upon her with such intensity that it seemed to strip away all her carefully constructed composure. His dark eyes searched hers, as though seeking some unspoken truth hidden within. The silence between them stretched taut, fragile as spun glass.

Elizabeth felt her heart lurch traitorously, a sensation both foreign and unwelcome. She told herself it was merely the heat of the day—or perhaps the strain of prolonged conversation—that caused the faint dizziness creeping over her. Surely it could not be him . And yet, there was something in the way he looked at her, as if the rest of the world had ceased to exist...

“Mr Darcy,” she said briskly, the sound of her own voice pulling her back to solid ground, “if you will excuse me, I believe I am wanted elsewhere.” She tilted her head towards the distant figure of Lady Matlock, now waving imperiously in her direction.

“Of course,” Darcy said, stepping back at once, though his gaze lingered a moment longer. He inclined his head in a gesture of respect, his customary reserve returning like a cloak around his shoulders. “Good day, Miss Bennet.”

“Good day, Mr Darcy,” she echoed, willing her legs to carry her steadily away despite the curious fluttering in her chest.

The following evening found Matlock House alive with the pleasant hum of company, as Mr and Mrs Gardiner joined the company for dinner alongside Miss Bingley and Mr Bingley. Elizabeth was particularly pleased to see her aunt and uncle, who brought with them their usual air of intelligence and refinement. Mrs Gardiner’s quiet elegance and Mr Gardiner’s easy charm had a way of making any gathering more agreeable. Lord Matlock and Mr Gardiner were already talking about fishing, and Lady Matlock seemed absolutely delighted with Mrs Gardiner, the pair of them with their heads bent together throughout much of the evening.

The only person who seemed displeased by the additions to the gathering was seated directly across from Elizabeth. Miss Bingley wore an expression of thinly veiled surprise as she took in Mrs Gardiner’s tasteful gown of soft golden silk and Mr Gardiner’s polished manners. It was clear that Caroline, no doubt expecting something far less refined from relatives hailing from Cheapside, found herself rather confounded.

“And how do you find living in Cheap side?“ Caroline remarked after a pause, her voice honeyed but laced with just enough condescension to draw attention. “How quaint it must be, so near the bustle of trade and industry. One wonders how you manage amidst such... activity.” She offered a tight smile, tilting her head slightly as though pondering some charitable thought.

“Indeed, it can be quite lively,” Mrs Gardiner replied serenely, apparently impervious to Caroline’s barb. “But we find it suits us well. There is no shortage of excellent shops and fine company to be had.”

“How interesting ,“ Caroline said, stretching the syllables as though they might snap from the weight of her insincerity. She glanced towards Mr Darcy, no doubt hoping to find an ally in her disdain, but he was occupied in conversation with Mr Gardiner and appeared not to have heard her remark.

Elizabeth watched this exchange with growing amusement, though she kept her expression carefully neutral. It was rare indeed to see Caroline Bingley caught off guard, and rarer still to witness her attempts at subtle derision fall so flat.

“Do tell me, Mrs Gardiner,” Caroline pressed on, undeterred, “do you ever find it tiresome, being so far removed from the finer society? Surely there must be some inconvenience in…”

“Not in the least,” Mrs Gardiner interrupted gently, her tone as smooth as cream. “We count ourselves fortunate to be surrounded by such dear friends and relations. And of course, my husband’s business allows us the pleasure of frequent travel, so we are never long confined to one spot.”

“How delightful,” Caroline murmured, though her clenched jaw suggested otherwise. She fell silent then, her eyes narrowing faintly as she surveyed the room. Elizabeth could almost see the wheels turning in her mind, calculating her next move.

And indeed, Caroline soon shifted her attentions elsewhere. Her gaze landed upon Viscount Highton, whose admiration for Charlotte Lucas grew ever more obvious. Charlotte, seated beside him, glowed with an ease and confidence Elizabeth had rarely seen in her friend. The viscount leaned towards her, murmuring something that made Charlotte laugh softly, her cheeks flushed with pleasure.

Caroline’s lips tightened into a line before curving into a determined smile. If the Viscount had not yet noticed her charms, she seemed resolved to remedy the oversight. Leaning forward slightly, she addressed him in her most dulcet tones.

“How very diverting you are, my Lord,” Caroline simpered, tilting her head just so, her bejewelled earrings glinting in the candlelight.

Lady Matlock, seated nearby, arched a brow—a subtle but devastating censure that Caroline entirely missed in her determination to hold the Viscount’s attention. To his credit, he responded with a polite nod and murmured something unintelligible before turning his attention back to Charlotte Lucas, whose cheeks glowed as pink as the roses embroidered on the hem of her gown.

“Do you not find it endlessly amusing,” Elizabeth whispered to Darcy, seated beside her, “how some people can fail so spectacularly at reading a room?”

Darcy, who had been idly stirring his tea, glanced up at her, his dark eyes glinting with unspoken amusement. “A deficiency of observation is a flaw I have often remarked upon,” he murmured, though his tone suggested he found the irony of his own statement as entertaining as Elizabeth did.

“Miss Lucas, you must tell me of your plans for the spring,” the viscount said warmly, leaning slightly towards Charlotte as he spoke. The sincerity in his voice caused Charlotte to flush deeper, her pleasure undeniable.

“Poor Miss Bingley,” Elizabeth mused under her breath, watching as Caroline stiffened visibly, her attempts to draw the Viscount’s focus sliding off him like rain against a well-polished carriage. Undeterred, Caroline straightened her spine and turned her calculating blue eyes towards Darcy, her next quarry.

“Mr Darcy,” she began brightly. “You are quite the enigma tonight! Do tell us what occupies your thoughts so intently.”

“Nothing of consequence,” Darcy replied evenly.

“Surely not!” Caroline persisted. “A gentleman of your intellect must always be engaged in matters of import. Or perhaps,” she affected a teasing lilt, “you are composing verses of poetry in secret? Shall we expect to see you published soon?”

“Rest assured, Miss Bingley, that I shall not subject the world to such horrors,” Darcy replied dryly, his tone courteous but distant.

Elizabeth felt a pang of pity for Caroline. It was a rare thing indeed to see Miss Bingley thwarted so thoroughly, and yet there was something undeniably uncomfortable about witnessing her growing desperation. Poor Miss Bingley, she thought. Not even her most dazzling smiles and artful manoeuvres could penetrate Mr Darcy’s defences.

“She does try so hard,” Elizabeth murmured as Mrs Gardiner made a remark to which Miss Bingley had to attend. “And yet, for all her wealth, fashion, and handsome face, Miss Bingley seems singularly unable to make herself liked.”

Darcy’s hand, which had been resting lightly on the arm of his chair, twitched almost imperceptibly. He turned to her fully, his expression thoughtful. “An observation which, I admit, could also apply to myself.”

“Could it?” she asked, arching a brow as she met his gaze. There was no mockery in her tone, only genuine curiosity.

“Certainly,” he replied, his voice softening. “I lack the happy knack of recommending myself to strangers. It has always been thus, I fear.”

“Perhaps,” Elizabeth allowed, her own voice quiet now, “but I have observed that once you decide an acquaintance is no longer a stranger, you are in fact excellent at making yourself agreeable.”

His dark eyes searched hers for a moment, and there was something in his expression—something unspoken, intimate—that sent a warmth curling through her chest. She looked away quickly, feigning interest in the tea service as she attempted to compose herself.

“That is high praise indeed, Miss Bennet,” Darcy said after a moment, his tone even, though there was a richness to it that made her pulse quicken despite herself.

“Do not let it go to your head,” she replied lightly, though the smile that played at her lips betrayed her amusement. Her smile lingered as she observed Mr Darcy, whose usually composed features now bore the faintest hint of surprise. His dark eyes, which so often held an air of impenetrable reserve, softened, and for a fleeting moment, he seemed almost… vulnerable.

“Miss Bennet,” he began, his voice steady but quieter than she had ever heard it. Yet before another word could leave his lips, a curious flush crept up his neck, spreading to his sharply defined cheekbones. The sight was so unexpected, so wholly uncharacteristic of the man who had once affronted her with his indifferent demeanour, that Elizabeth found herself biting back a laugh.

Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy, blushing? Who would have thought the proud and enigmatic gentleman capable of such a human reaction?

“Mr Darcy,” she said, unable to suppress the teasing lilt in her tone, “are you quite well? Or has the room grown excessively warm all of a sudden?”

He straightened at once, his posture as impeccable as ever, though his hand twitched slightly at his side, perhaps betraying some inner discomposure. “I assure you, Miss Bennet,” he replied, his words clipped but not unkind, “I am in perfect health.”

“Ah,” she said lightly, her eyes dancing with amusement. “It must simply be the effect of my truthful compliments, though I confess, I did not anticipate they might render you speechless and rosy-cheeked.”

“Rosy-cheeked?” He gave her an incredulous look, though the deepening colour in his face rather undermined his protest. “You are mistaken, madam.”

“Am I?” She arched an eyebrow, folding her hands neatly in front of her. “Perhaps, then, we should call for a mirror, so you may verify it yourself.”

His lips parted, as though he meant to retort, but instead, he let out a soft exhale, somewhere between a sigh and a rueful chuckle. “You are merciless, Miss Bennet.”

“Only when the occasion warrants it,” she replied cheerfully. “And I daresay this is one such occasion.”

Darcy shook his head slightly, as if trying to collect his scattered composure, but there was something distinctly different about him now. Gone was the austere, inscrutable mask he so often wore; in its place was a man rendered entirely real and remarkably endearing. For a moment, Elizabeth wondered if anyone else in the room had ever seen him like this, or if she had somehow stumbled upon a part of him rarely revealed.

“May I ask,” he said finally, his voice low but steady, “what compels you to speak so freely, Miss Bennet? Most would not dare.” There was no edge to his words, only genuine curiosity.

“Perhaps,” Elizabeth replied, tilting her head thoughtfully, “it is because I find your company far less intimidating than you seem to imagine it to be.”

“Less intimidating?” He repeated the words as though they were utterly foreign to him. Then, to her astonishment, his mouth curved into the faintest of smiles, small but undeniably sincere. “You are unlike anyone I have ever encountered.”

“An observation I shall take as a compliment,” she said lightly, though her heart skipped in a way she could not entirely explain. “Even if it was not intended as one.”

“Rest assured, Miss Bennet,” his gaze met hers again, and this time there was a warmth in it that made her pulse quicken, “it most certainly was.”

For once, Elizabeth found herself at a loss for words. But rather than feeling discomfited by her silence, she allowed herself to bask in it, for it was not awkward or strained but pleasant, charged with a quiet understanding that neither of them dared disturb.

The moment was interrupted, however, by the sound of Miss Bingley’s unmistakable voice cutting through the din of the gathering. “Mr Darcy! I must have your opinion on this matter.”

“Ah, duty calls,” Elizabeth murmured under her breath, the corners of her mouth twitching in mirth.

“Indeed,” Darcy replied, though his expression betrayed a flicker of reluctance. “If you will excuse me, Miss Bennet.”

“Of course,” Elizabeth said with a small curtsy, watching as he turned to greet Miss Bingley with polite indifference. And though he strode away with his usual measured grace, she could not help but notice the lingering trace of pink on his cheeks, a charming reminder of their exchange.

As she turned back to join the general conversation, Elizabeth felt a curious lightness in her chest, as though some unseen weight had shifted. Perhaps, she mused, Mr Darcy was not nearly so inscrutable as he wished the world to believe. Perhaps, beneath his imposing exterior, there lay a heart as vulnerable—and as capable of affection—as any other.