Page 6 of The Meddling Matlocks (Pride & Prejudice Variations)
Chapter Six
The following morning, the Earl of Matlock wasted no time in ordering his carriage made ready, offering only the slightest of apologies to his hosts for abandoning them again. “Off I go to Longbourn!” he declared with the air of a man embarking on some grand expedition. “Bennet and I have twenty years of nonsense to catch up on, and I shall not leave him in peace until we’ve relived every last jest.”
Elizabeth felt a smile tug at her lips. She imagined the two old friends ensconced in Longbourn’s study, surrounded by bookshelves that leaned more precariously with each passing year, their conversation punctuated by Mr Bennet’s dry wit and the Earl’s hearty laugh.
“How very convenient for Papa,” she murmured to herself, “to have found someone willing to indulge his fondness for absurdity without complaint. Poor Hill will no doubt be run ragged ensuring they do not starve amidst their discourse.”
“Did you speak, Miss Elizabeth?” asked Miss Bingley from the corner of the room where she reclined languidly on a settee, her embroidery hoop abandoned in favour of a well-practised expression of studied indifference.
“Only to myself, Miss Bingley,” Elizabeth replied cheerfully, turning back to face her hostess. “A dreadful habit, I know.”
“Indeed,” Miss Bingley said with a faint sniff. “One must take care with such habits; people may begin to wonder whom you find so fascinating a confidante.”
“Then I shall make it my purpose to cultivate their envy,” Elizabeth returned with a glint in her eye. She would not allow herself to be drawn into one of Miss Bingley’s verbal skirmishes, not today, when the weather outside promised such freedom beyond Netherfield’s stifling walls.
“How tiresome men can be,” sighed Miss Bingley, shifting to inspect her nails. “The Earl of Matlock has hardly spent a moment in our company since his arrival, preferring instead to disappear into the wilderness of Hertfordshire. How charming it must be for your father to command such attention.”
“Charming indeed,” Elizabeth agreed lightly, though her words carried the faintest edge. It did not escape her notice how deftly Miss Bingley managed to couch insult beneath the guise of compliment. Elizabeth wondered what the Earl might say if he heard himself described as wandering a wilderness simply because he chose Longbourn over Netherfield’s drawing room.
“Perhaps he finds the society of simple country folk refreshing,” she added with a sweet smile that Miss Bingley seemed to find anything but agreeable.
“Simple, to be sure,” Miss Bingley muttered, though her tone lacked its usual venom. She turned her gaze towards the window and waved a dismissive hand. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I shall write some letters. London society grows quite forgetful if neglected too long.” With that, she swept from the room, leaving Elizabeth blessedly alone.
“At last,” Elizabeth exhaled, stepping away from the window. Her thoughts lingered briefly on the Earl again, now bumping along the road to Longbourn, likely anticipating a day free of artifice and pretension. A pang of envy struck her, though she quickly dismissed it. Surely there would be ample opportunity for her own escape soon enough.
“Miss Bennet, may I tempt you to leave this gilded cage and join me for a walk?” Lady Matlock’s voice interrupted Elizabeth’s quiet contemplation as the countess entered the room. “Miss Bingley seems quite set against it, but if you would oblige me, I would be delighted to have some company.”
Elizabeth turned with a smile, her spirits lifting at once. “I should be delighted, Lady Matlock. I daresay my poor lungs are in need of some fresh air after such prolonged captivity.”
“Excellent. A constitutional is precisely what we both require,” the countess declared.
Elizabeth wasted no time in fetching her bonnet and gloves. The thought of escaping the stifling formality of Netherfield, if only for an hour, was enough to quicken her steps.
“Shall we?” Lady Matlock extended a hand, her serene expression giving nothing away save a quiet sense of purpose.
“With pleasure,” Elizabeth replied, feeling an unexpected camaraderie with the elegant countess as she linked arms with the older woman.
They stepped out into the crisp morning air, which carried faint traces of damp earth and distant woodsmoke. The gravel path crunched pleasantly beneath their feet as they set off toward the copse of trees edging the estate. Sunlight streamed through scattered clouds, illuminating patches of frost that sparkled like scattered diamonds upon the lawns.
“Netherfield is quite lovely,” Lady Matlock remarked conversationally. “Though I suspect its charm pales somewhat when one has been confined indoors.”
“Indeed,” Elizabeth agreed. “I have oft found that even the most handsome interiors begin to resemble a prison after too long. But I suppose that is the plight of the ‘simple country folk’ Miss Bingley so admires.”
Lady Matlock chuckled softly, a sound that struck Elizabeth as unexpectedly genuine. “She does possess a talent for veiling her opinions behind polite phrasing. One might almost admire it, were the veil not so very transparent.”
“Quite so,” Elizabeth agreed, feeling a surge of affection for the older woman. There was something refreshingly candid about Lady Matlock, despite her polished exterior.
The conversation drifted easily between them as they walked, touching on topics ranging from the weather to the peculiarities of local flora. Elizabeth found herself relaxing in the countess’s company, her initial wariness giving way to genuine enjoyment.
“Ah,” Lady Matlock murmured suddenly, her tone shifting just enough to draw Elizabeth’s attention. Ahead, on the curve of the path, two figures appeared, a tall gentleman and a lady whose vivid orange pelisse seemed calculated to draw notice.
“Mr Darcy,” Elizabeth said before she could stop herself. Her heart gave an odd little flutter, though she quickly dismissed it as irritation. Beside him, Miss Bingley moved with a purposeful elegance, her arm lightly brushing his as she gestured animatedly.
“Indeed,” Lady Matlock said, her smile taking on a distinctly enigmatic quality. “They have followed us out, it seems! Perhaps Miss Bingley found the the outdoors more appealing with the prospect of my nephew’s companionship. And Miss Bingley does appear determined to keep him thoroughly entertained.”
As they drew closer, Elizabeth noted the slight stiffness in Darcy’s posture, the way his eyes darted briefly in her direction before returning to some fixed point ahead. If he had been comfortable before, he certainly was not now.
“Lady Matlock,” Caroline exclaimed, her voice dripping with feigned delight as she released Darcy’s arm and curtsied. “What a pleasant surprise. Mr Darcy and I were just discussing…” She hesitated, her gaze flickering to Elizabeth. “Well, no matter. What a charming day for a walk!”
“Charming, indeed,” Lady Matlock agreed smoothly, her piercing blue eyes betraying none of the amusement Elizabeth suspected lurked beneath.
Darcy inclined his head in greeting, his expression carefully neutral, though a faint flush coloured his cheeks. “Miss Elizabeth. Aunt.”
“How fortunate we are to encounter such agreeable company,” Lady Matlock said, her voice carrying the weightless authority of someone who knew exactly how to command a room, or, in this case, a garden path.
“Yes,” Elizabeth said, though inwardly she could not help but wonder just what had passed between the pair before their arrival. Darcy looked as though he’d been caught committing some unspeakable crime, and Caroline’s expression had taken on the suspicious sharpness of a cat interrupted mid-prowl.
“Shall we continue?” Lady Matlock suggested.
“By all means,” Darcy replied, though he still seemed ill at ease. His eyes flickered briefly to Elizabeth, and for a moment she thought she detected something—an apology? An explanation? Whatever it was, it vanished as quickly as it appeared.
Lady Matlock had scarcely resumed her step along the path when, with a deftness that could only come from years of social manoeuvring, she linked arms with Miss Bingley. The transition was so seamless, so unerringly graceful, that Elizabeth, who found herself suddenly walking beside Mr Darcy, blinked in astonishment.
“Miss Bingley,” Lady Matlock said warmly, guiding her down a fork in the path, “I must confess I am quite taken with Netherfield. It is charming, positively charming, and so conveniently located, in such a delightful neighbourhood! You must encourage your brother to purchase it without delay.”
Elizabeth caught a glimpse of Caroline’s face as they parted ways. Her smile had frozen into something brittle and strained, like sugar candy left in the sun. “Oh, Lady Matlock,” Caroline replied, her voice faltering, “how very kind of you to say so. But Charles is so… impulsive.”
“Ah, that is the beauty of youth,” Lady Matlock countered, her tone edged with an authority that brooked no argument. “Impulsiveness often leads to our grandest adventures. And really, what better adventure than establishing a proper estate?”
As their voices faded into the distance, Elizabeth turned her attention to her unexpected new companion. Darcy was walking stiffly by her side, his hands clasped behind his back, his gaze fixed resolutely ahead as though the gravelled path held some great philosophical truth.
“Well,” she began, her tone light, “it seems Lady Matlock is determined to settle your friend Mr Bingley here at Netherfield. Do you share her enthusiasm?”
Darcy glanced at her, startled, before returning his eyes to the path. His hesitation lingered just long enough for Elizabeth to feel a flicker of triumph. Teasing him, though not always fruitful, was invariably entertaining.
“Do you suppose,” she pressed, emboldened, “that Mr Bingley will heed her advice? Or do you too think he suffers from the affliction of impulsiveness?”
“Mr Bingley,” Darcy said at last, his voice low and deliberate, “is a man of amiable disposition and generous spirit. He values the opinions of those he holds dear.” He paused, then added, almost grudgingly, “And Lady Matlock is particularly persuasive when she wishes to be.”
“Indeed, she appears to have mastered the art of persuasion,” Elizabeth said, glancing over her shoulder at the retreating figures of Lady Matlock and Miss Bingley. “I dare say even Miss Bingley will find it difficult to object.”
“Miss Bingley,” Darcy replied, his lips twitching ever so slightly, “has a remarkable talent for objection.”
“Does she not?” Elizabeth agreed, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “But surely, if Mr Bingley were to see reason and purchase Netherfield, you would find ample occasion to visit. Perhaps even endure the company of us provincials on a more regular basis.”
The corner of Darcy’s mouth lifted, though whether in amusement or exasperation, Elizabeth could not tell. “You assume much, Miss Bennet.”
“On the contrary, sir,” she returned lightly, “I merely observe. Is it not the duty of every gentleman to support his friend in such matters? Encouragement, after all, is key.”
“Encouragement, Miss Bennet,” Darcy said, his tone dry, “is a quality best wielded sparingly and with care. Too much enthusiasm, and one risks meddling.” There was a curious weight in his expression that made her breath hitch. Before she could decipher it, he looked away, his composure firmly restored.
Elizabeth bent to pluck a stray leaf from her hem, brushing it away with a flick of her fingers. The late autumn breeze stirred the air around them, carrying with it the faint scent of damp earth and fading foliage. She glanced up at Mr Darcy, who stood beside her, his gaze fixed somewhere in the middle distance, as though he were contemplating the very direction of the wind itself.
“Encouragement and even meddling , it would seem, are not entirely without merit,“ Elizabeth said lightly, folding her hands together and tilting her head. “Or do you maintain that such things are best avoided altogether, sir?”
Darcy’s dark eyes shifted to meet hers, and for a moment, something unspoken flickered there, something serious and searching that made her pulse quicken despite herself. When he spoke, his voice was low but clear, his words deliberate.
“On this occasion, Miss Bennet,” he began, “I find myself inclined to agree with Lady Matlock’s assessment. Netherfield is, indeed, a fine house. Its grounds are well-proportioned, its interiors elegant without ostentation, and the neighbourhood…” He paused, allowing himself the faintest curve of a smile, “…offers charms that I had not fully appreciated upon first acquaintance.”
Elizabeth raised her eyebrows in surprise, but before she could respond, he continued, his tone growing more thoughtful.
“Of course, Miss Bingley may not hold the same opinion of the company here as others might, but that is of little consequence. Should Mr Bingley choose to purchase Netherfield, I should be most pleased to visit him regularly. His happiness, after all, is of great importance to me.” He hesitated briefly, as though weighing his next words carefully. “And I find the prospect of returning to this part of the country far more agreeable than I once imagined.”
Elizabeth blinked, caught off guard by his earnestness. Her initial instinct was to make some clever remark, perhaps about the surprising elasticity of his preferences, but the sincerity in his expression stayed her tongue. Instead, she found herself smiling, though she could not say exactly why.
“How magnanimous of you, Mr Darcy,” she said at last, her tone teasing but gentle. “To admit to such an alteration in your perspective. One might even suspect you have been… influenced.”
“Influenced, Miss Bennet?” He inclined his head slightly, his voice laced with dry humour. “Perhaps. But only by those whose opinions I esteem.”
The weight of his words hung between them, and Elizabeth felt her cheeks grow warm. Before she could trust herself to reply, however, the distant sound of footsteps on gravel signalled the return of Lady Matlock and Miss Bingley. Darcy straightened, his composure firmly intact once more, and Elizabeth found herself grateful for the distraction.
Later that evening, the dining room at Netherfield glowed with the golden light of candles and the soft murmur of conversation. Elizabeth glanced across the table to where Jane sat, her cheeks kissed with a delicate flush that spoke of renewed health. Her sister looked radiant, a true picture of grace and charm as she spoke with Lord Matlock, who appeared utterly captivated by her every word.
“Miss Bennet, you must tell me,” the Earl was saying, leaning forward ever so slightly, “do you often read Shakespeare? Your insights on Twelfth Night suggest a familiarity I rarely encounter outside London circles.”
“Not often, my lord,” Jane replied with her usual modesty. “But my father has a great love for the bard, and his enthusiasm is rather infectious. It is impossible not to catch some of his admiration, is it not?”
“Indeed,” the Earl agreed warmly, his grey eyes twinkling. “I have long known that your father is a man of considerable taste. And you, madam, are a credit to his good judgment.”
Jane smiled, her blush deepening, but she turned her attention demurely back to her plate. Elizabeth suppressed a grin, noting how Bingley, seated on Jane’s other side, seemed unable to tear his gaze from her face. The poor man looked as though he had forgotten entirely that a meal lay before him.
“Do you not find the venison to your liking, Mr Bingley?” Elizabeth asked innocently, breaking into his reverie.
“Venison? Oh, yes, yes, of course!” Bingley stammered, hastily picking up his fork with an apologetic laugh. “Quite excellent. I…” His eyes darted back to Jane, his enthusiasm undiminished. “Though I must confess, the company tonight far outshines the fare.”
“How fortunate that you are surrounded by friends,” Elizabeth quipped, earning a chuckle from Lord Matlock.
“Friends, indeed,” the Earl said, casting a knowing glance between Bingley and Jane. “And perhaps, if fortune continues to favour us, more than friends in time.”
“Uncle,” Darcy interjected from further down the table, his tone mild but pointed, “you presume too much.”
“Do I, Darcy?” Lord Matlock countered, his smile unabashed. “Well, we shall see, shall we not?”
Elizabeth bit her lip to keep from laughing outright. Jane, for her part, looked both flustered and charmed, while Bingley—poor, smitten Bingley—looked as though he had just been handed the world on a silver platter.
Elizabeth scarcely contained her amusement as she observed Miss Bingley’s increasingly strained smile. Caroline’s efforts to maintain an air of gracious composure might have been admirable, had they not been so transparent. Her irritation hung in the air like an unspoken guest at the table, her every word and gesture betraying her discontent with the evening’s proceedings.
“Speaking of fortune,” Lady Matlock said, “I believe we have had quite a stroke of luck ourselves. With our plans so delightfully disrupted by this unexpected stay at Netherfield, I hope we may yet impose upon Mr Bingley a while longer.”
“Impose?” Bingley repeated, his face alight with boyish enthusiasm. “Nonsense! It is a pleasure beyond words to have you here, Lady Matlock. You and Lord Matlock are most welcome to stay as long as you desire. Is that not so, Caroline?”
“Of course,” Caroline replied, her smile brittle as she inclined her head ever so slightly. “It is always a privilege to host friends of such distinction.”
“Excellent!” Lady Matlock continued, undeterred by Caroline’s lukewarm response. “Then we shall remain until the ball. And perhaps,” her eyes sparkled with a hint of mischief, “I shall write to my sons in London and invite them to join us. Would that not liven up the occasion, Miss Bingley?”
Caroline Bingley’s posture transformed in an instant, her spine straightening with such alacrity it was as if Lady Matlock’s words had physically hoisted her upright. “Your sons, Lady Matlock?” she asked, her voice lifting to a pitch that could only be described as artificially dulcet. “I do not believe I have had the pleasure of making their acquaintance.”
Elizabeth, seated across from Caroline, felt her lips twitch with the effort of repressing a smile. It was rare to see Miss Bingley abandon her carefully cultivated veneer of languid indifference, but the mention of unattached gentlemen of noble birth was apparently enough to rouse even the most composed of hostesses into action.
“Perhaps not yet,” Lady Matlock replied, her tone warm but laced with the faintest hint of mischief. “My eldest son, the Viscount Highton, is often occupied with matters of the estate, and my younger son, Colonel Fitzwilliam, is away a good deal with the Army, though he is at present in London. Both are quite accomplished young men, though I daresay I am biased.” She smiled serenely, her needle-sharp gaze flickering over Caroline with all the subtlety of a chess player moving a pawn.
“How delightful,” Caroline trilled, leaning forward ever so slightly, as though proximity might hasten the arrival of further information. “A viscount and a colonel—how distinguished! And do they both share their cousin’s…” She hesitated for the briefest of moments before selecting her word with care, “…propensity for quiet reflection?”
“Quiet reflection!” Lady Matlock laughed merrily. “Oh, my dear Miss Bingley, you flatter them. While Richard has his moments of solemnity, he is far more inclined toward lively conversation and good humour than his cousin. As for my eldest, well, James does take after his father in certain respects. But perhaps you shall judge their characters for yourself when they arrive.”
“How thrilling,” murmured Caroline, her expression torn between enthusiasm and its close relative, connivance.
Unable to resist, Elizabeth flicked her gaze towards Darcy. To her surprise, his attention was already upon her, his dark eyes meeting hers with a look that spoke volumes without uttering a syllable. There was no mistaking the slight upward curve at the corner of his mouth, the smallest of smiles, but one that carried with it a surprising sense of relief. He looked, Elizabeth thought with no small amusement, like a man who had just seen the weight of an unwanted burden lifted off his shoulders.
Her own smile bloomed unbidden, though she quickly masked it by raising her glass to her lips. The absurdity of the situation was too delicious: Caroline Bingley, so intent on securing Mr Darcy’s affections, now pivoting with remarkable agility toward the promise of a viscount, or failing that, a colonel and the second son of an earl. And Darcy, whose discomfort under Caroline’s attentions had been evident to Elizabeth from the start, appearing positively buoyant at the prospect of her distraction.
“Miss Eliza,” Caroline said abruptly, interrupting Elizabeth’s thoughts. “You seem amused. Pray, do share your thoughts with us.”
Elizabeth lowered her glass and met Caroline’s gaze head-on, her expression one of perfect poise. “Oh, I was merely admiring Lady Matlock’s skill in painting such vivid portraits of her sons,” she replied, her tone light and guileless. “It is no wonder you find the prospect of meeting them so very engaging, Miss Bingley.”
The corners of Lady Matlock’s mouth twitched, and even Lord Matlock seemed to suppress a chuckle. Caroline, however, narrowed her eyes ever so slightly, though her smile remained firmly in place. “Indeed,” she said, her words clipped but polite. “One must always take an interest in such…distinguished company.”
“Quite so,” Darcy murmured, his voice low but carrying just enough weight to draw attention. Elizabeth glanced at him once more, catching the faint glimmer of humour in his expression. For all his reserved nature, there were moments—brief, fleeting moments—when Darcy revealed himself to be a man who understood irony far better than he let on.
If nothing else, the prospect of watching Caroline Bingley attempt to ingratiate herself with Lady Matlock’s sons promised to provide ample amusement for Elizabeth in the days to come.