Page 2 of The Meddling Matlocks (Pride & Prejudice Variations)

Chapter Two

Elizabeth had scarcely finished her breakfast when the news arrived from Netherfield that Jane was unwell and confined to bed. The note, penned in Jane’s familiar, delicate hand, was brief yet enough to set Elizabeth into immediate motion.

“Unwell?” she murmured, half to herself, as she folded the paper. Her brows furrowed, and her lips pressed together, a look her family recognised as a harbinger of resolute action. She turned to her father, who lounged in his usual chair, his newspaper held aloft like a shield against any domestic disturbances. “Father, I must go to Jane.”

“Must you indeed?” Mr Bennet replied, lowering his paper just enough to reveal an arched brow. “Is that a hint for me to send for the horses?”

“No indeed,” said Elizabeth, “My feet shall serve me well enough. It is only three miles, after all; I shall be back by dinner.”

“Three miles of muddy fields, Lizzy,” he pointed out, though not unkindly. His eyes twinkled with amusement. “I daresay your shoes will never recover.”

“Better my shoes than my conscience,” she quipped, already rising.

Mrs Bennet highly disapproved of the plan, however. “Walk to Netherfield? Alone? In this weather? Oh, Lizzy, you’ll catch your death! And what of your appearance? You shall not be fit to be seen!”

“Mama,” Elizabeth replied, fastening her bonnet with swift determination, “I shall be fit to be seen by Jane, who is the only person at Netherfield whose good opinion I care for.”

“Stubborn girl,” Mrs Bennet huffed, wringing her hands. “But very well, go, if you must. Only remember to tell them that Jane’s constitution is usually so robust. You know how people talk, and we cannot have anyone thinking she is sickly. Oh, and remind her to drink broth. And…”

“Yes, yes,” Elizabeth cut in, kissing her mother’s cheek lightly before marching briskly to the door. “I shall deliver all your instructions, Mama, word for word.”

The air outside was crisp and damp, carrying with it the faint promise of rain. Elizabeth wrapped her shawl tighter about her shoulders and set off at a pace that was more purposeful than ladylike. The countryside stretched before her, a patchwork of green fields and winding paths bordered by low stone walls. The autumn leaves crunched beneath her feet, and the occasional gust of wind tugged playfully at her skirts, as though conspiring with her mother to dissuade her.

A flock of startled sparrows took flight from a nearby hedge as she passed, their sudden movement drawing her gaze to the horizon. Netherfield Park loomed in the distance, its grand facade a stark contrast to the modest simplicity of Longbourn. How Jane managed to navigate the world of such wealth and refinement without faltering in her innate kindness was a marvel Elizabeth could only admire. As for herself, she doubted she would fare half as well. Already, she imagined the raised eyebrows and barely concealed smirks that would greet her muddy boots and windblown hair upon arrival.

“Let them raise their eyebrows,” she said aloud, with a defiant lift of her chin. “If they have nothing better to occupy their time, I shall pity them more than they pity me.”

The thought brought a small smile to her lips, and with renewed resolve, she quickened her step. The path ahead might be long and muddy, but the destination was clear. Jane needed her, and that was reason enough to face whatever awaited at Netherfield, be it rain, ridicule, or, worst of all, the rude, proud Mr Darcy.

The grand portico of Netherfield finally came into view, and Elizabeth, despite her aching feet and the chill that had seeped through her damp spencer, quickened her pace. The hem of her gown clung stubbornly to her ankles, weighted down by mud and rainwater, and she grimaced as she imagined Miss Bingley’s disapproving gaze cataloguing each sorry inch of her appearance.

“Six inches deep in mud,” she muttered ruefully, glancing down at her petticoats as if to confirm their disgrace.

She barely had time to compose herself, or indeed to decide whether it was worth the effort, before the door swung open to reveal a rather startled footman. His eyes flickered briefly to her bedraggled state, but to his credit, he recovered quickly, stepping aside to allow her entrance. Elizabeth crossed the threshold with as much dignity as one could muster when dripping onto polished floors, her boots squelching faintly with each step.

“Miss Elizabeth Bennet.” The low voice was unmistakable, its clipped precision freezing her mid-step. She turned sharply to find Mr Darcy standing in the hall, his tall frame silhouetted against the light from an adjacent window. He looked every bit the well-groomed gentleman, his dark hair perfectly arranged, his cravat so flawlessly tied that it seemed almost mocking in its elegance.

“Mr Darcy,” she replied, willing her voice to remain steady as her cheeks betrayed her with a tell-tale warmth. There was no mistaking his slow perusal of her sodden garments and windblown hair, though his expression remained inscrutable. If he was amused, appalled, or something in between, he gave no hint.

“Miss Elizabeth,” he said again, inclining his head, though his dark eyes seemed to linger on her for a beat longer than propriety dictated. “You have walked here to attend your sister?”

“Indeed, I have,” she answered briskly, determined not to let him unnerve her. “It seemed the most practical course, given the circumstances.”

“Practical,” he echoed, his tone unreadable. “And commendably resolute.”

“Thank you, sir. Though I should hardly think such a journey merits commendation,” she replied lightly, brushing past him as he gestured her towards the drawing-room door.

She hesitated only briefly before entering, schooling her features into what she hoped was a composed expression. The sisters were seated on a chaise by the fire, engrossed in conversation, their brother opposite them. Miss Bingley glanced up first, her lips parting as if to comment, but whatever sharp remark she had prepared was forestalled by Elizabeth’s curtsey.

“Miss Bingley. Mrs Hurst. Mr Bingley,” Elizabeth greeted them politely, though her voice faltered slightly as her gaze shifted to the strangers in the room. Beside Mr Bingley sat two figures she had not expected—an elegant older couple whose attire and bearing spoke of wealth and consequence. The gentleman’s coat was tailored to perfection, his silver hair lending him a distinguished air, while the lady’s gown shimmered faintly in the firelight, her posture as regal as a queen’s.

“Ah,” Mr Bingley exclaimed cheerfully, rising to greet her. “Miss Elizabeth! You must be here for your sister. Allow me to escort you to…”

“Mr Darcy,” the older gentleman interrupted, standing too and turning expectantly toward the door. “Will you do the honours?”

Elizabeth felt her stomach twist in mortification. Of all the days to encounter unexpected company, this was surely the worst. She could feel the weight of their gazes on her muddy hem, her dishevelled curls, and the faint streak of dirt on her glove where she had wiped her face earlier. It was all she could do not to shrink back toward the door.

“Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” Darcy’s voice came from behind her, calm and authoritative as ever, “may I present my uncle, the Earl of Matlock, and my aunt, the Countess of Matlock.”

Elizabeth’s throat went dry. An earl and a countess? She had walked three miles through mud and rain only to meet the highest nobility she had ever encountered while looking like a wayward scarecrow. What cruel twist of fate was this?

“Your servant, madam,” the earl said, bowing slightly. His smile was more genial than she’d anticipated, though it did little to ease her discomfort.

“Miss Elizabeth,” the countess added warmly, her eyes kind though clearly curious. Elizabeth could only hope the flush creeping up her neck might be mistaken for exertion.

“How do you do?” she managed, dropping into a hurried curtsey that nearly upset her balance. Straightening quickly, she clasped her hands tightly together, hoping they would stop trembling before anyone noticed. If only she could escape upstairs to Jane without further delay or humiliation!

But alas, escape seemed unlikely, for the countess was already addressing her with an interest that made Elizabeth acutely aware of every stray curl and speck of mud marring her person.

“You have had quite the journey, I see,” the countess said, rising gracefully from her seat as Elizabeth straightened from her awkward curtsey. Her voice was warm and lilting, with just a touch of amusement that made Elizabeth’s cheeks burn hotter than they already were.

“Indeed, madam,” Elizabeth replied, forcing herself to meet the countess’s gaze despite the uneven curls falling into her eyes and the undeniable dampness clinging to her hem. “I was eager to come to my sister’s side as soon as I heard she was unwell.”

“How very commendable,” the earl interjected, his voice deep and kind rather than derisive. His silvery brows lifted slightly as he surveyed her dishevelled state, but there was no trace of disdain in his expression, only a twinkle of what might have been approval. “It is not every young lady who would brave such conditions for family.”

“Yes, indeed,” the countess agreed with a smile that reached her striking blue eyes. She stepped forward, taking Elizabeth’s hands gently in her own gloved ones.

“Miss Elizabeth,” the countess continued, her tone softening to something almost maternal, “you must be exceedingly worried about your sister. My companion Mrs Whiting has been sitting with her upstairs and assures me Jane is being well cared for. But I am certain you will wish to see her at once. I shall take you up myself.”

Elizabeth blinked, momentarily stunned by this unexpected kindness. Whatever she had imagined of fine ladies, it did not include them escorting muddy young women through their hosts’ homes without so much as a grimace. “That is most… generous of you, madam,” she managed, though the words felt inadequate.

“Generous?” The countess let out a light laugh as if the idea amused her. “Nonsense. It is only natural, my dear. Come, we shall not keep you from her a moment longer.”

Elizabeth dipped into a swift curtsey, her skirts swishing lightly against her muddied boots. “I am most obliged,” she said earnestly, her gaze darting from Lady Matlock’s kind expression to the assembled company—Darcy, the earl, and the Bingley siblings—all of whom observed her with varying degrees of curiosity and decorum. She suspected Caroline Bingley’s lips were pressed tightly together to suppress a sneer.

“I am sure Miss Bennet will be most glad you are here,” Mr Bingley said, clear concern in his expression. “Pray, advise me at once if there is anything at all that may be done for her relief.”

“Thank you,” Elizabeth murmured again, casting a glance at Mr Darcy—who, for some reason, seemed particularly inscrutable at that moment—and then followed Lady Matlock out of the room.

As the door clicked softly shut behind them, Fitzwilliam Darcy’s eyes lingered on the spot where Elizabeth had stood moments before, her cheeks flushed from exertion and her curls rebelliously escaping their pins. The damp hem of her gown, bedraggled as it was, ought to have been unbecoming; yet somehow, against all logic and propriety, it only served to heighten her liveliness. He frowned, a flicker of something uncomfortably warm stirring within him.

“Well,” Lord Matlock suddenly declared, breaking the silence with a hearty chuckle. “That young lady is certainly... spirited.”

“Spirited?” Caroline Bingley echoed, her tone laced with derision. She adjusted her lace cuffs, her movements sharp. “I suppose one might call it that. I might say impertinent, and abominably independent! Did you see the state of her petticoats? Mud! Six inches deep, at least. And to present oneself so before company…”

“She walked several miles to see her sister,” Darcy interrupted, his voice clipped. He turned his gaze to Caroline, allowing no room for argument. “Surely such a demonstration of familial affection is deserving of respect, Miss Bingley, rather than censure. Would you not do the same for your sister?”

Caroline bristled visibly. “Of course, we would attend to each other if required, but I cannot conceive why walking through mud! ” She nearly spat the word. “Would be necessary when one might simply take a carriage. It is a matter of decorum.”

“Decorum or not,” Lord Matlock countered with a twinkle in his eye, “it does a man good to see sisters caring for one another so earnestly. A rare thing these days, eh, Darcy?”

Darcy hesitated, his uncle’s words pricking at the edges of his thoughts. What rare devotion Elizabeth had displayed, indeed, a loyalty untempered by vanity or artifice. His uncle’s words struck a chord he was unwilling to acknowledge just yet. Instead, he turned his gaze towards the window, where the damp grey light of the morning spilled across Netherfield’s pristine lawn. Somewhere abovestairs, Elizabeth was with her sister, her earnest devotion clear as day. And somewhere within himself, a tumultuous question began to form: could it be that he admired her for more than just her fine eyes?

Darcy stood stiffly by the mantelpiece, his hand resting on the cool marble as if the solidity of it might anchor his thoughts. The room bustled with conversation. Lady Matlock’s melodic tones floated faintly from above stairs, mingling with the closer, deeper hum of Lord Matlock’s commentary on Bingley’s latest acquisition of horses. All this was background noise, however, to the image seared into Darcy’s mind: Elizabeth Bennet, her cheeks flushed from exertion, her curls rebelliously escaping from their pins, and her eyes—those damned, entrancing eyes—shining with a mixture of determination and worry.

He shifted uncomfortably, pulling at his cravat as though it were suddenly too tight. It was absurd. Entirely absurd! How could a woman so dishevelled, with her hem caked in mud, her boots sodden, her gloves surely ruined, possess such an arresting beauty? There was no logic to it. Yet he had felt a jolt, sharp and undeniable, the moment he had seen her standing there in the hall. Her presence rendered the elegance of the chamber almost inconsequential, like a single wildflower outshining an entire formal garden.

“Really, Mr Darcy, one wonders what could possess Miss Eliza Bennet to present herself in such a state,” came Caroline Bingley’s voice, smooth and venomous. She lounged artfully on a chaise nearby, her needlework forgotten in favour of this far more enticing pastime of denigrating someone she perceived as a rival. “It is hardly appropriate for a young lady to arrive at someone else’s home looking as though she has just emerged from a hedge.”

Darcy’s gaze snapped to her, sharp enough to make her blink. He knew well enough that Miss Bingley’s remarks were not born of genuine concern but rather of a petty disdain, sharpened by jealousy. Her disdainful tone grated against him today more than usual, perhaps because it contrasted so starkly with the earnestness Elizabeth had shown in her arrival.

“On the contrary, Miss Bingley,” he said, his voice clipped but deliberate, “I saw nothing amiss.” He straightened from his position by the mantelpiece, his eyes locking with Caroline’s. “Indeed, the only thing I noticed was Miss Elizabeth’s fine eyes, brightened by the healthful exercise.”

Caroline froze mid-sneer, her lips parted in surprise. Whatever retort she had been readying seemed to evaporate under the weight of Darcy’s pointed words. For once, she appeared at a loss, her expression faltering before she hastily lowered her gaze to the embroidery hoop in her lap.

Darcy returned his focus to the window, where the faint smudge of grey clouds still hung. His heart thudded unevenly in his chest, though whether it was from irritation or something far more unwelcome, he could not determine. Fine eyes indeed , he thought grimly. If only they would stop haunting him quite so persistently.

Lord Matlock’s laugh burst forth, rich and hearty, filling the room like a sudden gust of warm air. It startled Caroline Bingley so thoroughly that her embroidery hoop slipped from her lap, landing with a soft thud on the carpet. Her carefully composed expression wavered, though she quickly masked it with a tight smile that did little to conceal her discomfort.

“Ah, Darcy,” Lord Matlock said, his voice still laced with amusement as he glanced between his nephew and the retreating form of Miss Bingley, who had risen rather abruptly. “You do have a way of cutting through nonsense. Most refreshing.”

“Excuse me,” Caroline interjected, her tone taut but her curtsy impeccable. “I find I am in need of some air.” Without waiting for a response, she turned on her heel and swept from the room, though the haste in her step somewhat undermined the dignity she no doubt intended to project. Mrs Hurst hesitated before mumbling some excuse and following her sister out.

Darcy exhaled slowly, his gaze flicking to the Earl, who was now regarding him with an expression both shrewd and faintly conspiratorial. There was a glint in his uncle’s eye that Darcy found vaguely unsettling, though he supposed he should be accustomed to it by now. Lord Matlock had long held a talent for uncovering truths others might prefer to keep hidden.

“Walk with me, Fitzwilliam,” the Earl said, already moving toward the far end of the drawing-room where a pair of French doors led to the terrace beyond. His tone was casual, but Darcy knew better than to assume their conversation would follow suit.

Darcy followed, his boots clicking softly against the polished floorboards. Once they were sufficiently removed from the rest of the group, Lord Matlock turned to face him, hands clasped behind his back. The Earl tilted his head slightly, surveying his nephew with an air of contemplation that put Darcy immediately on edge.

“Tell me, my boy,” Lord Matlock began, his voice dropping into a low, confidential murmur. “Do you suppose either of our charming hostesses would trudge through mud and rain to see one another if one were taken ill?”

Darcy blinked, caught momentarily off guard by the question. He recovered quickly, though not quickly enough to avoid the faint twitch of his uncle’s mouth, a clear indication that the Earl had noticed his hesitation.

“Unlikely,” Darcy admitted, his tone more guarded than he intended.

“Quite,” Lord Matlock agreed, his silver eyebrows lifting in exaggerated wonderment. “And yet here we have Miss Elizabeth Bennet, petticoats be damned, arriving unannounced and quite determined to see her sister. A remarkable display, wouldn’t you say?”

“Remarkable, perhaps,” Darcy allowed, though he felt his jaw tighten involuntarily. He could not deny the truth of his uncle’s words, nor could he ignore the faint stir of something uncomfortably close to admiration that accompanied them.

“Indeed,” the Earl continued, his gaze sharpening as he studied Darcy. “I’ve always admired that sort of devotion, particularly among sisters. It’s a rare thing, you know. Genuine care, untainted by self-interest or convenience. One can learn much about a person by observing how they treat those closest to them.”

Darcy shifted his weight, suddenly finding the intricacies of the terrace balustrade deeply absorbing. “Miss Elizabeth is certainly… devoted to her family,” he said at last, his voice measured.

“Devoted, yes,” Lord Matlock repeated thoughtfully. Then, with a knowing smile that suggested far more than Darcy was comfortable with, he added, “A quality worth admiring, don’t you think?”

“Of course,” Darcy said in an attempt to regain control over the topic, clasping his hands behind his back with studied nonchalance, “it is all very well for one of the Miss Bennets to demonstrate such… attentiveness. But I would not wish Georgiana to follow such an example.”

The Earl raised a silver eyebrow, his steady gaze giving Darcy the uncomfortable sense of being scrutinised under a scientist’s microscope. “Oh?” came the measured response, light and deceptively casual. “And why is that, pray?”

“Why?” Darcy echoed, his voice slightly sharper than intended. He cleared his throat. “Well, surely you can see that it is hardly proper for a young lady of her standing to tramp across half the county, unescorted, and arrive at another’s home in…” He hesitated, his mind conjuring the image of Elizabeth Bennet standing in Netherfield’s entrance hall, cheeks flushed and tendrils of damp hair curling against her neck, her petticoats darkened with mud. He swallowed. “...such a state.”

“Ah.” Lord Matlock’s tone was mild, but there was a glint of amusement in his eye that made Darcy want to curse aloud. “Yes, I suppose propriety must be considered, though one might wonder whether the true concern lies in appearances or something else entirely.”

“Uncle,” Darcy said stiffly, attempting to steer the conversation away from the treacherous waters it threatened to wade into, “Georgiana is still young. She is impressionable and…”

“Precisely,” Lord Matlock interrupted, his voice taking on a note of gentle authority that brooked no argument. “She is young. A child still, as you rightly say. But one day she will grow into a woman, and when that time comes, I should hope she possesses the same kind of care and consideration for her family as Miss Elizabeth evidently does for hers.”

Darcy found himself without a reply. His mouth opened slightly, but no sound emerged; the words, whatever they would have been, dying before reaching his tongue. It wasn’t simply the weight of his uncle’s statement that silenced him, though that was considerable. No, what truly unsettled him was the flicker of agreement he felt deep within himself, a flicker he refused to acknowledge.

“That devotion,” Lord Matlock continued, “is not something to discourage, Fitzwilliam. Indeed, I should think it a virtue to admire, even aspire to.”

Darcy drew a sharp breath, the tension in his shoulders betraying his inner turmoil. “I…” he began, only to falter again. His uncle, satisfied by his nephew’s inability to come up with any kind of rebuttal, tilted his head in a way that suggested the conversation was, for now, concluded.

“Come,” the Earl said lightly, his tone shifting to one of pleasant detachment as he gestured back towards the others. “Let us keep your friend Bingley entertained, less he drive himself mad with worrying about Miss Bennet’s welfare. He is certainly quite smitten with her, I am interested to meet the lady when she is well enough, though if she is anything like her sister Miss Elizabeth, I can quite see what has caught Bingley’s interest.”

Darcy followed, his steps measured and deliberate, but his thoughts far less composed. For all his efforts to maintain control over his countenance, he could not suppress the persistent image of Elizabeth Bennet’s bright, determined gaze. Nor could he ignore the nagging suspicion that his uncle had seen far more of his heart than Darcy had ever intended to reveal.