Page 3 of The Meddling Matlocks (Pride & Prejudice Variations)
Chapter Three
The fever had painted two bright spots on Jane’s cheeks, a stark contrast to the pallor that otherwise dominated her complexion.
“Jane,” Elizabeth murmured, brushing a stray curl from her sister’s forehead. The heat beneath her fingertips was alarming, and for a moment, Elizabeth’s breath hitched in her throat. “Oh, dearest.”
“Mr Bingley...” Jane whispered, her voice faint and tremulous.
Her fevered mind seemed caught somewhere between reality and a dream, and the sound of his name on her lips tugged at Elizabeth’s heart. She glanced over her shoulder to where Lady Matlock and Mrs Whiting stood near the window, their heads together in quiet discussion.
“Lady Matlock,” Elizabeth called softly, beckoning them over.
“Poor girl,” Lady Matlock said, surveying Jane with concern. “She looks quite unwell indeed. But do not fret, Miss Elizabeth; we shall take every care of her.”
“Thank you,” Elizabeth replied, her voice thick with gratitude, though her brow remained furrowed. “I cannot bear to see her like this. She is always so serene, so composed. This…” She gestured helplessly towards Jane, who stirred fitfully under the covers. “This is unlike her entirely.”
“Fever does try even the gentlest constitution,” Mrs Whiting said kindly, her accent carrying the soft lilt of Derbyshire. She placed a comforting hand on Elizabeth’s arm. “We’ll see her through it, never fear. Many a soul recovers from worse.”
“Indeed,” Lady Matlock agreed. “Though I daresay that apothecary cannot come soon enough. One wonders if they make their draughts from scratch the moment one sends for them.”
Elizabeth gave a small, reluctant smile at Lady Matlock’s wry tone. “If they were any slower, I might be convinced they grow the herbs themselves first,” she quipped, though her attention remained fixed on Jane. “Do you think we’ve done all we can for now? I would hate to have overlooked anything.”
“Miss Bennet, you’ve hardly stopped since we entered the room,” Lady Matlock pointed out gently. “If diligence alone could cure your sister, I daresay she’d be dancing a reel by now.”
“Her ladyship is quite right,” Mrs Whiting added with an approving nod. “You’ll be no good to her if you wear yourself out fretting. Let us divide the labour, my dear. It is what we women are best at, after all.”
“Second only to enduring the company of irksome men,” Lady Matlock muttered under her breath, eliciting a startled laugh from Elizabeth despite herself.
“Thank you,” Elizabeth said again, more earnestly this time. How strange, she thought, to find comfort in the presence of these relative strangers. And yet, there was something undeniably reassuring about Lady Matlock’s composed authority and Mrs Whiting’s homely warmth. Together, they seemed to fill the room with a sense of calm purpose, a balm to Elizabeth’s frayed nerves.
“Now then,” Lady Matlock declared, smoothing her skirts with a decisive pat. “Mrs Whiting, let us prepare some cool compresses. Miss Elizabeth, you should sit with your sister and hold her hand. A most important task, I assure you. But do try not to look quite so tragic, my dear, you’ll frighten poor Jane into thinking herself at death’s door.”
Elizabeth bit back another laugh, grateful beyond words for the levity Lady Matlock brought to the situation. As she took Jane’s slender hand in her own, she found herself silently vowing to repay this kindness someday. For now, however, her focus remained firmly on her sister.
“Rest, Jane,” she whispered softly. “We shall not leave you.”
“Gillian, my dear, would you hand me that basin of water? Yes, just there, thank you,” Lady Matlock said briskly, bending over Jane with a practised air. Her fine silk sleeves were pushed up to her elbows, a sight Elizabeth found both startling and endearing, for it seemed to mark the countess as a woman of action rather than mere words despite her elevated rank.
Mrs Whiting, meanwhile, hovered nearby with the required basin in her hands and an encouraging smile on her round face. “She’s resting a bit easier now, poor lamb,” she murmured, peering down at Jane’s flushed cheeks. “A fever’s a nasty thing, but young people have a way of bouncing back quicker than you’d think.”
“Let us hope so,” Elizabeth replied, her voice tinged with worry. She glanced at Jane, who lay propped against a mountain of pillows, her breathing shallow and her golden curls damp with perspiration. Every so often, her sister would mumble something incoherent, her normally serene features pinched with discomfort. The sight made Elizabeth’s heart squeeze painfully.
“Ah, here he is,” Lady Matlock announced as the door creaked open to admit the apothecary, a stooped man with a nose redder than fashion dictated. He carried an assortment of bottles and parcels in a battered leather satchel, which he set down with a thud upon the nearest table.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he greeted her, and she nodded with a tight smile.
“Thank you for coming, Mr Jones. Jane was taken unwell yesterday after getting caught in the rain.”
“Dear me.” The apothecary leaned over Jane, his grey brows furrowing as he took in her pallid complexion. After several moments of poking, prodding, and muttering beneath his breath, he straightened with an air of grave authority. “The fever is significant but not insurmountable. However, she must remain where she is for the time being. The journey home could prove too taxing in her present state. I shall prepare some draughts to ease her symptoms and bring down the fever.”
“Thank you,” Elizabeth said earnestly, relief mingling with fresh concern. The idea of moving Jane had filled her with dread; now, at least, that particular decision was made plain.
“Very well,” Lady Matlock said decisively. “Mrs Whiting, see to it that our good friend here has whatever he requires while preparing the draughts. Miss Elizabeth and I will manage things here.”
“At once, your ladyship,” Mrs Whiting chirped, already bustling toward the apothecary with the enthusiasm of one who never met a task she could not tackle.
As the door swung shut behind them, Elizabeth resumed her place by Jane’s side, brushing a stray curl from her sister’s damp forehead. “You hear that, dearest?” she whispered. “You are to stay right here and rest. All shall be well.”
Jane stirred faintly at the sound of her voice, her lashes fluttering. “Lizzy,” she murmured, barely audible. “You… won’t leave?”
“Never,” Elizabeth assured her, clasping her hand tightly. “I am here, Jane. Always.”
“How touching,” came an altogether different voice from the doorway, smooth and saccharine. Elizabeth turned sharply to find Miss Bingley gliding into the room, her orange gown clashing horribly with the subdued tones of the chamber. Her expression held all the sympathy of a cat eyeing its next meal. “Poor Miss Bennet,” she continued, her lips curving into a smile that did not reach her eyes. “Such a shame, truly. But I suppose these country constitutions are perhaps not so robust as everyone claims them to be.”
“Miss Bingley,” Elizabeth said coolly, rising to her feet. “We appreciate your concern.”
“I have come to offer you the use of our carriage, Miss Eliza, to return home to Longbourn.” Caroline offered a sickly-sweet smile.
“Oh, but I would prefer,” Elizabeth began, but before she could say more, a soft, heart-wrenching sound drew her attention. Jane, half-conscious and trembling, had begun to cry, silent tears slipping down her cheeks.
“Jane!” Elizabeth was at her side in an instant, dabbing at the tears with her handkerchief. “Hush, dearest, hush. There is no need for this. I am not going anywhere.”
“Not… leaving?” Jane whispered, her voice thick with emotion.
“Of course not,” Elizabeth soothed, shooting a sharp glance at Miss Bingley, whose smile had faltered ever so slightly. “You need only rest now, Jane. I am here, and I shall remain until you are quite well again.”
“How noble,” Caroline remarked, though her tone suggested otherwise. “But surely you must see the practicality of returning home to fetch additional comforts for your sister?”
“Practicality be hanged,” Elizabeth muttered under her breath, then added aloud, “Jane’s comfort lies in my presence, Miss Bingley. That is all she requires for now.”
“Quite so,” Lady Matlock interjected, sweeping into the conversation like a force of nature. She fixed Caroline with a look so imperious that even the orange-clad intruder appeared momentarily cowed. “Miss Elizabeth’s place is here, with her sister. If there is any fetching to be done, I daresay someone else may manage it.”
Elizabeth, who had been half-expecting a polite battle of wills, found herself staring at Lady Matlock with something bordering on awe. The Countess’s tone brooked no argument, but there was an inherent kindness in her words that softened their edge. It was the sort of kindness Caroline Bingley would likely struggle to recognise, let alone replicate.
“Of course,” Caroline said after a moment, her lips tightening so visibly that Elizabeth suspected they might vanish altogether. “If that is your wish, Lady Matlock…”
“It is not merely my wish, Miss Bingley,” Lady Matlock interrupted smoothly, “but a necessity. I am certain you agree that Miss Bennet’s comfort, and indeed, her recovery, must take precedence over all else. Do you not?”
“Naturally,” Caroline replied, her voice dripping with reluctant civility. Her smile, however, was brittle enough to shatter. “Perhaps then I might send a servant to Longbourn, to fetch what Miss Eliza might require for her extended stay?”
“An excellent suggestion,” Lady Matlock said graciously. “You see? How resourceful. There is no need for any disruption to Miss Bennet’s care.”
“Indeed,” Caroline said tightly, though her enthusiasm did not seem to extend beyond the confines of her vocabulary. With a stiff bow of her head, she swept from the room like a discontented peacock, her skirts barely grazing the doorframe before it closed behind her.
“Well,” Lady Matlock said cheerily, brushing non-existent lint from her sleeves. “That resolves the matter quite neatly. Now, my dear Miss Elizabeth,” she turned to Elizabeth with an expression of almost maternal concern, “how do you fare yourself? You must allow me to look after you as well, or I shall never forgive myself.”
“That is most unnecessary, I assure you,” Elizabeth said quickly, though the warmth of Lady Matlock’s regard was difficult to resist. “Jane is all that matters at present.”
“Your loyalty does you credit, my dear.” Lady Matlock smiled, her eyes twinkling with what Elizabeth could only describe as mischief. “But even the most devoted sisters must eat, and if you intend to starve yourself into uselessness, I shall be forced to intervene most sternly. Once your things have been sent over, I insist you change and come down to dinner.”
“Oh no,” Elizabeth disclaimed, glancing towards Jane’s bed where Mrs Whiting was diligently arranging cooling cloths. “I cannot possibly leave her; she may wake and need me.”
“Then she shall have Mrs Whiting,” Lady Matlock replied briskly, as though the matter were already settled. “Mrs Whiting will sit here and enjoy a tray, and Jane shall be well attended in your absence.” She paused, leaning in conspiratorially. “Besides, if you abandon me to dine alone with Miss Bingley, I may very well perish of boredom before the soup course.”
“Lady Matlock!” Elizabeth exclaimed, her laughter spilling forth despite her efforts to contain it.
“Do not mistake me, child; I speak from experience,” Lady Matlock said gravely, though the corners of her mouth twitched with mirth. “You have not endured Miss Bingley’s opinions on floral arrangements, nor her soliloquies on the virtues of French millinery. Few mortals emerge unscathed.”
“Surely you exaggerate,” Elizabeth said, though she could not hide her amusement.
“Come down for dinner and discover the truth for yourself,” Lady Matlock challenged lightly, slipping her arm through Elizabeth’s in a gesture so natural it felt as though they had done so a hundred times before. “Come now, Miss Elizabeth. We shall fortify ourselves against tedium together, and if Miss Bingley proves too insufferable, I pledge to reward your courage with a glass of the Earl’s finest claret. He travels nowhere without it, you know.”
“How could I possibly refuse such a generous offer?” Elizabeth said with mock solemnity, though her heart warmed at the Countess’s genuine affection. A glance back at Jane, who slept peacefully beneath the diligent care of Mrs Whiting, reassured her enough to yield. “Very well, Lady Matlock, you have convinced me—for Jane’s sake, of course.”
“Of course,” Lady Matlock agreed, her expression triumphant.
Elizabeth descended the grand staircase beside Lady Matlock, her laughter barely restrained as they reached the bottom step. She had exchanged her mud-stained gown for a simple but elegant muslin dress, its soft green hue complementing her dark curls. The Countess’s arm looped through hers lent an air of camaraderie that Elizabeth found both surprising and oddly comforting.
The drawing room doors were flung open by a footman, revealing the assembled party within. Mr Darcy stood near the hearth, his tall frame silhouetted against the flickering firelight, while Mr Bingley and Caroline occupied two settees in strategic proximity to him. At their entrance, all heads turned, though none with quite the intensity of Miss Bingley’s. Her eyes widened in disbelief, and the colour in her cheeks rose sharply, as though affronted by the sheer audacity of Elizabeth’s presence arm-in-arm with a countess.
“Good heavens,” Caroline exclaimed under her breath, her fan snapping shut with unnecessary vigour. She recovered quickly enough, plastering on a tight smile that did little to mask the glint of irritation in her gaze.
“Do forgive our tardiness,” Lady Matlock announced breezily, guiding Elizabeth forward with the same regal authority one might use to present a duchess at court. “Miss Elizabeth was kind enough to indulge my request for her company this evening. I could not possibly endure the meal without her sharp wit to sustain me.”
Elizabeth bit back a grin, keenly aware of the piercing glare Caroline now directed at her.
“How... delightful,” Miss Bingley managed, the word sounding more like a lament than a compliment.
Darcy, who had been studiously observing the flames a moment ago, turned his attention to the scene unfolding before him. From his vantage point, he noted the subtle interplay of expressions crossing Elizabeth’s face—the faint twitch at the corner of her lips, the arch of her brow as she glanced at Lady Matlock with something akin to fond exasperation. It was all too easy to discern that she was amused, though not unkindly so, by the situation.
For his part, Darcy felt his chest tighten, a sensation not entirely unfamiliar but increasingly unwelcome. He ought to be indifferent, detached even, to such trivialities as Elizabeth Bennet’s presence at dinner. And yet, the sight of her descending the stairs had rendered him immobile, as though every ounce of air in the room had conspired against him.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said, inclining his head with a formality that felt stiffer than usual. “I trust your sister is resting comfortably?”
“She is, Mr Darcy,” Elizabeth replied, giving him a smile for his inquiry. “Thanks to the kind attentions she has received here at Netherfield, and most significantly the gentle care of Mrs Whiting and Lady Matlock, Jane has everything she needs. I am most grateful.”
“Indeed, we must commend Lady Matlock’s generosity,” Caroline interjected, her tone laced with saccharine sweetness. “It is no small thing to extend such kindness to…” She hesitated, perhaps realising that whatever slight she intended would not sit well with the countess. “…to guests in need.”
“Kindness is only ever a small thing to those willing to offer it,” Lady Matlock remarked pointedly, her cool gaze settling on Miss Bingley before turning back to Elizabeth. “But come, my dear. Let us take our seats before the soup grows cold.”
Darcy watched as Elizabeth allowed herself to be guided toward the dining table, her every movement imbued with a grace that seemed utterly unstudied. Caroline’s displeasure radiated from her like heat off a midsummer cobblestone, though she managed to keep her composure, for now.
He exhaled slowly, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. This evening promised to be far longer than he anticipated, although there were unanticipated pleasures to be had in the pleasant view of Miss Elizabeth in that charming green dress.
The moment Elizabeth excused herself from the drawing room, a collective sigh of disappointment seemed to ripple through the remaining company, though whether it was due to the absence of her engaging conversation or the prospect of enduring Miss Bingley’s unchecked commentary was open to debate.
Caroline shifted in her seat, the rustle of her silk gown drawing a few glances. Her lips curved into what she no doubt thought was an amiable smile, though it had the unfortunate effect of resembling a cat cornering a canary. “Of course,” she began, her voice lilting with studied politeness, “ Jane Bennet is such a sweet girl. One cannot help but admire her… obliging nature.”
Lady Matlock raised one elegant brow, her blue eyes fixed on Caroline with the sort of mild scrutiny that could peel paint from a parlour wall. “Indeed,” she said smoothly, her tone as polished as her pearls. “Sweetness is a quality one ought never to undervalue.”
“Quite so,” Caroline hastened to agree, her cheeks pinkening as though she’d been caught in a draft. “Dear Jane possesses…”
she glanced furtively at Darcy, who was pointedly examining his wine glass as if it contained the secrets of the universe, “…a most endearing disposition.”
“How fortunate for Mr Bingley, then,” Lady Matlock replied with saccharine cheer, turning her attention to Charles, who had been doing his best impression of a man attempting to disappear into his cravat.
“Er…” Bingley fumbled, nearly upsetting his spoon. His ears turned a rather unfortunate shade of scarlet as he darted a helpless glance around the table. “Well, I—I don’t know about that…”
“Now, now,” Lady Matlock interrupted, her smile widening with mischievous delight. “You mustn’t be so modest, Mr Bingley. Good taste should always be commended, and yours, I daresay,” her gaze sparkled with something decidedly conspiratorial, “is impeccable.”
“Thank you, my lady,” Bingley mumbled, his blush deepening until one might have mistaken him for having spent a long afternoon in the sun. He fidgeted with the edge of his waistcoat as though it might shield him from the collective amusement radiating from the table.
“Of course,” Lady Matlock continued, entirely undeterred by his discomfort, “one hopes such fine judgment extends beyond matters of dress and dinner parties.” Her words were perfectly innocent, yet the sly glance she cast toward Darcy suggested otherwise.
Darcy glanced at his aunt sidelong. Lady Matlock, it seemed, was far too amused by their host’s awkwardness to relent.
“Really, Mr Bingley,” she said with a smile as sweet as treacle but twice as sticky, “one might think you’d never received a compliment before. But I am quite serious. Miss Bennet appears to me to be a most delightful young lady. Quite the treasure.”
Darcy’s fingers tightened imperceptibly around the stem of his wine glass. He took a deliberate sip, letting the rich burgundy rest on his tongue longer than necessary as he studied his aunt from over the rim. It was not like her to speak so warmly, or so effusively, of anyone she had only just met. The Bennets were hardly the sort of family to typically attract his aunt’s approbation. Their mother alone could send half of Mayfair fleeing for refuge behind the potted ferns… although he supposed, Lady Matlock had not yet made Mrs Bennet’s acquaintance.
“Forgive me, Aunt,” Darcy interjected at last, his tone cool and measured, “but you speak as though you have known Miss Bennet for years, rather than hours.”
“Ah, Darcy,” Lady Matlock replied with a knowing arch of her brow, “a few hours in the company of such sincerity is worth more than weeks spent amongst flatterers. You would do well to remember that.”
“Indeed,” he murmured, though his expression betrayed no such agreement. He turned his gaze downward, tracing the delicate cut of the crystal glass in his hand as though it held some profound revelation. That his aunt should find Jane Bennet agreeable was surprising enough; that she should extol her virtues with such enthusiasm was positively perplexing.
Was Lady Matlock truly unaware of the Bennets’ circumstances? Surely she must have discovered it by now, his aunt was not the type to remain uninformed when it came to matters of lineage and propriety, particularly where prospective connections were concerned, and Caroline Bingley had had plenty of time to acquaint her with all the particulars. And yet, here she was, praising Miss Bennet as if she were the daughter of a viscount rather than a provincial gentleman with little fortune and no connections.
There was little doubt in Darcy’s mind that his friend’s attentions toward Miss Bennet stemmed from genuine affection. But affection alone could not erase the glaring disparities between their stations, disparities that would surely become insurmountable obstacles in time.
“Well, no matter,” Lady Matlock declared, breaking into his thoughts. She waved a dismissive hand, as though brushing aside any objections that might arise. “I believe Mr Bingley will manage just fine without our interference. As for the rest,” she paused, her gaze lingering on Darcy for a fraction longer than was comfortable, “time will tell.”
Darcy did not respond. Instead, he allowed his focus to drift toward the candlelight dancing along the silverware, its flickering glow casting fleeting shadows across the linen tablecloth. Time would indeed tell, though he suspected it would have little to say in favour of Bingley’s current infatuation. And as for his aunt’s newfound appreciation for the Bennets… Well, surely it was nothing more than a passing fancy. After all, she and his uncle would soon continue their journey to London, where such rural diversions would quickly be forgotten.
Yes, he thought, setting his shoulders with quiet resolve. It would all be of little consequence soon enough.