Page 25 of The Meddling Matlocks (Pride & Prejudice Variations)

The January morning dawned crisp and clear, the frosted hedgerows around Longbourn sparkling like diamonds under a winter sun. Lady Matlock adjusted the folds of her velvet pelisse. Her gloved fingers tightened around the handle of her intricately carved ivory fan—a long-ago gift from her late mother-in-law on the occasion of her own wedding—though it was hardly required on such a cold day. No, it was more for dramatic effect, she admitted to herself with a private smile. After all, if there were ever an occasion for theatrics, it was this: a triple wedding.

“Maggie, do stop fidgeting,” came the amused voice of her husband at her side. Lord Matlock’s steel-grey brows rose in mock disapproval as he extended his arm to her to make their way up the church steps. “You look like a general preparing for battle.”

“Henry, I am merely ensuring perfection,” Lady Matlock replied with a calmness belied by the gleam of excitement in her eyes. “It is not every day one witnesses three marriages in one ceremony, particularly when two of those unions involve one’s own family. Besides,” she tapped her fan lightly against his arm “it is not pacing; it is strategic positioning.”

“Ah, yes, your famed strategic positioning,” he replied dryly, though his lips quirked upward. “Pray, what exactly are you plotting now?”

“Nothing nefarious, my dear,” she said airily, though she did allow herself a triumphant glance toward the bustling street in front of the church, where carriages arrived in a steady stream. Elegant guests spilled out, their laughter mingling with the clatter of wheels and hooves. Ladies in silks and satins swept up the steps, their breath visible in the crisp air, while gentlemen in pristine coats and cravats exchanged pleasantries.

“Tell me, Henry,” she continued, her tone light, “do you think Elizabeth will trip over her hem? Or will Darcy’s stern visage frighten the vicar into mispronouncing his name?”

“Neither, I should think,” Lord Matlock replied with a chuckle. “Though I do wonder whether young Bingley’s enthusiasm might cause him to forget his vows altogether.”

“Entirely possible,” Lady Matlock agreed, her lips twitching. “I have never seen a man so utterly besotted. But,” she added with a tilt of her head, “he is very charming, and Jane is the sort of woman who could soothe even the most excitable disposition. A match well made, I think.”

Her husband hummed in agreement, but Lady Matlock was already turning her attention to the next couple to follow Jane and Bingley up the aisle. Mr Darcy stood near the entrance to the church, his stance as straight-backed as ever, though his expression was that of a man utterly smitten as he gazed at his bride. Elizabeth Bennet, for her part, was speaking animatedly to her father, her dark curls escaping their pins in a manner that ought to have been scandalous but instead seemed entirely fitting. Lady Matlock could not help but smile. There was something deliciously satisfying about seeing the often-impenetrable Fitzwilliam Darcy rendered so thoroughly human.

“Look at them,” she murmured, leaning ever so slightly toward her husband, who stood at her side with his usual air of composed amusement. “Have you ever seen anything so radiant?”

“Which ‘them’ are you referring to, my dear?” Lord Matlock replied, arching one silver brow. “We are currently witnessing enough radiance to rival the sun itself. Though, if you are speaking of James, I have never seen the boy quite so… well, smitten.”

“Of course I am speaking of James!” she replied with gentle exasperation, though her gaze drifted back toward Darcy and Elizabeth, whose shared look of quiet affection was enough to soften even the most cynical observer. “Though you must agree, our nephew does cut a rather dashing figure with his bride. And Mr Bingley and Jane? Positively cherubic. But James, “ her voice lowered to a near-whisper, as though sharing a cherished secret, “James looks happy, Henry. Truly happy.”

“Indeed, he does,” Lord Matlock agreed, following her gaze to where their son now stood beside Charlotte Lucas, her hand resting lightly on his arm. James’s usually serious countenance was alight with a quiet joy that seemed to make him stand taller than ever. His bride, sensible and serene, glanced up at him with a smile that could only be described as loving. There was no simpering, no artifice in her expression. Just a steady warmth that bespoke a deep understanding of the man she was about to marry.

“She is perfect for him,” Lady Matlock said softly, her voice tinged with both pride and relief. “Do you see how at ease he is with her? No pretence, no posturing, just James being James. Oh, Henry, I always feared he might choose some feather-headed debutante who would exhaust him with endless frivolities. But Charlotte… Charlotte grounds him. She will keep him sensible without dulling his spirit.”

“An admirable quality in a wife,” Lord Matlock noted dryly, earning himself a sidelong glance from his own wife.

“Do not pretend you were always so wise, sir,” she teased, though her lips twitched with the effort of suppressing a smile. “I daresay you might have benefited from a touch more sensibility yourself in your youth.”

“Perhaps,” he conceded with a chuckle. “But then, I had the good fortune to marry you, my love, and thus all my youthful follies were forgiven.”

“Flatterer,” she said, though the faint blush that coloured her cheeks betrayed her pleasure. Turning her attention back to the bridal party, she added, “And yet, I cannot take credit for this particular match. It was James who saw what we might have overlooked. A woman of quiet strength, unassuming intelligence, and steadfast devotion. What more could any man ask for?”

“Well,” her husband said with a mischievous glint in his eye, “a generous dowry never goes amiss.”

“Henry!” Margaret tapped his arm lightly with her fan, though this time she allowed herself a laugh. “You are incorrigible!”

“Merely practical,” he replied with mock solemnity. “But as it happens, I agree with your assessment entirely, lack of dowry notwithstanding. Charlotte is precisely the sort of woman James needed. Sensible, yes, but not without a spark of wit. She will make us the finest of daughters. He could not have chosen better.”

“Indeed,” Lady Matlock said, her smile widening. “And she makes James laugh. Have you noticed that? He has been so serious these past years, burdened by duty and expectations. But with her… oh, Henry, he smiles like he did when he was a boy. Like he has rediscovered something he thought lost.”

“Then I suppose we owe Charlotte our gratitude,” Lord Matlock said. “For bringing our son back to us.”

“Yes,” Margaret agreed, her voice thick with emotion. “For making him whole.”

As the ceremonies concluded and the newlyweds began to move toward the awaiting carriages, Charlotte caught Lady Matlock’s eye and gave her a small, graceful curtsey, a gesture of respect and, perhaps, gratitude. Margaret’s heart swelled as she inclined her head in return, silently vowing to do everything in her power to ensure her new daughter-by-law felt as welcome and cherished as she deserved.

“Come,” Lord Matlock said, offering his arm once more. “Let us not linger too long, or we shall miss the festivities at Netherfield. And you do so enjoy a good wedding breakfast.”

“Not nearly as much as I enjoy a good family,” Lady Matlock replied, taking his arm with a contented sigh. As they walked toward their carriage, she cast one last look at James and Charlotte, who now shared a private laugh over some whispered exchange. Yes, Margaret thought with a smile, this day was indeed a triumph, and the first of many more to come.

The gentle strains of the string quartet provided a melodic counterpoint to the murmur of voices and rustle of silks in the drawing room at Netherfield. Lady Matlock held her head high as she navigated the crowd, her discerning eyes alighting on each grouping with practised ease. She had always excelled at such gatherings; years of observing human nature had honed her ability to find interest even in the most mundane of social interactions.

It was amidst this sea of wedding guests that her gaze settled on Anne de Bourgh. To Lady Matlock’s faint surprise, her niece was not perched awkwardly at the edge of the festivities, as Anne often preferred, but rather seated beside Mary Bennet near the hearth. The two young women appeared fully absorbed in conversation, their heads inclined towards one another, their expressions earnest yet animated.

“Well, I never,” Lady Matlock murmured under her breath, tilting her head in subtle curiosity. She had seen little evidence of Anne engaging so freely before, and with Miss Mary Bennet no less, a girl of quiet sensibility, who was often overshadowed by her more vivacious sisters. Lady Matlock’s lips curved into a small smile. How intriguing.

“Our niece has found herself an unexpected confidante,” Lord Matlock remarked, appearing at her side with a glass of ratafia for her. “And here I thought Anne incapable of more than monosyllables in company.”

“James, you are unfair,” Lady Matlock chided lightly, though her amusement shone through. “Anne is simply… selective. And perhaps Miss Mary has proven herself worthy of selection. Look at them.” She gestured delicately with her fan. “They seem quite engrossed.”

The moment lingered in her mind as the wedding breakfast continued. Netherfield’s expansive ballroom was filled with soft candlelight and the clinking of glasses, the air rich with the scent of roses and sugared confections. Lady Matlock, now seated comfortably with her back to a window overlooking the snow-dusted gardens, observed the revelry with satisfaction. Her son and nephew were both radiant with newlywed bliss, and the occasion was everything a society wedding ought to be.

“Miss Mary,” she called, catching sight of the young woman hovering near the refreshment table. Mary started slightly, then approached with a tentative smile, smoothing her modest lavender gown as she came forward.

“Lady Matlock,” Mary said with a polite curtsey. “How do you do?”

“Very well, my dear, thank you. I hope you are enjoying the day?”

“Indeed, ma’am. It has been most… lively,” Mary replied, her tone betraying both sincerity and a hint of overwhelm.

“Good,” Lady Matlock said warmly, patting the seat beside her. “Come, sit with me for a moment. I have a proposition to discuss with you, if I may.”

Mary blinked, clearly startled, but complied without hesitation. Once seated, she folded her hands neatly in her lap, her posture as prim and proper as any gimlet-eyed Society judge could wish.

“Now,” Lady Matlock began, leaning in conspiratorially, “I understand your sister Kitty is soon to go away to school for a year?”

“Yes, that is correct,” Mary confirmed. “She departs next week.”

“Well,” Lady Matlock continued, “as it happens, I find I rather enjoy introducing young ladies to society. And since my niece Anne will be accompanying me in London this season, I thought she might benefit from some additional company. Do you think you might like to join us?”

“Me?” Mary’s eyes widened, as though she could scarcely believe what she heard. “To London? With you?”

“Precisely,” Lady Matlock said with a reassuring smile. “You and Anne seemed to get on splendidly earlier…” (here, Mary coloured faintly, though whether from embarrassment or pleasure, Lady Matlock could not tell) “…and I daresay you might enjoy the change of scenery. What say you?”

Mary opened her mouth, as though to eagerly accept, and then she closed it again and slowly shook her head, looking away.

“Not even Mr Collins would look at me,” Mary said in a voice so quiet it might have been mistaken for the rustling of her silk gloves. She twisted her hands together in her lap, her gaze fixed on the floor as though she feared meeting Lady Matlock’s piercing blue eyes would unravel her entirely. “I do not think there is any point.”

For a moment, Lady Matlock simply regarded the young woman before her, her expression caught somewhere between astonishment and pity. Then, with a decisiveness that brooked no argument, she reached out and gently tipped Mary’s chin upward, forcing the girl to meet her gaze.

“Well,” Lady Matlock began, her tone a curious mixture of reproach and amusement, “that is the most nonsensical thing I have heard all day, and believe me, my dear, I have had the dubious pleasure of conversing with Sir Horace Grimsby this afternoon, so you may imagine the competition for that title.”

Mary blinked, startled, her lips parting slightly as if she might protest. But Lady Matlock pressed on, her thumb resting lightly beneath Mary’s chin as she tilted her head this way and that, examining her with an appraising eye that would have done credit to a portrait artist.

“Yes, indeed,” Lady Matlock murmured, more to herself than to Mary. “The very same high cheekbones and blue eyes as Jane... and the same delicate jawline as Elizabeth. Good heavens, child, you have been hiding yourself away like a pearl in an oyster!”

“Lady Matlock…” Mary started, her cheeks flushing a deep rose.

“None of that,” Lady Matlock interrupted briskly, releasing Mary’s chin and leaning back with a decisive nod. “You are a Bennet, after all, and that means you possess certain advantages—advantages which, I daresay, have gone woefully underutilised.”

“Advantages?” Mary asked faintly, still looking rather as though she were bracing for a lecture on her failings.

“Bone structure, my dear,” Lady Matlock explained as though the matter were perfectly self-evident. “That, and a certain natural grace which I can see lurking beneath all this... well...” She gestured vaguely at Mary’s unassuming gown and prim hairstyle.

“All this what?” Mary asked, her brow furrowing.

“Monastic simplicity,” Lady Matlock replied with a wicked glint in her eye. “A few pretty dresses, a maid who knows her business, and we shall transform you into something quite dazzling. Mark my words, my dear, by the time the Season is over, you will scarcely recognise yourself!”

“Transform me?” Mary echoed, her voice trembling between disbelief and something perilously close to hope. “But… but why? What purpose would it serve? I am not… not like my sisters. And I cannot imagine anyone would…”

“Like your sisters?” Lady Matlock interrupted, raising one elegant eyebrow. “No, you are not. You are yourself , Mary Bennet, and that is precisely the point. As for imagining whether anyone would take notice…” Here she leaned forward conspiratorially, her voice lowering just enough to lend her words a thrilling sort of weight. “Let us leave that to London, shall we? I promise you, my dear, we can do much better than a silly clergyman.”

At this, Mary’s lips parted again, but no sound emerged. Lady Matlock, watching her closely, softened her tone, allowing a warmth to suffuse her words.

“Come now,” she said gently. “Surely you would not deny me the pleasure of proving Mr Collins wrong?”

Mary blinked rapidly, as though the dawn of some uncharted possibility had broken over her. Her hands unclasped and fluttered briefly in her lap before she stilled them, her fingers twisting a fold of her gown. A faint blush crept up her neck, warming her otherwise pale complexion, and she lifted her gaze to meet Lady Matlock’s.

“Well,” Mary began, her voice soft but getting stronger as she continued, “if it is not too much trouble, my lady, then... I should very much like to take you up on your kind offer.” She paused, swallowing hard as if bracing for ridicule, before adding in a tone that was almost apologetic, “Though I fear it may prove quite the undertaking.”

Lady Matlock’s expression brightened at once, her own smile blooming wider than propriety might strictly allow. She gave Mary a look of such triumphant delight, one might have thought the girl had just announced her engagement to a duke rather than merely agreed to purchase new gowns and attend a few balls and soirées.

“Trouble?” Lady Matlock repeated, letting out a tinkling laugh. “My dear child, nonsense! Transforming you into an admired young lady will be no trouble at all! It shall be a pleasure .“ She patted Mary’s hand with motherly affection, then sat back in her chair, her gaze softening as she studied the younger woman anew. “You will see, my dear. London shall adore you.”

Mary’s lips twitched—not quite a smile, but something close to it—and her shoulders relaxed visibly. The tension that so often defined her posture seemed to melt away, leaving her looking, for perhaps the first time that day, at ease in her own skin. Lady Matlock could not help but feel a pang of satisfaction at this small but significant victory.

“Now,” she said, straightening her spine and glancing about the room, “let us enjoy this delightful gathering while we can. The work of making a diamond of the first water must wait until after these festivities, and I am determined to savour every moment of this particular triumph first.”

And what a triumph it was! Lady Matlock’s gaze swept over the crowded room, where laughter mingled with the strains of a lively reel played by the hired musicians. Couples spun gracefully across the floor, their smiles radiant, their steps light. In one corner, Charles Bingley leaned closer to his new bride, Jane, their heads inclined together in the tenderest of conspiracies. Across the room, Elizabeth and Fitzwilliam Darcy stood arm in arm, their expressions softer, more intimate than Lady Matlock had ever seen from either of them.

“Ah, young love,” she murmured under her breath, a note of wistfulness threading through her words. But her attention did not linger overlong on the newlyweds; instead, her sharp blue eyes moved to James—the Viscount Highton—standing with his bride, Charlotte, now a viscountess.

Her son’s face, so often marked by the weariness of duty and title, now bore an expression of such unguarded joy that it nearly brought a tear to her eye. And Charlotte, sensible, clever Charlotte, was gazing up at him with an affection that warmed the Countess’s heart. Lady Matlock allowed herself a quiet sigh of relief; the match had been unconventional, yes, but so clearly right .

“Three matches made and well-made,” she mused softly to herself, folding her gloved hands neatly in her lap.

Her eyes drifted to another corner of the room, where Anne de Bourgh sat beside Mary. The two were deep in conversation once again, their heads bent close together, and though Anne’s countenance remained as pale and fragile as ever, there was a spark of animation in her eyes that Margaret had not seen since… well, since ever, really.

“Perhaps there is hope for Anne yet,” Lady Matlock murmured, her lips curving into a private smile. “And perhaps for Mary, too.”

The music swelled, the dancers turned, and Lady Matlock allowed herself to bask in the glow of what she could only call a perfect day.

The Countess of Matlock was just beginning to contemplate the merits of a second glass of ratafia when a familiar hand, warm and steady, enclosed her own. Startled from her reverie, she turned to find her husband, his silver hair catching the golden candlelight, his expression one of supreme satisfaction.

“Margaret,” Lord Matlock began, his tone rich with amusement, “are you not the picture of serene triumph? I daresay our meddling has borne fruit in abundance. Three matches—one might almost call it an orchard.”

“An orchard indeed, Henry,” Lady Matlock replied, her lips curving into a smile as she allowed him to draw her to her feet. Her silk gown swished softly against the floor as she rose. “I flatter myself that my pruning and tending have had no small part in the harvest.”

“Pruning and tending?” he repeated, a twinkle in his eye. “Nonsense, Margaret. You’ve orchestrated this entire symphony like a maestro. Admit it, you’re rather enjoying yourself.”

“Enjoying myself?” She tilted her head, feigning offence even as her eyes sparkled. “Why, Henry, what do you take me for? A woman who finds pleasure in meddling with the lives of her friends and relations?”

“Precisely.” He grinned unrepentantly. “And you are frightfully good at it. So much so, my dear, that I fear you may become restless now that all is settled. What will you do without another match to scheme over?”

Lady Matlock tapped her chin thoughtfully, her gaze drifting toward the frosted windows of Netherfield’s drawing room. Beyond them, snow glittered like powdered diamonds under the moonlight, but her mind was elsewhere, flitting through a dozen schemes half-formed already.

“Perhaps,” she said slowly, deliberately, as though testing the words on her tongue, “it is time to turn my talents into an enterprise. Matlock’s Matchmaking .“ She turned back to him with a mischievous gleam in her eye. “What do you think, Henry? Shall I hang out a shingle and advertise my services? ‘Countess of Matlock: Marriages Arranged with Elegance and Expedience.’”

Lord Matlock threw back his head and laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that drew curious glances from nearby revellers. He did not care; he never did. It was one of the things she loved most about him.

“Margaret, my love,” he said once his mirth had subsided, his voice low enough that only she could hear, “if anyone could make such an endeavour respectable, it would be you. With your impeccable taste and unerring instinct, I’ve no doubt you’d leave the Ton trailing behind you in admiration. Why, you’d have every eligible bachelor in London pounding upon our door by Midsummer.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” she quipped, though her cheeks betrayed her with a faint blush.

“On the contrary,” he murmured, leaning in to press a gallant kiss to her cheek, “it appears to have gotten me precisely where I wish to be.”

She felt the warmth of his lips linger there for a moment before he straightened, his hand still clasping hers. For a man known for his commanding presence and formidable reputation, he had always been disarmingly gentle with her, a fact she cherished more than she would ever let on.

“Well then,” she said briskly, though her heart gave a little flutter, “perhaps I shall consider it. After all, if today has proven anything, it is that even the most impossible cases can yield astonishing results.”

“Indeed,” he agreed, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Though I suspect, my dear, that your greatest talent lies not merely in matchmaking, but in inspiring hope where none dared to dream it. And for that,” he raised her hand to his lips with the kind of courtly flourish that made ladies swoon, though Margaret merely rolled her eyes affectionately, “you have my undying admiration.”

“Your admiration and a shilling will buy me an ounce of tea,” she retorted, though her smile softened the jest.

“Ah, but tea cannot compare to the satisfaction of seeing you triumphant,” he countered smoothly.

“Nor to the satisfaction of being right,” she said, laughing as they turned to observe the assembly once more.

“Though it occurs to me, my dear, that our work is not quite finished,” Lord Matlock observed.

“Not finished?” she repeated, arching a delicate brow.

“Indeed,” he said, his eyes glinting with mischief, “what of our other son? Richard needs a wife, does he not? And let us not forget Anne, or Georgiana…”

“Or Mary and Kitty Bennet,” she added, unable to suppress a laugh. “Yes, yes, I see your point. We have no shortage of candidates for our services. By the time we have seen them all suitably married, we will scarcely have time to meddle further, for by then, surely, there will be grandchildren and great-nephews and nieces to occupy us!”

“An optimistic projection,” her husband remarked dryly, though his expression betrayed nothing but fondness. “But allow me to pose an even greater challenge, madam: what shall we do about Caroline Bingley?” He gestured towards the lady herself, standing across the room wearing a disconsolate expression and a quite ghastly orange frock.

“Caroline Bingley!” Lady Matlock exclaimed, turning sharply to fix him with a look of mock indignation. “You cannot be serious, Henry. There is not a gentleman alive whom I dislike enough to wish such a fate upon him.”

“Not even Mr Collins?” he suggested, his tone deceptively mild.

“Mr Collins!” she cried, one hand flying to her chest in exaggerated horror. A peal of laughter escaped her lips before she could compose herself. “Oh, heavens, no! That would be cruelty of the most unforgivable sort, to both parties!”

“Then perhaps,” Lord Matlock said, his own shoulders shaking with suppressed mirth, “we must resign ourselves to the notion that some people are simply beyond even your considerable talents.”

“Quite so,” she agreed, dabbing delicately at the tears that had sprung to her eyes from laughing. “And may they remain so, for the sake of all concerned.”

Their laughter mingled as they sat side by side, content in the knowledge that, at least for tonight, they had done their part to bring happiness to those they loved. Around them, the strains of music and the hum of conversation carried on, but for Lady Matlock, the world seemed perfectly still—a moment suspended in time, shared with the man who had been her partner in every adventure, every triumph, and every joy life had offered.

~ The End ~

If you enjoyed this book, why not try another of my Austen variations? Look out for Lydia and the Colonel , coming soon!