Page 23 of The Meddling Matlocks (Pride & Prejudice Variations)

Chapter Twenty-Three

Entering the parlour, Darcy paused when he found his quarry absent. Miss Mary and Miss Kitty stood with polite smiles to greet him, but he struggled to complete even the bare formalities of acknowledgement when Elizabeth slipped into the room a moment later. She made a slight curtsy in response to his bow, and then went to stand by the window, looking out as the falling snow.

Elizabeth moved with less of her usual energy—her posture slightly slumped, her head tilted downward—and he could not help but notice the weary pallor on her face, so often aglow with vitality. Yet even in her tired state, she was utterly captivating. Her unruly curls framed her face with a defiant charm, and her dark eyes, though shadowed, retained their striking depth, as if they held the entire world within them.

“Miss Elizabeth,” he began softly, his voice breaking through the quiet like a pebble dropped into still water. The sound caused her to glance back over her shoulder at him, her brow lifting in mild inquiry.

“Yes, Mr Darcy?” Her tone was polite, yet distant; a formality that had settled between them since Lydia’s disgraceful escapade had come to light. But there was also a flicker of curiosity in her expression, as if she wondered what he might say next.

Darcy inhaled deeply, the air catching cold in his chest, though it had nothing to do with the temperature in the room. How was it that this woman could fluster him so completely? He had stood before parliamentarians and men of great influence without so much as a tremor in his hands, yet now, faced with Elizabeth Bennet, his palms felt clammy, and his heart raced.

“Forgive me,” he said after a moment. “I could not help but notice you seem unwell. Have you been resting properly?”

Elizabeth blinked, clearly startled by the question. Then, with an almost imperceptible shake of her head, she offered him a wry smile. “Rest is something of a luxury these days, Mr Darcy. It requires one’s mind to be free of vexations, and mine has been rather... occupied.”

“Occupied,” he repeated, his lips twitching despite himself. Her understated wit never failed to disarm him. “Then I must commend you for maintaining such composure under duress. I daresay most would find themselves thoroughly undone.”

“Most are not blessed with my stubbornness,” she replied lightly, though her gaze faltered, betraying the weight of her thoughts. She turned away again, resuming her stare out of the window.

Darcy’s jaw tightened. This would not do. He had waited long enough, perhaps too long. The time had come to speak plainly, to shed the armour of restraint that had shielded him thus far. What good had his silence wrought, save to leave her burdened and uncertain?

“Elizabeth,” he said abruptly, the informal use of her name slipping out before he could stop it. She stiffened slightly, her hand falling instinctively to the back of a nearby chair for balance. When she faced him again, her expression was unreadable, though her lips parted slightly in surprise.

“Mr Darcy,” she said cautiously, her voice low. “What is it?”

He stepped closer, his boots thudding heavily on the floor, his pulse pounding in unison. For a moment, he simply looked at her, taking in every detail. The faint dusting of freckles across her nose, the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers gripped the chair as though anchoring herself. She was tired, yes, but she was also resilient, brave, and achingly beautiful. And above all, she deserved the truth.

“Elizabeth,” he said again, more firmly this time, “you have borne so much already, and I can no longer abide being the cause of your distress.” His voice softened, though his resolve did not waver. “There are things I must tell you, things I should have told you long ago.”

She glanced at her sisters, heads bent together over some trifle. Kitty’s eyes flickered up to them before she looked hastily away again, and Darcy realised both girls were listening intently, though they pretended otherwise.

“Very well,” Elizabeth agreed softly. “Come with me.”

Darcy followed her down the corridor, his boots echoing against the polished wood floors. The dining room, unoccupied and dimly lit, presented itself as the ideal refuge.

Elizabeth settled into a chair near the hearth, where the remnants of a fire still smouldered, offering a faint warmth. Her gaze slowly lifted up to meet his, a blend of curiosity and apprehension evident in her expression.

“Mr Darcy,” she began, her voice measured but tinged with regret. “Before you say anything... I must speak first.” She straightened her posture, the familiar determination in her bearing momentarily dispelling the exhaustion etched upon her features. “I am painfully aware that my family’s recent... difficulties have placed you in an unenviable position. Lydia’s actions, however thoughtless and reckless, should never have burdened you. For that, I can only apologise.”

Darcy remained silent, his eyes fixed on hers as she spoke. Her words were precise, her tone unwavering, yet he could see the faint tremble in her hands. She was grappling with something far heavier than mere embarrassment; she bore the weight of her family’s reputation as if it were her own personal failing.

“Your involvement,” she continued, her voice softer now, “though entirely undeserved, has been both a kindness and a humiliation I cannot fully comprehend. That you should be entangled in such a sordid affair...”

“Enough,” he interrupted gently, stepping forward before she could finish. Her words faltered, surprise flickering across her face as he knelt before her, taking her cold hands in his. “Elizabeth,” her name slipped from his tongue again, unbidden yet utterly natural, “this is not your burden to carry, nor your apology to make.”

Her brow furrowed, her lips parting to protest, but he silenced her with a look, steady and unyielding. “It was my mess to fix,” he said firmly. “And mine alone.”

For a moment, the only sound was the muffled wail of the wind beyond the walls. Her hands remained in his, small and trembling, though she did not pull away. Darcy felt the tension ease from her fingers, though her gaze remained sharp and searching, as if she were trying to decipher some hidden meaning behind his words.

“Yours?” she echoed finally, her tone sceptical but laced with a hint of something else; hope, perhaps, or relief.

“Yes,” he said simply. “Mine.”

The corners of her mouth twitched, as though she might argue further, but instead she lowered her gaze to their joined hands, her lashes casting shadows upon her cheeks. Darcy allowed himself the briefest indulgence of hope; that perhaps, just perhaps, she might understand the depth of what he meant.

Rising to his feet, Darcy released her hands reluctantly as he began to pace the length of the room. The dining table stood between them now, its gleaming surface reflecting his troubled expression in the flickering light of the solitary candle that Elizabeth had lit upon their entrance. Snowflakes tapped faintly against the windowpanes, a soft counterpoint to the storm brewing within him.

“Elizabeth,” he said at last, his voice low but steady, “there is... much I have withheld from you. Not out of malice or indifference, but…” He paused, his brow furrowed as he struggled to articulate what had long been locked away. “Out of duty and pride.”

“Withheld?” she repeated, tilting her head ever so slightly. She nodded, folding her hands neatly before her on the table, as if bracing herself for what was to come.

“Before I begin,” Darcy said, halting his pacing to stand directly across from her, “you must understand that my silence was born of a desire to protect someone very dear to me—my sister, Georgiana.”

“Miss Darcy?” Elizabeth’s eyebrows arched in surprise.

“Yes.” He exhaled slowly, as though expelling a weight he had carried too long. “You remember, perhaps, my mentioning Wickham’s... failings, when last we spoke on the matter?”

“Failings is rather an understatement, is it not?” she remarked dryly, though her expression remained attentive.

“Indeed,” he agreed, his lips curving briefly before falling back into a straight line. “It was at Ramsgate, last summer, that his true character revealed itself beyond all doubt.”

“Ramsgate?” she echoed, leaning forward slightly, her interest obviously piqued by this new information.

“Georgiana was but fifteen, and had begged for a holiday by the seaside. Her then companion, Mrs Younge, suggested Ramsgate, and I permitted it, not knowing that Mrs Younge was in cahoots with Wickham even then,” Darcy continued, his tone quiet and regretful. “He met them there, and in her innocence, Georgiana was persuaded to believe herself in love. Wickham, ever the opportunist, sought to exploit her affections, and her dowry of thirty thousand pounds. He persuaded her to elope with him.”

“Good heavens!” Elizabeth gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.

“By sheer providence, I arrived unexpectedly to visit,” Darcy said, his jaw tightening at the memory. “Had I been delayed even a day, it would have been too late. As it was, I confronted Wickham and made it abundantly clear that his scheme would not succeed.”

“And Miss Darcy?” Elizabeth asked softly, her voice tinged with concern.

“She was heartbroken, of course,” he admitted, his expression clouding. “But grateful, in time, to have been spared the ruin he intended for her. I swore then to shield her from further harm, to guard her reputation above all else. That is why I kept silent, even when I ought to have spoken.”

He met her gaze then, his eyes searching hers with an intensity that made her breath hitch. “I see now that my silence was a grave error. By protecting one, I endangered many. Had I been forthright about Wickham’s true nature, your family, your sisters…” His voice faltered, and he looked away, his fists clenching at his sides. “Your family might have been spared his machinations.”

“This, of course,” she said at last, “is the matter over which Colonel Fitzwilliam had to be restrained from duelling him.”

“Indeed.” Darcy inclined his head. “It was fortunate that Wickham had already made himself scarce before Richard heard of the matter. I truly believe if Richard had found him in the next few days, it would have come to that pass.”

The snow fell steadily now, swirling in delicate flurries outside the wide-paned window of the dining room. A faint chill lingered in the air, despite the fire crackling in the hearth, and Elizabeth clasped her hands together tightly in her lap to keep them warm—or perhaps to steady their trembling.

“Georgiana?” she said, her voice uneven, as though testing the name aloud might make sense of what she had just heard. “Her dowry is…” She faltered briefly, shaking her head in disbelief. “Thirty thousand pounds, you said?”

“Indeed,” Darcy affirmed, his tone measured but firm. He stood before the hearth, his tall frame casting a long shadow in the dim light of the dying embers. His expression was inscrutable, though his dark eyes held a flicker of something she could not quite place. Regret, perhaps? Or something deeper?

“Then I confess myself utterly perplexed,” Elizabeth said after a long pause, her brows knitting together as she turned back to him. “Lydia’s dowry is... well...” She hesitated, unsure how best to phrase it without sounding mortifyingly mercenary. “It is far less than Georgiana’s, to put it lightly. Why on earth would he bother?”

“Why indeed?” Darcy replied with a shrug that was almost too casual, though there was no mistaking the edge of bitterness in his voice. “But Wickham has always been a man of opportunity. Heiresses, you see, Miss Bennet,” he allowed himself a wry smile, “are generally well-guarded. Fathers, brothers, trustees, punctilious chaperones… one can hardly sneeze in their presence without someone taking note.”

“That may be so,” Elizabeth said, her lips twitching despite herself at his dry delivery, “but surely Lydia’s modest portion could not have tempted him. Unless,” and here her voice grew sharp, her quick mind leaping to the most unsettling conclusion, “unless he imagined there was more to be gained. Did he…” She stopped short, her throat tightening.

“Precisely,” Darcy said quietly, meeting her gaze with unwavering solemnity. “With your sister Jane engaged to Bingley, Wickham surmised that the Bennet family fortunes were improving.” His mouth twisted into something resembling distaste. “He likely believed that there was more money to be wrung from the connection.”

Elizabeth winced visibly, the word “wrung” striking her with all the subtlety of a slap. Her fingers curled into fists, and she looked away, unable to bear the thought. How much, she wondered despairingly, had Bingley paid to secure the peace? Had he emptied his coffers for the sake of her family’s folly? That sweet, generous man, so undeserving of such manipulation...

“Mr Bingley,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Do not trouble yourself,” Darcy said abruptly, his tone clipped, as though reading her thoughts. “Bingley…” But he stopped himself, his expression hardening as though weighing his next words carefully.

“Yes?” Elizabeth prompted, turning back to him. Her sharp eyes searched his face, but he offered nothing further. Instead, he straightened his shoulders and folded his arms, retreating into the impenetrable reserve she had come to expect from him. She kept her gaze on him and waited.

“Forgive me, Miss Bennet,” he said finally, his voice softening slightly, though the firmness of his stance did not waver. “Allow me to put your mind at ease. Wickham himself has received not a penny from this arrangement…” His dark eyes gleamed with a sharp satisfaction, “nor shall he ever.”

Elizabeth blinked, momentarily startled by the unexpected turn in his expression. She had grown accustomed to Darcy’s gravity, his unyielding seriousness, yet here he stood, the corners of his mouth betraying the barest hint of smugness.

“Not a penny?” she repeated, her tone caught between disbelief and curiosity.

“Not a farthing,” he confirmed, his smile growing more pronounced now, though still tempered by decorum. “All funds have been settled upon your sister directly, and on that point, there was no negotiation. Should Wickham prove neglectful,” his brow arched pointedly, “or decide to abandon her altogether, he will find himself quite destitute.”

Elizabeth could not help herself; she exhaled a laugh, short and incredulous, before raising a hand to cover her mouth. It was not that the situation itself was humorous, far from it, but there was something undeniably satisfying about the image of George Wickham, that smooth-tongued rogue, outmanoeuvred so thoroughly.

“That is… remarkably clever,” she said at last, lowering her hand. Her gaze lingered on Darcy, and for the first time, she allowed herself to truly see him—not merely as the brooding figure who had once insulted her, but as a man capable of wit, strategy, and, dare she admit it, a certain charm.

“Thank you,” Darcy replied, inclining his head slightly. There was no trace of arrogance in his tone, only a quiet humility that surprised her. He cleared his throat, as if suddenly self-conscious under her scrutiny, and glanced away, focusing instead on a snowflake that had landed on the windowpane beside them.

“Still,” Elizabeth pressed, her voice softening as she tilted her head. “Such a solution must have required considerable resources.” Her eyes narrowed shrewdly. “And you were very quick to assure me that Mr Bingley need not concern himself with the financial aspect. I cannot help but wonder…” She paused, her words hanging delicately in the air like the snowfall outside.

“Wonder what, Miss Bennet?” Darcy asked, his gaze snapping back to hers. Though his posture remained composed, there was a flicker of something in his expression—wariness, perhaps, or anticipation.

“Who,” she said simply, leaning ever so slightly forward, “provided those resources.”

Darcy did not immediately reply. Instead, he studied her in that infuriatingly inscrutable way of his, as though weighing the wisdom of continuing this line of conversation. Elizabeth held his gaze steadily, refusing to look away, even as her pulse quickened.

“Surely,” she added, offering him a playful smile in an attempt to lighten the mood, “a mystery such as this cannot remain unsolved. My father,” she hesitated briefly, recalling his cautionary words, “would insist that I ask.”

“Your father,” Darcy echoed, his tone unreadable. But his mouth, she noticed, tightened imperceptibly, and his hands, still clasped behind his back, shifted slightly.

“Well?” she prompted. “Are you going to make me guess, Mr Darcy? Or shall we end this charade?”

“Miss Bennet,” he began, his tone measured as though picking his way through a minefield. “It would be improper…”

“Improper?” she interrupted, her lips curving into an impish smile. “Surely not more improper than meddling in the affairs of someone else’s family?”

He flinched at her words. His mouth tightened briefly before he exhaled a quiet sigh, his shoulders relaxing ever so slightly.

“Very well,” he said at last, his voice low but steady. “If you must know, I… I arranged for the majority of the funds myself.”

Elizabeth blinked, the air seeming to still around them as she stared at him in astonished silence.

“Of course,” he continued, his tone almost brisk now, as though attempting to downplay the significance of his admission, “Mr Bingley contributed a portion, as did my uncle, Lord Matlock, and your father. But the bulk of it came from my own estate.”

Elizabeth stared at him, trying to process what he had just said. The words seemed almost incomprehensible, so at odds were they with the image she had long held of him. Mr Darcy, proud, aloof, impossibly exacting Mr Darcy, had orchestrated Lydia’s rescue. He had done so without fanfare, without seeking recognition, and now he stood before her, speaking of sums of money and arrangements as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

“Your own…” she began, but her voice faltered. Her eyes widened as the pieces fell into place. “You mean to say that you…” She stopped again, her breath catching as she shook her head, unable to reconcile this act of extraordinary generosity with the man standing before her.

“Yes,” he said simply, his tone calm but firm. “Lydia will receive three hundred pounds per annum, paid monthly, which, combined with Wickham’s officer’s salary, should suffice to ensure their comfort.”

“Three hundred pounds a year…” she murmured, almost to herself. Her fingers brushed the edge of the table, tracing the grooves in the wood as her mind spun. It was an enormous sum, far beyond what she could have imagined anyone, least of all Mr Darcy, would willingly give to secure her family’s honour.

Darcy was the one to break the silence between them. “Mr Wickham,” he said, his tone shifting slightly, “does seem to possess a most unfortunate talent for ensnaring the affections of fifteen-year-old girls.”

The remark was so unexpected that Elizabeth inhaled sharply, startled by the candour of it. She blinked, momentarily thrown, before a small, incredulous laugh escaped her lips. “A dubious talent indeed,” she said, raising one brow. “I confess I had not thought of it in quite those terms.”

“Perhaps you are kinder than I,” Darcy replied, his mouth twitching faintly, as though he were suppressing a smile. “Though I imagine your perspective is somewhat different, given the circumstances. I only regret that it was your sister who became his latest victim. It pains me more than I can say.”

Her laughter faded as quickly as it had come, the weight of reality settling over her once more. Lydia. Poor, heedless Lydia, so easily charmed by Wickham’s lies and empty promises. The thought of her youngest sister, so na?ve, so trusting, brought a fresh ache to Elizabeth’s heart. But as she looked at Darcy, she saw no trace of judgment in his expression, only a quiet earnestness that gave her pause. He was not merely offering platitudes; he truly seemed to feel the depth of this misfortune.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice soft, almost hesitant. The sincerity of her own tone surprised her. “But I fear our family’s humiliation is none of your burden to bear, Mr Darcy.”

“Humiliation or not,” he said firmly, his gaze unwavering, “it is a burden I have willingly assumed, and one I shall continue to bear, if only to see some semblance of peace restored to your family. Whatever my faults may be, Elizabeth,” his voice dropped, low and intimate, his use of her name sending a jolt through her, “indifference to your happiness is not among them.”

Her breath hitched, the weight of his words pressing against her chest. What could he mean by such a statement? And why did it send a peculiar warmth coursing through her, even amidst all her confusion? She clasped her hands tightly in her lap, her fingers trembling slightly.

“Mr Darcy…” she began, her voice tentative, unsure of how to respond. But when she met his gaze, she found herself unable to look away. His eyes held hers with such unwavering intensity that she felt as though he could see straight through her, past her carefully crafted defences, to the thoughts and feelings she had not yet dared to acknowledge, even to herself.

The silence stretched between them once more, broken only by the faint crackle of the fire and the soft patter of snow against the window. Elizabeth glanced toward the frost-touched pane, watching as the snowflakes danced and swirled with unfathomable elegance. The chill of the room did little to cool the heat rising in her cheeks, nor did it quiet the storm of emotions now swirling within her. Darcy’s words still reverberated in her ears, their weight settling deeply in her heart.

For the first time in her life, Elizabeth Bennet—she who took such pride in her clarity of thought and quickness of wit—found herself utterly and completely at a loss.