Page 20 of The Meddling Matlocks (Pride & Prejudice Variations)

Chapter Twenty

The strains of a lively reel filled the air, weaving through the hum of chatter and the occasional burst of laughter that punctuated the grand ballroom. Mr. Darcy stood half-concealed by a tall pillar, his posture impeccable but his expression somewhat less so. His keen gaze swept across the swirling crowd of feathers, silk, and ribbons. There was an order to the chaos, he supposed, though it eluded him entirely.

“Your cousin appears to be enjoying herself,” Colonel Fitzwilliam remarked dryly, sidling up to him with a glass of claret in hand. His tone held its usual teasing edge, though it did little to cut through Darcy’s preoccupation.

“Anne?” Darcy returned, his eyes narrowing slightly as they landed on the delicate figure of his cousin, Anne de Bourgh, seated near Lady Matlock. Her pale gold hair was arranged in an intricate coiffure, her gown a tasteful shade of ivory that shimmered faintly under the chandeliers. She looked every bit the heiress of Rosings, a detail that had not escaped the notice of the numerous gentlemen who lingered nearby like moths to a particularly elusive flame.

“Indeed,” said the colonel, following Darcy’s line of sight. “Though I daresay it is her fortune that has inspired such rapturous devotion rather than her conversation. Not that I blame them; she does look quite radiant this evening.”

“She looks well enough,” Darcy replied curtly, though he could not help but agree. Freed from Lady Catherine’s relentless frowning presence, Anne seemed more at ease, her shy smile emerging now and then as Lady Matlock introduced her to yet another eager suitor. She inclined her head politely, her soft voice barely audible above the din, but there was a warmth in her demeanour that suggested she was not wholly displeased by the attention.

“Do you mean to stand here all evening, Darcy, glowering at the room as though it owes you an apology?” the colonel quipped, leaning against the pillar. “Or shall I fetch you a dance partner?”

Darcy shot him a withering look. “I am quite content where I am, thank you.”

“Ah, yes, contentment,” the colonel said with mock solemnity. “That most dangerous of states. It often precedes disaster, you know.”

“Your witticisms grow tiresome, cousin,” Darcy muttered, though his lips twitched ever so slightly.

“Only because they are true,” the colonel retorted. He paused, taking a sip of his claret before adding, “It occurs to me that your presence here lends our party a certain gravitas. Between yourself, Anne, and my aunt and uncle, we have become quite the beacon for society’s aspiring climbers. The ladies, in particular, seem determined to outshine one another tonight.”

Darcy’s gaze shifted, almost involuntarily, towards the centre of the ballroom, where the dancers moved in elegant synchronicity. Amongst the vibrant figures, one stood out, with a flash of bright eyes and an unaffected laugh that carried, unbidden, to his ears. Elizabeth Bennet.

“Gravitas, you say,” Darcy murmured, forcing his attention back to Anne. She was now engaged in conversation with a young gentleman whose waistcoat was so garish it could likely be seen from across the Channel. To her credit, Anne appeared neither intimidated nor overly charmed. Darcy felt a grudging admiration for her poise; she was doing quite admirably once free of her mother’s overbearing influence.

“Speaking of gravitas,” the colonel continued, oblivious to Darcy’s momentary lapse, “do you suppose Aunt Catherine will be displeased to hear that Anne has become the toast of the season? Or will she simply take credit for it?”

“Undoubtedly the latter,” Darcy replied dryly, earning a bark of laughter from his cousin.

“Well, at least someone is enjoying themselves,” the colonel said, gesturing pointedly towards Anne, who now appeared to be receiving yet another introduction. “If nothing else, this evening promises to be entertaining.”

“Entertaining,” Darcy repeated under his breath, though his thoughts were less focused on his cousin’s social triumphs and more on the dance that had just commenced.

Elizabeth Bennet, his Elizabeth, though she would no doubt arch a brow at such a proprietary thought, was dancing. Her movements were graceful yet unstudied, her laughter light and effervescent. She was partnered by none other than the Marquess of Marbury, heir to the Duke of Tremont, whose lineage was so illustrious it practically shimmered in the candlelight.

Darcy’s jaw tightened.

“Entertaining indeed,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said contemplatively. “If I may say so, you’re wearing the look of a man who is contemplating either a duel or a declaration. Which is it?”

“Neither,” Darcy said crisply, though the words tasted false even to him. His cousin’s perceptiveness was, as usual, inconvenient.

“Well, whatever you decide, I suggest you make your move soon,” Fitzwilliam said, folding his arms and leaning lazily against a nearby column. “Marbury has been monopolising her for the better part of the evening, and from the looks of things, he’s rather taken with her.”

“Monopolising,” Darcy repeated, the word catching in his throat like a thorn.

“Yes, monopolising. You know, that thing you might have done yourself had you not spent the evening glowering at anyone within five feet of her.” The colonel clapped a hand on Darcy’s shoulder, his grin maddeningly wide. “Come now, man, don’t tell me you’re afraid of a little competition?”

“Afraid? Hardly,” Darcy said, brushing off the hand with a coolness that belied the turmoil beneath. But his eyes betrayed him once again, following Elizabeth as she executed a perfect turn, her curls bouncing with each step. The marquess leaned in to murmur something, and Elizabeth laughed, a sound that struck Darcy with the force of a well-aimed blow.

“Perhaps you’re right,” Darcy muttered, almost to himself.

“Right about what?” Fitzwilliam asked, looking intrigued.

“That I should make my move,” Darcy replied, his voice firming with resolve. If Marbury thought to charm Elizabeth Bennet with his title and easy manners, he would find himself sorely mistaken. Elizabeth deserved sincerity, passion; someone who saw her for who she truly was, not as a prize to be won.

“Ha! Now we’re talking!” the colonel exclaimed, raising his glass in mock salute. “Good luck, cousin. Though I suspect you’ll need more than luck with that one.”

Darcy ignored him, already planning the course of action that lay ahead. Tomorrow morning, he would call upon her. But not merely to exchange pleasantries or engage in polite trifles. No, tomorrow he would lay bare his intentions, his feelings—a prospect both thrilling and terrifying in equal measure.

“Luck has nothing to do with it,” Darcy murmured, though whether he spoke to himself or his cousin, he hardly knew. His gaze remained fixed on Elizabeth as she danced, her smile radiant, her spirit irrepressible. Whatever doubts lingered in his mind, they were no match for the certainty that now took root in his heart.

Tomorrow, he would propose.

Darcy strode up the steps of Matlock House, his boots echoing against the polished stone. A brisk morning wind tugged at his coat, but he paid it no heed. His thoughts were singularly fixed. He could no longer go another day without proposing to Elizabeth Bennet. Today he would present himself before her, offer his hand, and hope she might look upon him with something kinder than disdain, or worse, indifference.

But as the footman admitted him into the grand hall, Darcy immediately sensed that something was amiss. The usual hum of conversation and laughter that accompanied the Matlock ladies’ mornings was conspicuously absent. Instead, a strained silence hung in the air, broken only by the muffled sound of voices—no, sobs?—coming from the drawing room. He hesitated for only a moment before crossing the threshold. There, alone by the window, stood Elizabeth, her back turned to him. She clutched a crumpled piece of paper in one hand, while the other pressed tightly to her mouth as though to stifle the tears threatening to spill over. Her dark curls fell loose about her face, and her frame, usually so poised, seemed tense and rigid, as if held together by sheer will alone.

“Miss Elizabeth,” Darcy began softly, stepping forward, his concern unmistakable.

Elizabeth spun around, startled, and for an instant, her eyes met his. But they were not the lively, teasing eyes he so adored; they were red-rimmed and brimming with anguish. She hastily brushed at her cheek with the back of her hand, as though embarrassed to be caught in such a vulnerable state, before looking at the floor.

“Mr Darcy,” she said, her voice uneven. “Forgive me. I did not hear you announced.”

“Pray do not trouble yourself on my account.” He paused, taking in her dishevelled appearance and the letter still trembling in her grasp. “You are distressed. Has something happened?”

Elizabeth let out a bitter, mirthless laugh. “Yes, Mr Darcy, something has indeed happened. Something dreadful, and foolish, and utterly mortifying.” She broke off, shaking her head as though the weight of her emotions threatened to overwhelm her.

“Perhaps I may be of assistance?” Darcy ventured, though inwardly he quailed. He was hardly adept at offering comfort, particularly when it came to matters of such visible distress. Still, the sight of her suffering stirred something deep within him, a fierce impulse to shield her from whatever pain had taken hold.

Elizabeth regarded him for a moment, as if debating whether to share the burden of her news. At last, she exhaled sharply. “There can be no concealing of it; and I daresay you have as much right as anyone to know. My youngest sister Lydia was yesterday caught in a compromising situation with Mr Wickham.”

The name fell between them like a stone into a pond, the ripples spreading as shudders of horror up Darcy’s spine.

“That scoundrel,” he muttered under his breath, his jaw tightening. Somehow, he forced himself to remain composed for Elizabeth’s sake. “Miss Bennet, I…”

“She is a silly, thoughtless girl!” Elizabeth burst out, spinning away from him and pacing the room with agitated steps. “Heedless beyond all reason! How could she…” Her words faltered, and she pressed her hands to her temples as if to contain the storm brewing inside her. “I told her. I warned her again and again that she would lead herself into disaster, but she would not listen. And now, now she has ruined everything!”

“Surely not everything,” Darcy interjected gently, though his heart sank at the despair in her tone.

“Do you not see?” she cried, turning to face him. “This... this folly of hers will taint us all! My sisters, my parents; they will be the subject of ridicule and derision for years to come. Who will marry into such a family now? And poor Jane…” Her voice broke, and she covered her face with her hands. “This will break her heart.”

“You cannot blame yourself for your sister’s actions. Nor can you bear the weight of their consequences alone. Your father…”

“Is beside himself,” Elizabeth interrupted, lowering her hands to reveal a face streaked with fresh tears. “If Wickham will not marry her…”

“Wickham must answer for his conduct,” Darcy said decisively, surprising even himself with the intensity of his conviction. “This matter can and will be resolved, Miss Bennet. I give you my word.”

Elizabeth stared at him, her eyes wide with disbelief. For a moment, neither spoke, the charged silence between them broken only by the faint rustle of the curtains in the breeze. Finally, she managed, “Why would you…” She paused, searching his face as though trying to decipher his motives. “Why would you involve yourself in this?”

“Because it is the right thing to do,” Darcy replied simply, though the truth ran far deeper than he dared to admit. Because I love you, he wanted to say. Because your happiness is worth any effort, any cost. But now was not the time for such confessions. Not when her world was falling apart before her very eyes.

“Thank you,” Elizabeth whispered at last, her voice barely audible. It was not the answer he had hoped to elicit from her that morning, but in that moment, it was enough.

She drew up her shoulders, lifting her chin. “Lord and Lady Matlock have offered to convey Jane and I home at once; we leave this afternoon.”

“And I shall be with you.” He should speak to Lord Matlock first, he thought, and then return home to quickly pack and let Georgiana know where he was going. He winced at the thought of breaking the news to her, but he would not let her hear Wickham’s name from any lips other than his own.

Elizabeth looked grateful, before saying that she should go to complete her packing, and Darcy bowed as she left the room. The weight of his thoughts pressed heavily upon him, each step echoing the refrain of his guilt as he made his way to Lord Matlock’s study. He should have foreseen this. He should have known .

“Ah, Darcy,” Lord Matlock greeted him without looking up, his keen eyes fixed on a document spread out before him on the mahogany table. “You look as though you’ve been wrestling with Cerberus himself. I take it you’ve heard the news about Wickham and the youngest Miss Bennet?”

“I have,” Darcy said abruptly. He closed the door behind him and crossed the room, standing before his uncle with his hands clasped behind his back, feeling rather as though he was back at Eton, presenting himself before the headmaster for judgement on some transgression. “There has been…” he paused, collecting himself. “ I have made an error of judgement.”

“Indeed?” Lord Matlock leaned back, steepled his fingers beneath his chin, and shook his head slowly. “The scoundrel has truly outdone himself this time, and yet I fail to see how this is your error, Fitzwilliam, unless you were somehow involved in orchestrating their tryst, which seems unlikely even for you.”

“Had I been more vigilant, this could have been avoided,” Darcy said grimly, pacing the length of the room. The finely woven carpet did little to muffle the agitation in his stride. “When I intervened in Hertfordshire by informing Colonel Forster of Wickham’s past habits, I ensured Wickham had no further access to his usual diversions—gambling debts, creditors, taverns that would extend him credit—but I failed to anticipate his next move. When Miss Bennet’s engagement to Bingley became public knowledge, Wickham would have realised there was wealth to be gained from them. And Miss Lydia...” He stopped short, his hand tightening into a fist. “Lydia was vulnerable. She resented being sent away to school and craved attention—a perfect target for his manipulations.”

“Craven opportunist,” Lord Matlock muttered, reaching for a crystal decanter on the nearby sideboard. He poured two glasses of brandy, though it was barely noon, and slid one across the table towards Darcy. “And what, precisely, do you propose we do about it now, aside from cursing Wickham into oblivion?”

“Rectify my mistake,” Darcy said firmly, though he accepted the glass with a slight nod of thanks. He held it untouched, staring into the amber liquid as though it contained the solution to all his woes. “I should have paid him to leave Meryton altogether. Whatever the cost, it would have been worth it to prevent…” He broke off, his throat tight with the weight of all that remained unsaid.

“Fitzwilliam,” the Earl said after a moment, his tone softer but no less commanding. “You cannot hold yourself accountable for every misdeed committed by that wretch. You have done more than most would under similar circumstances. Tell me plainly: do you blame yourself because you think you failed to act, or because you suspect Miss Elizabeth Bennet might?”

Darcy stiffened, his grip tightening around the glass. “I gave her my word that I would resolve this matter,” he said quietly. “And I will. That is all that matters.”

“Is it?” Lord Matlock arched a silver brow, setting his own glass down with deliberate care. “Very well, then. Let us consider the practicalities of your plan, such as it is. How exactly do you intend to ‘resolve’ this matter? By riding into Hertfordshire like some knight-errant and challenging Wickham to pistols at dawn?”

“If it comes to that,” Darcy said darkly, “then yes.”

“Splendid. I’ll alert the newspapers.” Lord Matlock sighed and rose from his chair, moving to stand beside his nephew. Placing a firm hand on Darcy’s shoulder, he added, “Listen to me, Fitzwilliam. You are not alone in this. Whatever needs to be done, we shall do it together. But mark my words: this is not your fault. We intervened in Hertfordshire, not only you, and I agreed with the plan, if you recall, so any blame to be apportioned is not yours alone in any case. Do you understand?”

Darcy inclined his head, though the weight of his guilt remained as heavy as ever. “Thank you, Uncle.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” the Earl said, a glint of dry amusement returning to his eyes. “Not until we’ve survived the scandal to come. Now, finish your drink and let us discuss strategy. After all,” he gestured towards the door with a faint smile, “the ladies will expect nothing less than heroics from us, and who are we to disappoint them?”

He was not alone. Darcy dragged in a breath, and took a sip of the brandy. “Very well, Uncle. What do you suggest our first move should be?”

“Could Anne stay with Georgiana, while Margaret and I take the Bennet girls home?”

“Anne?” Darcy blinked, momentarily thrown off course. “With Georgiana?”

“Why not?” Lord Matlock shrugged. “They’re cousins, after all, and I daresay Anne could use the change of scenery. Besides,” he shot Darcy a pointed look, “you’ll have no time to entertain her yourself, what with your plans to ‘sort Wickham out,’ as you so colourfully put it.”

“Of course,” Darcy agreed, recovering swiftly. “Georgiana will be delighted to host Anne. And I intend to accompany you to Hertfordshire. This matter requires immediate action, and I will not leave it to chance.”

“Naturally,” Lord Matlock said dryly, though there was a flicker of approval in his expression. “I never imagined you would sit idly by while others took up the charge. Very well, it’s settled.” He clapped his hands together once, decisively. “Now, off with you. I imagine you’ll wish to make your arrangements without delay.”

Darcy was on his way home when it suddenly occurred to him that Bingley might not know the news yet. Calling up to his coachman, he made a detour to the Bingley townhouse, finding his friend partaking of a nuncheon in solitary splendour, his sisters out shopping, for which Darcy thanked Providence.

“Darcy!” Bingley exclaimed, rising from his chair with a broad grin that faltered only slightly upon noting his friend’s sombre expression. “Good heavens, you look as though you’ve not slept a wink. Is something amiss?”

“Much is amiss,” Darcy replied gravely, removing his gloves and tucking them into his pocket. “Have you been advised of the recent... unpleasantness involving Mr Wickham and Miss Lydia Bennet?”

“Indeed, I have,” Bingley said, his brow creasing as he gestured for Darcy to sit. “Poor Jane wrote a note this morning; she is beside herself with worry for her sister and her family. But tell me, what news? Has there been any resolution?”

“Not yet,” Darcy admitted, seating himself with a weary sigh. “But steps are being taken. I have come to enlist your assistance, should you be willing.”

“Darcy, you needn’t ask,” Bingley said earnestly, leaning forward. “Whatever is required, you may depend upon me.”

“Thank you,” Darcy said sincerely. “I mean to travel to Hertfordshire at once. Lord and Lady Matlock will bring Miss Bennet and Miss Elizabeth to Longbourn, while I intend to deal with Wickham directly. However,” his gaze sharpened, “the matter of accommodation presents a challenge. Longbourn cannot possibly house so many visitors, and I would not impose further strain on the Bennet household amidst such difficulties.”

“Say no more,” Bingley interjected, straightening with sudden enthusiasm. “Netherfield is yours to command.”

“Are you certain?” Darcy asked, though he already suspected the answer.

“Of course!” Bingley grinned, though his expression turned rueful. “I shall come with you. I would far rather be on the spot to comfort my dearest Jane and lend any assistance I can. Though I fear Caroline will be less than pleased with the arrangement.” He chuckled wryly. “In fact, I daresay she might take the opportunity to remain in London. Which, truth be told, may be for the best.”

“Undoubtedly,” Darcy said dryly, unable to suppress a smirk.

“Still. ”Bingley’s expression softened. “No scandal, however great, could deter me from marrying Jane. Whatever storms lie ahead, I will weather them gladly, so long as she stands by my side.”

“Spoken like a true romantic,” Darcy remarked, though there was no mistaking the undercurrent of respect in his tone.

“Well,” Bingley laughed, rising to pour them both a glass of wine, “someone must balance your grim practicality, old friend.”

“Practicality states that you had best get to packing,” Darcy noted. “We need to leave within the hour.”

“Say no more!” Bingley bounded to his feet, already calling for his servants, and Darcy could not quite contain a smile, despite his dour mood. Even in the face of disaster, Bingley’s spirits were irrepressible.

“Perfect timing,” came a calm voice from behind him as Darcy’s carriage pulled up before Matlock House an hour later, stopping beside the Matlock carriage, into which Lady Matlock was just climbing. Darcy turned to see his cousin James descending the front steps with unhurried grace, a leather satchel slung over one shoulder. Without preamble or explanation, James strode past Darcy and climbed into his carriage, his movements quiet yet purposeful.

“Good afternoon to you as well,” Darcy murmured dryly, arching a brow at his cousin’s taciturn manner. But there was no response save for the faint creak of the carriage springs as James settled himself inside.

Darcy caught sight of Charlotte Lucas climbing into the Matlock carriage with measured composure. She moved with all the poise of a woman who had long since made peace with society’s expectations of her—and perhaps, in doing so, had risen above them. It was a trait Darcy could not help but admire, though he knew Elizabeth would find some way to describe it with greater eloquence.

“Miss Lucas appears to be travelling with your parents,” Darcy observed aloud, his tone laced with curiosity and something approaching amusement. His gaze flicked back to James, whose expression remained inscrutable, though the faintest twitch of his lips suggested he had heard the comment.

“Indeed,” James replied simply, settling further into his seat. His calm brown eyes betrayed nothing, but Darcy suspected there was a story lurking beneath his cousin’s composed exterior; one that James, true to form, had no intention of sharing without considerable prompting.

“Remarkable women, these Hertfordshire ladies,” Darcy said at last, allowing a small smile to tug at the corners of his mouth. “One might almost consider it a coincidence, if not for their uncanny ability to command attention wherever they go.”

James met his cousin’s gaze, his own smile subtle but unmistakable. He said nothing, but the look they exchanged spoke volumes; a silent acknowledgment of the truth behind Darcy’s jest, and perhaps a mutual recognition of how deeply such women had already altered the courses of their lives.

Darcy leaned back against his own seat as the two carriages set off, his thoughts drifting inevitably toward Elizabeth. Though he kept his expression carefully neutral, his mind was anything but calm. The memory of her tear-streaked face, her trembling hands clutching that wretched letter from her father, haunted him still. He had resolved to act, to set things right where others had failed, but for the first time in years, he found himself questioning whether even his formidable resolve would be enough.

“Well,” he said after a moment, breaking the silence with a touch of levity, “I suppose we shall have ample opportunity to test Hertfordshire’s charms again soon enough.”

James inclined his head ever so slightly, his expression unreadable save for the faint glimmer of understanding in his eyes. And so they drove on, the brothers-in-arms of a most singular campaign, bound by duty, loyalty, and—though neither dared admit it aloud—the unpredictable whims of the heart.