Page 22 of The Meddling Matlocks (Pride & Prejudice Variations)

Chapter Twenty-Two

Darcy stepped down from the carriage onto the uneven cobblestones of Meryton, his polished boots scuffing against the grit. Lord Matlock descended with far less care, his heavy step jolting the vehicle behind him, while Bingley followed in his usual genial fashion, his face alight with optimism that Darcy could not presently share.

“Well,” said Bingley, clapping his gloved hands together as if to banish any lingering discomfort, “this should be swiftly managed and all put to rights. A necessary unpleasantness, but for the best, I daresay.”

“Necessary, yes,” Darcy replied dryly, adjusting the lapel of his coat as though it bore some invisible stain. “Unpleasant hardly begins to describe it.” He cast a glance towards the modest building ahead, where Mr Bennet awaited their arrival. The prospect of facing Wickham churned his stomach, yet he squared his shoulders and pressed forward.

“Come now, Darcy,” Lord Matlock interjected, his voice gruff but tinged with amusement. “You look as though you’re marching to the gallows. It’s a devilish business, I’ll grant you, but no worse than half the negotiations I’ve endured in Parliament.”

“Perhaps you have a stronger constitution for such indignities, Uncle,” Darcy replied, his tone clipped. “I find the necessity of treating with a man like Wickham rather more exacting.”

“Yes, well,” his uncle muttered, falling into stride beside him, “better to endure it here and now, than let the scandal grow roots. Think of your aunt Catherine! She’d faint dead away at the notion of this sort of impropriety.”

“That alone is almost worth the price of my discomfort,” Darcy murmured under his breath, earning a bark of laughter from his uncle.

As they entered the small parlour where Mr Bennet had arranged to meet them, Darcy’s gaze immediately sought out the figure of his childhood nemesis. Wickham lounged with a practised air of indolence, his dark eyes gleaming with the familiar mixture of charm and insolence that had always grated on Darcy’s nerves.

“Ah, gentlemen!” Mr Bennet greeted them, rising from his chair with a briskness that belied the weariness etched upon his face. “I trust the journey was tolerable? Though I imagine nothing could prepare one properly for this ordeal.” His sardonic smile flickered as he gestured vaguely towards Wickham, who inclined his head with a smirk.

“Mr Bennet,” Darcy said, inclining his head stiffly. He deliberately avoided meeting Wickham’s gaze, instead addressing the elder gentleman. “Let us proceed to the matter at hand.”

“Indeed,” Mr Bennet replied, his voice laced with dry humour. “The sooner we can conclude these unsavoury dealings, the better for all our sensibilities.”

“Very well, let us begin,” Matlock cut in, taking command of the room with the authority of a man accustomed to negotiation. “Wickham, you are prepared to do what is required?”

“Prepared, my lord?” Wickham echoed, his tone light as he leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. “Why, I am nothing if not eager to oblige. Marriage, after all, is a most sacred institution, and it would be remiss of me to shirk my duty in so grave a matter.” His expression, however, betrayed no such sincerity.

“Spare us the theatrics,” Darcy snapped, his patience wearing thin. “We are not here to indulge your wit, sir, but to see this matter resolved for the benefit of those whom you have wronged.”

“Wronged?” Wickham repeated, raising an eyebrow. “A strong word, Mr Darcy. I might argue that I have simply acted in accordance with my nature, as you well know.” He smiled coldly, his gaze flickering briefly to Darcy, as if daring him to react.

“Enough,” Mr Bennet interrupted with a firm hand raised. “I will secure the licence, and the ceremony will take place without delay. You will have no further opportunity to sully the reputation of this family.”

“Well.” Mr Wickham smirked, and Darcy’s fist began to itch. “First there is the matter of your daughter’s settlements, and our future abode…”

Wickham was nothing if not an inveterate haggler, and perhaps if left alone with Mr Bingley and Mr Bennet, might have bargained his way into an agreement that could eventually have impoverished them both. With Lord Matlock and Darcy present, however, all too well aware of his profligate ways, they were able to counter his extravagant demands with more reasoned and sensible offers, much though it pained Darcy to see Wickham benefit a single penny from his malfeasance. Lydia, however, must be provided for, though he wondered if she would turn out to be as foolishly spendthrift as her husband-to-be.

At last it was done, and Wickham offered his hand to shake. Only Mr Bennet took him up on it, his mouth twisting in disgust at having to welcome this degenerate as a son-in-law.

As they stepped outside into the crisp air, Darcy exhaled sharply, as though ridding himself of the taint of the encounter. But despite the triumph of keeping the scandal contained, there lingered a bitter taste in his mouth, a reminder of the compromises made for duty’s sake.

“I shall be off to the vicarage, to see about getting a common licence,” Mr Bennet said, pulling on his gloves. “Out of the question for them to marry in church, of course; they can be married in Longbourn’s parlour at the vicar’s convenience.”

“Whatever suits you, Thomas.” Lord Matlock patted Mr Bennet’s shoulder. “A ghastly business, all this. Colonel Forster has promised that Wickham shall be watched, so he will not abscond before it is all settled, at least.”

“I cannot thank you enough for all your assistance…” Mr Bennet began, but all three of the other men at once denied his thanks, saying that none were necessary.

“A ghastly business,” Lord Matlock repeated quietly as he stood with Darcy and Bingley, watching Mr Bennet trudge away towards the church, his shoulders slumped in defeat. “My poor friend Thomas is paying a heavy price for preferring the company of his books to that of his daughters, I fear.”

“A lesson I for one shall take to heart, Lord Matlock,” Bingley said, even his spirits dampened by the serious matters of the day. “Any children Jane and I are blessed with will not be neglected for any reason!”

“I am glad to hear it, Bingley. And now, let us to Longbourn, to share the happy news. They will be relieved to hear it.”

Their carriage was almost to Longbourn when the coachman had to pull to the side to let another pass, and Darcy’s eyes widened as he recognised it; Lady Catherine’s grand coach rattling down the lane at a most unseemly speed, her liveried driver cracking the whip as though pursued by wild dogs.

“Well,” remarked Lord Matlock dryly, eyeing the retreating vehicle. “That has all the subtlety of a cannon blast. Whatever your aunt has said or done, I suspect we shall find the remnants scattered about Longbourn like shrapnel.”

Darcy grimaced, his unease deepening. “I hardly dare to imagine the nature of her intrusion,” he muttered, his thoughts already leaping ahead to Elizabeth. What could she have endured? His aunt, he well knew, possessed the tact of a battering ram when affronted, and an imagined slight was often worse than a real one in her estimation.

“Come along, Nephew,” Lord Matlock urged, clapping Darcy on the shoulder with a mixture of reassurance and urgency. “We have faced Wickham this morning. Surely even Catherine cannot present a more trying trial?”

“That,” Darcy replied with grim humour, “remains to be seen.”

They strode towards the front door of Longbourn, their arrival heralded by a sharp rap of Matlock’s walking stick upon the threshold. A moment later, Hill opened the door to them, her face drawn and pale. She bobbed a quick curtsey but scarcely met their eyes.

“Good day, sirs,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “You are expected.”

“Expected, indeed,” Matlock said, stepping inside and handing off his hat and gloves. “Though perhaps not welcomed, judging by the air of calamity about the place.”

“Where is Miss Elizabeth?” Darcy asked abruptly, impatience creeping into his tone. He shrugged out of his coat, barely pausing for Hill’s assistance.

“Miss Elizabeth is in the parlour, sir,” Hill replied hesitantly. “With Miss Mary and Miss Jane…” She stopped herself, casting a nervous glance over her shoulder, as though afraid she might inadvertently summon some spectre of disaster.

Darcy exchanged a look with his uncle, whose raised eyebrow spoke volumes. Without waiting, Darcy crossed the hall and pushed open the parlour door.

He halted abruptly on the threshold, the scene within arresting him mid-step. Mary sat upon the chaise, her sobs muffled against Jane’s shoulder. Jane, ever the angelic peacemaker, stroked her sister’s back in soothing circles, her own countenance troubled but composed.

Elizabeth stood apart, near the window, her hands clasped tightly before her as though warding off some unseen blow. Her complexion, usually so lively and warm, was ashen; her lips pressed into a thin line. Yet her eyes, those lovely eyes which usually sparkled with wit and fire—were hollow, fixed blankly upon the view beyond the glass.

“Elizabeth,” Darcy ventured, his voice low, almost tentative. He took a step forward, his gaze riveted to her face. But she gave no sign of hearing him, her stillness as unnerving as the tears racking Mary’s frame.

“Darcy,” Lord Matlock murmured, placing a hand on his nephew’s arm. “Allow me.”

The older man stepped forward, his commanding presence filling the room as he addressed Jane directly. “Miss Bennet, would you kindly enlighten us as to what has transpired here?”

Jane glanced up, her blue eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “It… it was Lady Catherine,” she said softly, her voice trembling with both distress and indignation. “She arrived unannounced and demanded an audience with Lizzy. Her words… her accusations…” She faltered, shaking her head as if unable to articulate the full horror of the encounter. Bingley rushed to take the seat on her other side, and Jane gazed at him gratefully, seeming to draw strength from his supportive presence.

“She insulted everyone,” Mary blurted between sobs, lifting her blotchy face from Jane’s shoulder. “She… she said dreadful things about our family…” Another wave of tears overtook her, rendering her incoherent.

“My sister truly excels in her capacity for offence.” Lord Matlock shook his head, tight-lipped.

“She left soon after,” Jane continued, her voice steadier now as she glanced apologetically at Darcy. “But not before she… she made certain threats, should Lizzy fail to heed her demands.” Her gaze flitted nervously to Elizabeth, who remained silent, her profile stark against the pale light streaming through the window.

“Elizabeth,” Darcy tried again, stepping closer. This time, she turned her head slightly towards him, though her expression betrayed no softening. If anything, there was a rigidity to her posture that suggested she was holding herself upright solely by force of will.

The sound of carriage wheels crunching along the gravel drive drew Darcy’s attention to the window, and he watched as the Matlock crest came into view, gleaming on the side of the coach in the pale winter sunlight. The door was thrown open before the vehicle had fully stopped, and James Fitzwilliam alighted, a grin splitting his handsome face. Lady Matlock followed with considerably more decorum, though there was an undeniable brightness in her countenance that suggested good tidings.

Darcy allowed himself a quiet sigh of relief. Whatever else might be amiss at Longbourn, it appeared his cousin’s errand to Lucas Lodge had met with success.

“Well, I see my eldest offspring is still standing,” Lord Matlock drawled. “That bodes well for his endeavours. No duels or fainting spells at the Lucas household, then?” he asked as James entered.

“Not unless you count Sir William’s enthusiastic embrace,” James replied cheerfully. “I feared for my ribs, I must admit.” He clapped Darcy on the shoulder, his touch light but brimming with energy.

“Congratulations are in order, then,” Darcy said, his gaze briefly flickering towards Elizabeth near the window. He cleared his throat. “Though perhaps not just yet.”

“Quite right,” James agreed, sobering instantly. His smile softened into something more thoughtful as he glanced around the room, taking in Jane’s gentle efforts to comfort Mary and the general air of unease that lingered like a shadow over the household. “It seems celebrations must wait. There is, after all, much to be resolved here first.”

“Much indeed,” Lord Matlock echoed, though his tone carried less sympathy and more pointed observation. “And some of it, I suspect, may take rather more than kind words and good intentions to untangle.”

“Father,” James chided lightly, though there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Let us not cast aspersions when we’ve only just arrived.”

“Who’s casting aspersions?” Lord Matlock retorted, lifting a brow. “I merely state the facts. Young Bingley may think himself the hero of this tale, but I fear it is Fitzwilliam who shall be left to do most of the heavy lifting.”

“Heavy lifting?” James echoed, feigning confusion. “Surely you don’t mean the matter of Miss Lydia and Mr Wickham? Is that not handled?”

“Some matters require more than handling,” Matlock replied cryptically, though his gaze landed squarely on Darcy, who shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny.

“Enough of this,” Lady Matlock interjected, her calming presence cutting through the tension as she swept into the room. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold, but her expression was serene as ever. “James, do stop needling your cousin, it’s unbecoming. Let us focus on what must be done here.”

“Indeed,” Lord Matlock muttered, though the glint in his eye suggested he would prefer a brandy and a nap over any immediate action. Darcy, however, suspected there would be little rest for any of them in the hours to come.

Lady Matlock leaned in towards her husband’s ear to murmur something too low for anyone else to hear. Lord Matlock inclined his head, his expression impassive save for the slightest twitch of his brow. An unspoken agreement passed between them.

“Very well,” Margaret said, her tone brisk but not unkind, as she straightened and smoothed the folds of her gown. “Henry, I leave matters here in your capable hands.” She cast a meaningful glance toward the assembled company before turning on her heel with effortless grace.

“Where is she off to now?” James queried, though his voice carried more curiosity than concern.

“To see Mrs Bennet and Lydia, no doubt,” Lord Matlock replied, lowering himself into a fireside chair with all the dignity of a man who intended to oversee a battlefield. He glanced around the room, his sharp eyes settling first on Jane and Mary, still huddled together on the settee, then on Elizabeth, who stood apart, arms crossed as if to shield herself from further intrusion. Darcy observed her from the corner of his eye, noting the taut line of her shoulders and the pallor that had crept across her usually lively face.

“Well then,” Lord Matlock began, clasping his hands atop his walking stick as he surveyed the room like a general preparing his troops. “I shall make this brief, as none of us are in the mood for prolonged discourse. Wickham and Miss Lydia will be married without delay. At present, Mr Bennet is arranging the necessary licence with the vicar.”

A collective intake of breath rippled through the room. Jane’s grip tightened on Mary’s hand, while Mary blinked furiously against fresh tears. Elizabeth lifted her head sharply, her lips parting as though she might object, but something in Lord Matlock’s steady gaze stopped her tongue.

“Married immediately?” Jane asked softly, her voice trembling despite her composed demeanour.

“Indeed,” Lord Matlock affirmed. “There is no alternative, I’m afraid. For better or worse, we must consider the preservation of the family’s good name above all else. The circumstances are regrettable, but we have done what we can to mitigate the damage.”

“Damage indeed,” Elizabeth murmured under her breath, though not so quietly that Darcy failed to catch it. He turned toward her, but her gaze remained fixed on the floor.

“Miss Elizabeth,” Lord Matlock addressed her directly, his voice softening ever so slightly. “You need not agree with the method, but you must understand the necessity.” His words hung heavily in the air, and for a moment, Darcy thought she might defy him outright. But instead, she nodded curtly, her jaw tightening as though she were biting back an entire anthology of unspoken thoughts.

“Does Lydia…” Jane hesitated, her cheeks colouring faintly. “Does she know?”

“Lady Matlock is informing both her and your mother as we speak,” the Earl replied. A faint smile ghosted across his lips, though it lacked any true mirth. “I trust Margaret’s tact will serve us well in this instance.”

The piercing sound of Mrs Bennet’s exuberance shattered the stillness of Longbourn like a firework, ricocheting down the staircase and into every corner of the parlour. It was swiftly followed by an equally effusive exclamation of “My Lydia married! Married to an officer!”

Elizabeth flinched slightly at the shrillness but made no move to join in the jubilation. Her hands were tightly clasped before her, as though she feared they might betray her composure if left unchecked. She felt Jane’s concerned gaze flicker towards her, but she did not meet it. Instead, she looked determinedly at the pattern of the carpet beneath her slippers, allowing herself a moment’s indulgence in the absurdity of it all. Her youngest sister, a bride! And under such circumstances that the very thought made Elizabeth’s stomach churn with mortification.

“Well,” Mary murmured from across the room, her voice still raw from earlier tears, “I suppose Mama will be insufferable for weeks now.”

“Mary!” Jane chided gently, though there was little energy behind the rebuke. Even she, the family’s beacon of unwavering optimism, seemed worn thin.

“Am I wrong?” Mary persisted, pushing her spectacles up the bridge of her nose with a defiant sniff. “She has been handed precisely what she wanted: a daughter married to an officer. Never mind the cost to dignity or reason.”

“Not quite what she wanted,” Elizabeth said quietly, finally raising her head. Her voice carried none of Mary’s bitterness, but neither did it hold Jane’s usual softness. It was measured and weary, like a violin string pulled taut after too much play. “Mama would have preferred a wedding with lace veils, flower garlands, and half the neighbourhood invited to admire her triumph. This,” she gestured vaguely upwards toward the source of her mother’s ongoing rhapsody, “is a compromise. A necessary one.”

Jane moved to stand beside her, her presence instantly soothing. “But it is over now,” she said, her hand resting lightly on Elizabeth’s arm. “The arrangements are made. Lydia’s future is secured, as much as it ever can be.”

“Secured.” Elizabeth echoed the word as though tasting its bitterness for the first time. “Yes, in the same way one might secure a broken vase with glue and hope no one notices the cracks.”

“That is unkind,” Jane said softly, though her eyes revealed her agreement more than her words could admit.

“Perhaps,” Elizabeth conceded. The tension in her shoulders refused to ease despite the promise of resolution. “But it is honest.”

“Honesty, as you so often remind us, Lizzy, is a virtue,” Mary interjected. “Yet even honesty must bow to civility on occasion.”

“Now you sound like Mr Collins,” Elizabeth quipped, managing a faint smile despite herself. “Shall we expect a sermon next?”

“Only if you insist on provoking me,” Mary replied primly, though her lips twitched upward in reluctant amusement.

A sudden burst of laughter from upstairs interrupted their exchange, accompanied by what sounded like Mrs Bennet exclaiming something about “the handsomest son-in-law in Hertfordshire.”

Elizabeth’s small smile vanished. She closed her eyes briefly, willing herself to remain composed, to banish the wave of frustration rising within her.

“Jane,” she began after a moment, her voice low and steady, “do you think Mama truly understands the gravity of what has happened? Or is she simply... relieved to have avoided scandal?”

“Both, I suspect,” Jane replied thoughtfully. “Relief does not preclude understanding, though I wish it did more to temper her enthusiasm.”

“Enthusiasm,” Elizabeth repeated, her tone dry. “That is certainly one word for it.”

“Would you prefer hysteria?” Jane teased lightly, attempting to draw her sister back from the precipice of her sombre thoughts. “Or perhaps outrage? You know Mama is capable of both when sufficiently inspired.”

“True enough,” Elizabeth admitted with a quiet laugh. “Though I cannot help but feel there is something deeply ironic in her celebrating a marriage born of folly while lamenting our lack of lace veils and garlands.”

“Folly or not,” Jane said, giving her arm a gentle squeeze, “this is what must be done. We cannot change the past, Lizzy, only move forward.”

“Ever the voice of reason,” Elizabeth murmured, leaning into her sister’s comforting presence. Yet even as she spoke, her gaze drifted towards the window, where the grey skies seemed to mirror the storm still brewing within her. Forward, yes, but at what cost? She looked at Mr Darcy, standing conversing quietly with his uncle and cousin on the other side of the room, and wondered if she would ever see him again once Wickham had been irrevocably tied to the Bennet family.

The parlour at Longbourn was a curious mix of festivity and discomfort on Monday morning. A garland of holly had been hastily strung over the mantelpiece, its spiky leaves and bright berries a half-hearted nod to celebration, while Mrs Bennet flitted about with an air of determined cheerfulness that bordered on manic.

“Stand closer together, Lydia, Mr Wickham,” she trilled, fluttering her hands like a conductor attempting to orchestrate an unruly symphony. “We must have the appearance of happiness! Oh, Jane, fetch me that ribbon! The one in the drawer by the window. No, not that one, the white ribbon!”

Elizabeth stood to the side, diligently avoiding looking directly at the couple who were now, for better or worse, bound together in matrimony. Lydia, resplendent in a pale green gown that Elizabeth suspected had been chosen more for its ability to show off her figure than for any sense of propriety, glanced around the room with a triumphant smile. Wickham, meanwhile, stood with the faintly sheepish air of a man who knew he had just managed to convince the world he was doing it a favour.

“Well!” Lydia declared brightly, tossing her curls as though she were announcing her engagement at Almack’s rather than finalising a scandalously rushed wedding. “That was not so terrible after all. Though I do think the vicar might have smiled more; he did look terribly grave, did he not, Wickham?”

“Grave, indeed,” Wickham replied smoothly, his roguish smile firmly in place. “But then again, my dear, solemnity is the natural state of clergymen. They cannot all be as charming as your good self.”

“Flatterer,” Lydia giggled, swatting at his arm with the practised coquettishness of a girl used to being indulged.

“Charming,” Elizabeth muttered under her breath, her tone dry enough to parch a field of wheat. She turned her attention to her mother, who had taken it upon herself to adjust the positioning of a vase of winter greenery on the sideboard.

“Where is Papa?” Elizabeth asked.

“Writing letters, no doubt,” Mrs Bennet replied distractedly. “There are always letters to be written after such occasions. Announcements, thank-yous... although I suppose there will be no grand wedding breakfast to send notes of gratitude for this time.” She sighed wistfully before adding, “Still, we must make the best of things. Oh, Lizzy, do stop frowning! It’s most unbecoming.”

Frowning hardly seemed adequate to describe Elizabeth’s expression, but she chose not to argue the point. Instead, she said, “And what of their plans? Surely they cannot mean to remain here indefinitely.”

“Of course not,” Mrs Bennet replied, her voice rising an octave as if the very suggestion were absurd. “Lord Matlock has seen to everything. Mr Wickham is to join a regiment in Newcastle…” Here she dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, as though sharing the most scandalous piece of gossip ever uttered, “…and they are to leave this week.”

“Newcastle!” Lydia exclaimed, her smile faltering for the first time. “But that’s so far away! How can I possibly go to Newcastle? I thought we should stay here for Christmas at least. Mama, you must persuade them!”

“Persuade them to what?” Mrs Bennet snapped, rounding on her youngest daughter with uncharacteristic ferocity. “To linger here and prolong our humiliation? To parade yourself about Meryton as though nothing untoward has occurred? You would do well to remember, Lydia, that girls who have disgraced themselves ought to count themselves fortunate to be seen by their family at all!”

For a brief moment, silence reigned in the parlour, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the faint rustle of Lydia’s skirts as she shifted uncomfortably. Her mouth opened, then closed, her usual torrent of protestations seemingly dammed by the rare and shocking disapproval of her mother.

“Well,” Lydia muttered at last, her pout returning with full force. “There’s no need to shout. It’s not as though I’ve committed murder.”

“Not murder, perhaps,” Elizabeth interjected with a pointed arch of her brow, “but certainly an act requiring a swift and permanent relocation. Newcastle seems fitting enough.”

“You’re all so dreadfully dull,” Lydia huffed, crossing her arms as she flounced onto the settee. “I daresay I shall freeze to death in Newcastle before New Year’s Day. And then you’ll all be sorry!”

“Indeed,” Elizabeth replied, her tone as light as Lydia’s was petulant. “I shudder to think how we shall recover from the loss of such sparkling conversation.”

“Elizabeth!” Mrs Bennet scolded, though there was little conviction in her voice. She appeared far more preoccupied with ensuring that a stray thread on Lydia’s sleeve was tucked out of sight before anyone else could notice.

“Let us hope,” Elizabeth murmured to herself, “that Newcastle proves as bracing for the spirit as it is for the body.”

The hallway at Longbourn echoed faintly with the sound of retreating footsteps as Wickham, newly minted husband and eternal charlatan, loitered near the parlour door. His expression was as self-satisfied as ever, his lips curved into a smirk that seemed glued in place. Elizabeth, who had been organising a mess of ribbons left on a side table, stiffened as she caught sight of him approaching.

“Miss Elizabeth,” he began smoothly, though his use of her name carried a mocking lilt, “or may I presume to call you Lizzy now that we are family?” His tone was honeyed, but his eyes glinted with something far less palatable. “You know, I have often thought how pleasant it might be to see you one day at Pemberley. Such a fine estate. Perhaps…” He let the sentence dangle.

Elizabeth turned slowly, setting down the ribbons with deliberate care. She met his gaze squarely, her eyes flashing with a mixture of ire and disdain that even Wickham’s practiced charm could not ignore.

“Mr Wickham,” she began, her voice calm but edged like the blade of a well-sharpened knife, “allow me to disabuse you of any such notion. Were it not for my sister Lydia, whose welfare I must, unfortunately, consider, I would gladly never set eyes on you again. As it stands, I will endure your presence only for her sake.”

Wickham opened his mouth, whether to offer some glib retort or feigned protestation, but she held up a hand, silencing him with regal authority.

“However,” she continued, her words deliberate and cutting, “I think you may rest assured of one thing: Pemberley’s doors will remain permanently closed to you. Whatever liberties you have taken elsewhere,” her gaze flickered briefly to the parlour where Lydia’s giggles still floated faintly through the air, “you will find no welcome there. Ever.”

For a moment, Wickham’s mask slipped, and an expression of irritation flitted across his face. But he recovered quickly, offering her a shallow bow, more mockery than respect. “Ah, Lizzy,” he said, his tone oozing false camaraderie, “such spirit! It is no wonder Darcy is so captivated. Farewell, then. We shall see what the future holds.”

Elizabeth did not bother to dignify this with a reply. Instead, she turned briskly on her heel and left him standing there, muttering under his breath. Her retreat to the sanctuary of the her father’s library felt almost triumphant, though the weight of the scandal still rested heavily on her shoulders.

Two days later, the morning mist clung to the carriage as Mr and Mrs Wickham rattled away down the lane. Lydia waved her handkerchief from the window with all the enthusiasm of a departing queen, while Wickham lounged beside her, his hat tipped rakishly over one eye. Elizabeth stood on the drive watching until they at last disappeared from view, her posture betraying none of the relief she felt.

By midday, the house had fallen unnaturally quiet, a silence that felt both foreign and fragile. Elizabeth, after ensuring Mrs Bennet had been sufficiently calmed by a restorative cup of tea and Jane’s soothing presence, took herself off to her father’s study, seeking refuge from the chaos of recent days.

She found Mr Bennet absent, though evidence of his habits lingered in the faint scent of tobacco, an open book left spine-up on the desk, a half-empty cup of cold coffee sitting precariously close to a stack of correspondence. With a sigh, Elizabeth sank into the worn armchair near the fire, resting her head against its high back.

Her exhaustion was bone-deep, the kind that no amount of sleep seemed capable of curing. For days, she had been caught in the whirlwind of Lydia’s folly and its consequences, navigating the delicate balance between familial duty and personal indignation. And yet, despite the resolution of this sordid chapter, a sense of unease lingered.

“One disaster averted,” she murmured to herself, her fingers tracing idle patterns along the armrest. “Though it seems another waits always just around the corner.”

Her attempt at levity fell somewhat flat, even to her own ears. Closing her eyes, she allowed the warmth of the fire to seep into her weary limbs. The muffled sounds of the household drifted faintly through the door, a reminder that life, for all its trials, carried on.

Of course, there had been one bright spot amidst the gloom: Bingley. His daily visits to Jane had been a balm to the household, his presence gentle and kind, his intentions unchanged. Elizabeth could not help but smile at the thought of Jane’s shy happiness, though it was tinged with a pang of longing she refused to examine too closely.

“At least someone has found their way,” she said softly, before falling silent once more, the crackle of the fire her only company.

Elizabeth startled as the door to her father’s study creaked open, admitting Mr Bennet with his usual air of composed indifference. He carried a book under one arm and a faint smirk that only seemed to deepen as he noted her languid posture by the fire.

“Ah, there you are, my dear,” he said, settling himself into the chair opposite her with the unhurried grace of a man who had long since mastered the art of selective involvement. “I trust the house is quieter now that your youngest sister has departed to spread her unique brand of chaos elsewhere?”

Elizabeth exhaled a breath that was part laugh, part groan. “Quieter, yes. Though I am not entirely sure whether the silence should be taken as a relief or an ominous prelude to whatever fresh catastrophe Lydia and Mr Wickham might concoct next.”

“An astute observation,” Mr Bennet replied, lifting his book but making no attempt to open it. Instead, his gaze lingered on Elizabeth, his expression softening in a way she rarely saw. “You have borne much these past weeks, Lizzy. More than should ever be asked of you. And yet, here we are, thanks in no small part to the intervention of others.”

“Yes,” Elizabeth said slowly, narrowing her eyes at him. “Others like Lord Matlock, you mean?”

“Lord Matlock, indeed,” her father acknowledged with a shrug. “Though if I were to hazard a guess, I would say his nephew bears the heavier burden of gratitude.”

“His nephew?” Elizabeth froze, her mind racing to catch up with the implications of his words. “Mr Darcy? Surely not.”

“Surely, yes.” Mr Bennet’s tone was maddeningly casual as he leaned back in his chair. “While Henry Fitzwilliam may have lent his title and connections to the cause, it is Darcy whose purse and influence ultimately ensured your sister’s… shall we call it redemption?”

“Mr Darcy?” Elizabeth repeated incredulously, half-rising from her seat. “Why…” She faltered, furrowing her brow in disbelief. “Why on earth would he do such a thing? What possible motive could he have for involving himself in our family’s affairs?”

“An excellent question,” her father remarked, his amusement evident. “And one which, I suspect, you are better suited to answer than I.”

“Me?” Elizabeth spluttered, but her protest was cut short when Mr Bennet tilted his head toward the window, his expression shifting to something more mischievous.

“Perhaps,” he said softly, “you might ask him yourself.”

Frowning, Elizabeth followed his gaze, rising fully to stand by the window. Snowflakes were just beginning to drift down outside, but it was certainly possible to see the carriage which had just come to a halt before the house. Her breath caught as the unmistakable figures of Mr Bingley and—yes, there he was—Mr Darcy descended from it.

“Good heavens,” she muttered, clutching the curtain as though it might steady her. For a moment, her thoughts scattered wildly between mortification, curiosity, and something she dared not name. Then, as her eyes lingered on the straight-backed figure of Mr Darcy, she felt her pulse quicken in a way she could neither explain nor entirely dismiss.

“Well, Lizzy,” Mr Bennet said from behind her, his voice deceptively mild. “Will you keep our guest standing outside all day, or shall I send Hill to fetch tea?”

Elizabeth turned sharply, fixing him with a glare that only made him chuckle. “You are insufferable,” she declared, though there was little heat in her tone. Still, she hesitated, her hand tightening on the curtain.

“Go on,” her father prompted gently, his knowing smile both infuriating and oddly comforting. “He may surprise you yet.”