Page 24 of The Meddling Matlocks (Pride & Prejudice Variations)

Chapter Twenty-Four

The dining room was quiet save for the soft howl of the wind from the snowstorm outside. Mr Darcy stood before her, his tall figure imposing as ever, though his expression... Oh, his expression! It was so uncharacteristically tender, so stripped of its usual reserve, that Elizabeth found herself questioning the reality of the moment.

“Surely,” he began, his deep voice steady yet somehow warmer than she had ever heard it, “surely my admiration cannot come as so great a surprise as all this?”

Her eyebrows lifted slightly, though whether in disbelief or confusion, she could not say. A thousand thoughts collided in her mind, none willing to give way to coherence. She managed, only just, to form words instead of the silent gape she feared might betray her. “You…” she faltered, her tone more incredulous than she intended. “You must forgive me, sir, but I confess I am quite at a loss.”

Darcy’s lips curved into what could almost be termed a smile, though it bore the faintest hint of wryness, as though he himself could scarcely believe what he was about to say. “Dearest Elizabeth,” he said, “I daresay you have always enjoyed surprising me. Perhaps I hoped I might return the favour, though I did not anticipate quite so emphatic a reaction.”

Elizabeth blinked rapidly, as if by doing so she might better make sense of the man standing before her. Was this truly Mr Darcy? The same Mr Darcy who had once remarked upon her tolerable looks with all the enthusiasm of one appraising a middling portrait? The same man whose haughty silence had often left her oscillating between irritation and amusement? And yet there he stood, his dark eyes fixed upon her with such unwavering sincerity that her breath seemed to catch.

“At first,” Darcy continued, his voice softening as he regarded her closely, “perhaps we each took a little pleasure in provoking the other.” His brow furrowed faintly, as though he were now considering the many barbs they had traded over time. “But it has been long—very long—since I could find the slightest fault in you.”

“Long?” she echoed, her voice rising in pitch before she could temper it. She pressed her lips together quickly, attempting to mask her astonishment. “Mr Darcy, you speak as if I were some paragon of virtue. Surely you do not mean to suggest that I have rendered you entirely blind to my faults?”

“Not blind,” he replied, his gaze steady. “But rather, indifferent to them.”

The absurdity of it—of him —struck her then, and despite the wild tumult of emotions swirling within her, a laugh escaped her lips, light and incredulous. “Indifferent?” she repeated. “Good heavens, Mr Darcy, I hardly know what to say. You are either the most generous judge of character or the greatest flatterer I have ever encountered.”

“Neither, I assure you,” he said evenly, though there was a flicker of something akin to humour in the corner of his mouth. “I merely speak the truth. Faults and virtues alike, I have seen them all. And yet...”

He paused, and Elizabeth found herself holding her breath without quite knowing why. There was something unnervingly earnest in his manner, something that made her heart, which she had always considered steadfast and impervious, begin to flutter in a most disconcerting fashion.

“And yet,” he resumed, his voice quieter now, “there is no fault I would not gladly overlook, if only to remain in your company a while longer.”

Elizabeth stared at him, her mind racing faster than her tongue could keep pace with. This could not be real, surely. Somewhere out there, Lydia was likely embroiled in another scandal already, her mother was doubtless lamenting the price of ribbons, and the world was exactly as chaotic as it ought to be. But here, in this quiet, barely-lit room, with Mr Darcy looking at her as if she were the centre of all things… well, it seemed altogether too impossible.

“Mr Darcy,” she began, her voice softer now. And then she stopped, not at all sure what she wanted to say.

“Dearest Elizabeth,” he said, when she could not get another word out. “I beg you to allow me this moment, this chance to speak what has been weighing on my heart.”

There was something in his tone, an urgency that both unnerved and intrigued her. Slowly, she raised her eyes to meet his.

“Very well,” she said lightly, her lips curving into a faint smile in an attempt to mask her growing unease. “If it will unburden you, Mr Darcy, I shall hear you out. Though I must confess, I am quite at a loss as to what could possibly render you so unsettled.”

“Unsettled,” he repeated softly, almost to himself, and then gave a small, self-deprecating shake of his head. “Yes, perhaps that is the word for it. Or perhaps not strong enough. For truly, Elizabeth, I have never known peace of mind since the day I first encountered you at the assembly in Meryton.”

Elizabeth blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in his candour, the impassionate note in his voice. He took a step closer, closing the distance between them until she felt the warmth of his presence, though propriety still left a respectable space between them.

“From that moment onwards,” Darcy continued, his voice thick with emotion, “my admiration for you has only grown. At first, I endeavoured to fight it. I told myself it was nothing more than a passing fancy, one I could conquer through reason. But reason failed me, as did every other means of resistance I attempted. And now, here I stand before you, unable to deny the truth any longer.”

“Mr Darcy…” Elizabeth tried to interject, but he pressed on, his words spilling forth as though he feared he might lose his courage if he hesitated even a moment.

“Elizabeth,” he said, and her name on his lips sent an involuntary shiver down her spine. “I ardently admire and love you. I do not believe I can ever find happiness unless you consent to be my wife.”

Her mouth parted in surprise, but no words came forth. Of all the scenarios she had imagined, including several that involved him scorning her family’s improprieties or retreating entirely from her acquaintance, this was not one of them.

“Surely,” she managed at last, her voice faint but tinged with incredulity, “surely you cannot mean…” She broke off, shaking her head as if to clear it. “You must see how impossible this is, Mr Darcy.”

“Impossible?” His brow furrowed, and there was a flicker of vulnerability in his expression that made her chest tighten. “Why should it be impossible?”

“Do you truly need me to say it aloud?” she asked, her voice gathering strength along with her composure. “After all that has transpired? After Lydia’s…” She faltered, unwilling to utter the word scandal in the charged intimacy of the moment. “Surely you understand that such an association would reflect poorly on you. To marry into a family that would give you Wickham as a brother-in-law! It is too great a degradation to even consider!”

Darcy’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, Elizabeth thought she had wounded him. Yet instead of retreating, he stood firm, his countenance calm but resolute.

“Degradation?” he repeated. “Miss Bennet, I assure you, no circumstance, not even your unfortunate connection to that scoundrel, could make me think less of you. My regard for you is not so fragile as to be undone by the actions of others.”

Elizabeth stared at him, her breath catching in her throat. Of all the responses she had expected, this was not among them.

The silence between them stretched, but before it could become unbearable, Darcy spoke, his deep voice tinged with something suspiciously akin to amusement.

“I will confess that Wickham is not the connection I would have chosen for myself, or indeed, for anyone. But for your sake, I shall endure even the indignity of calling him relation.”

“Endure?” Elizabeth echoed, her brows arching as her composure began its slow return, buoyed by the absurdity of his statement. “An admirable sentiment, Mr Darcy, but hardly convincing.”

“Endure,” he repeated firmly, though the corner of his mouth remained traitorously lifted. His dark eyes held hers with disarming steadiness. “But let me be perfectly clear: if Wickham dares to so much as set foot at Pemberley—or worse, anywhere near Georgiana—I cannot promise to behave with any degree of civility. In fact,” his expression darkened briefly, betraying a flash of genuine ire, “I shall make no promises about my conduct at all.”

At this, Elizabeth could no longer suppress her laughter, which bubbled up like a spring breaking through winter frost. The sound filled the room, lightening the charged atmosphere that had enveloped them moments ago. “How fortunate, then,” she said at last, her voice still touched with mirth, “that I recently informed Mr Wickham in no uncertain terms that he would never find himself welcome at Pemberley. Little did I suspect,” she paused, her gaze flickering over Darcy with a mixture of astonishment and mischief, “that I might one day claim some authority on the matter as its mistress!”

Darcy’s brow lifted, and for just an instant, a rare and unguarded smile graced his face; a smile so warm, so utterly devoid of his usual reserve, that Elizabeth felt as though the very air between them had shifted. Her breath caught, but she pressed on, determined not to betray the sudden quickening of her heartbeat.

“On this, at least,” she continued, folding her hands neatly before her as though they were discussing nothing more weighty than a change in the weather, “we are in perfect accord. Neither of us wishes to see Mr Wickham’s face again. Perhaps,” her tone turned arch, her eyes sparkling with renewed confidence,” this understanding may serve as the foundation for a most harmonious alliance.”

“Perhaps,” Darcy replied, his voice low, his gaze unwavering. Yet there was a softness to his expression now, a tenderness that made Elizabeth feel as though she stood on the edge of something vast and unknowable. “Though I suspect we might find other foundations, better ones, to build upon.”

Elizabeth tilted her head, pretending to consider his words while fighting the unbidden warmth rising to her cheeks. Whatever else might come of this conversation, one thing was abundantly clear: Wickham, for all his charm and scheming, had unwittingly achieved what neither wit nor pride had managed thus far. He had united them, in purpose, in understanding, and perhaps, in something far deeper yet.

“I must confess that I find myself somewhat consoled in our shared misfortune regarding relations,” Darcy said then, his tone almost playful.

“Consoled?” Elizabeth arched an eyebrow. “Pray, sir, elaborate. I am all astonishment at what comfort you might derive from such a source.”

“Your family has, of course, been subjected to the indignity of Mr Wickham,” Darcy replied, his lips curving into that wry smile she had begun to recognise as his most genuine expression. “But let us not neglect my own trials. Have you forgotten Lady Catherine?”

“Forgotten her? Certainly not!” Elizabeth exclaimed, her laughter spilling forth before she could temper it. “Though I will admit, your aunt’s attempts to dissuade me were so lacking in subtlety as to provide more amusement than trouble. I daresay she believes herself triumphant still, having returned to Rosings in full expectation of my compliance as surely I should not dare to defy her wishes!”

“She is nothing if not tenacious,” Darcy agreed, though there was a flicker of discomfort that passed over his face at the mention of Lady Catherine’s interference. “And yet, you seem remarkably unscathed by the encounter. How did you manage it?”

“Mr Darcy,” Elizabeth said, sitting forward with mock solemnity, “I managed it precisely as I suspect you would; with unwavering resolve and the occasional judicious application of sarcasm.” She allowed herself a small, self-satisfied smile. “Besides, I have the utmost confidence that Lady Catherine and Mr Collins will make perfect companions together at Rosings. They shall busy themselves endlessly with the minutiae of church matters and garden paths, leaving the rest of us in peace.”

Darcy chuckled softly, shaking his head. “It seems I must yield to your superior wit once again. Though I cannot help but feel some pity for the parishioners at Hunsford. Their sermons are unlikely to grow any shorter with such a pair presiding over their moral instruction.”

“Indeed,” she replied, her eyes sparkling with amusement at the thought. “I fear the poor parishioners may be the true martyrs in this arrangement.”

“Perhaps,” Darcy murmured, his tone shifting subtly as he stepped closer, his hands clasped behind his back. He hesitated, his expression growing earnest, the levity giving way to something far more weighty. “Elizabeth… would you…” He paused, then forged ahead, his voice quieter now, almost tentative. “Would you allow me to hope that you might consider my suit?”

Elizabeth’s heart thudded dully in her chest, each beat echoing the enormity of his question. Darcy’s gaze remained fixed upon hers, steady and unwavering, yet beneath it all she discerned an unmistakable vulnerability; a man who had laid aside his pride and placed himself entirely at her mercy.

Her breath hitched, but she fought the urge to turn away, determined instead to meet him with the same honesty he now offered her. Whatever answer she might give, it would not be given lightly.

“You do me too much honour,” she said finally, her words light but her tone betraying the depth of her emotion. A blush crept up her cheeks, warm and undeniable. “But... of course, yes. Yes.”

The transformation in Darcy was immediate. His expression softened, the guarded reserve melting away like frost under the sun. For just a moment, he looked utterly relieved, as though he could scarcely believe his fortune. Then, with a suddenness that stole Elizabeth’s breath, he stepped forward, closing the distance between them in what felt like an instant.

“Elizabeth,” he murmured, her name reverberating in the quiet space between them before he tipped his head down towards her.

And then he kissed her.

It was not some grand, practiced gesture befitting a man of his station. It was hesitant at first, as though he dared not presume too much, but when she did not pull away, it grew more assured, tender and yet full of a passion he had clearly been holding back for far too long. Elizabeth, entirely unprepared for the sensation of his lips on hers, found herself responding instinctively, her hand rising to rest lightly against his chest, where his heart pounded as fiercely as her own.

The moment was perfect, or at least it might have been, had fate—or rather, Lady Matlock—not chosen that precise instant to intervene.

A loud, deliberate “AHEM” shattered the stillness, echoing through the room like an ill-timed cough during a church service. Elizabeth sprang back as though burned, her hand flying to her mouth while her eyes widened in mortification. Darcy, for his part, stiffened instantly, his composure returning with military precision even as a faint flush betrayed his discomfiture.

“Well,” came a pointed voice from the doorway, the tone arch and dripping with implication, “I see my nephew has quite forgotten the value of discretion.”

Elizabeth risked a glance at the intruder and found herself confronted by Lady Matlock, her eyebrows raised so high they threatened to vanish into her hairline.

“Aunt Margaret,” Darcy began, his usual calm demeanour faltering as he inclined his head stiffly. “I…”

“Spare me your protests, Fitzwilliam,” she interrupted, waving her fan with a flourish that suggested she was entirely in control of the situation. Her gaze shifted to Elizabeth, assessing her with a sharpness that made the younger woman feel distinctly exposed. “Miss Bennet, I trust you will excuse the interruption, though I cannot say I regret sparing the two of you from further impropriety, considering what this house has had to endure of late.”

Elizabeth, still struggling to find her voice, managed a halting curtsy, though her cheeks burned with embarrassment. “Of course, Lady Matlock,” she said, her tone polite but with a faint edge of defiance. “Your timing is impeccable.”

“Indeed,” Lady Matlock replied, her lips twitching as though suppressing a smile. “Shall we hope it remains so in future?”

Elizabeth was quite sure she heard Darcy murmur “Indeed, I do not ,“ behind her as she followed Lady Matlock from the room. Glancing back, she met his eyes, and found them full of suppressed laughter.

“I shall go to your father,” he murmured quietly in her ear, before pressing her hand lightly and taking himself off to the study.

“Do I take it that my nephew has finally come to his senses?” Lady Matlock asked, as she and Elizabeth approached the parlour door. “Why he did not propose to you weeks ago is quite beyond me.”

Elizabeth stared at her in shock. “I beg your pardon?”

“Elizabeth. Dear girl.” Lady Matlock took both Elizabeth’s hands in hers and squeezed them gently. “I have been quite sure from the first hour of our meeting that you were the only possible wife for Darcy. And I am truly quite vexed with him that it has taken him so long to realise it!”