Page 7 of The Meddling Matlocks (Pride & Prejudice Variations)

Chapter Seven

Mr Darcy sat stiffly at the breakfast table, his fingers curled around a porcelain teacup, though he had scarcely taken a sip. Around him, the hum of conversation was beginning to stir, though his attention was fixed, against his better judgement, on the doorway.

“Good morning,” a familiar voice rang out, heralding the entrance of Miss Elizabeth Bennet with her elder sister on her arm. Jane Bennet’s pallor had softened somewhat, and though she moved with care, there was an undeniable brightness in her expression that bespoke her continued steady recovery.

“Miss Bennet!” Charles Bingley exclaimed, nearly knocking over his coffee in his enthusiasm to rise from his seat and pull out the chair beside his for Jane to sit down. “It is wonderful to see you up and about! I trust you are feeling much improved?”

“Indeed, Mr Bingley,” Jane replied softly, her cheeks faintly pink as she inclined her head. “I am much restored, thanks to your gracious hospitality.”

“Miss Elizabeth,” Bingley added, his grin broadening as he turned to her, “and you, how are you this fine morning?”

“Quite well, thank you,” Elizabeth replied, her voice carrying its usual warmth. Her gaze darted briefly to Darcy, who had not yet spoken, before alighting elsewhere in the room.

Darcy’s fingers tightened imperceptibly around his cup. It was most vexing how even the smallest glance from her seemed to summon a peculiar restlessness within him, a sensation both unwelcome and utterly impossible to suppress.

“Jane, what a relief to see you looking so much better,” Caroline Bingley interjected smoothly as she rose from her place. “You gave us quite a fright, you know.”

“Your kindness has been greatly appreciated,” Jane said with a polite nod.

“Yes,” Elizabeth added lightly, taking a seat beside her sister, “but now that my sister is on the mend, I believe we shall not impose any longer upon your hospitality. We must return home today.”

“Leaving so soon?” Caroline swooped in like a falcon spotting prey. “Well, of course Charles will be delighted to offer his carriage! Will you not, Charles?”

Mr Bingley, however, was not delighted. “Miss Bennet, I must protest!” he cried, his sunny countenance clouded with concern. “You are not yet recovered. To think of you travelling in this chilly, damp weather, why the very idea is insupportable!”

“Indeed,” chimed in Lady Matlock, her gentle authority lending weight to the argument. She dabbed delicately at her lips with a lace-trimmed napkin before continuing, “It would be most unwise, my dear Miss Bennet. Subjecting yourself to the journey so soon could undo all the progress you have made. Pray, allow us the pleasure of your company for another day.”

Jane cast an apologetic glance at her sister. Though her cheeks had regained some of their colour, a faint weariness still lingered in her soft blue eyes. “You are so kind,” she said softly. “But I would not wish to impose.”

“Impose?” Bingley exclaimed, looking positively aggrieved. “Impossible! Why, it is we who would feel the imposition should you leave while still unwell. Is that not so, Darcy?”

Darcy, who had been attempting to maintain an air of polite indifference, found himself suddenly drawn into the conversation. He set down his teacup with deliberate care and met Bingley’s expectant gaze. “Undoubtedly,” he said smoothly, though his voice lacked its usual detachment. His eyes flicked briefly to Elizabeth, who was studying him with a look that could only be described as amused scepticism. It was most disconcerting.

“Well,” Elizabeth said at last, “it seems we are outnumbered, Jane. And who are we to argue against such overwhelming concern for your health? Another day it shall be.”

Darcy’s chest tightened inexplicably at her words, though whether from relief or some other vexing emotion, he could not say.

“Excellent!” Bingley beamed, clapping his hands together in satisfaction. “Then it is settled. I shall have Nicholls prepare something restorative for you straightaway, Miss Bennet. You mustn’t hesitate to call upon us for anything you require.”

“Truly, Mr Bingley, you are too good,” Jane replied, her sincerity evident in every syllable.

“Not at all, not at all,” he insisted, waving away her gratitude as though it were wholly unnecessary, which, in his mind, it likely was.

Darcy, meanwhile, remained silent, his tea growing cold once more as he grappled with the unwelcome truth that had begun to take root within him: he was relieved. Relieved that Jane Bennet would remain at Netherfield. Relieved, most unsettlingly, that Elizabeth Bennet would remain at Netherfield.

And therein lay the danger.

What madness was this, to find himself so affected by her presence? To feel his composure unravel at the mere sound of her laughter? He could not— would not—allow it. Yet even as he resolved to steel himself against such folly, a small, treacherous thought whispered in the recesses of his mind: perhaps one more day would not be so intolerable after all.

Darcy strode into the library, closing the heavy oak door behind him with more force than necessary. The satisfying thud reverberated through the quiet room, a stark contrast to the lively chaos of the drawing room he had so determinedly escaped. His boots clicked against the polished wooden floor as he crossed to his favourite armchair by the tall windows, their glass panes dimmed by the dreary afternoon light.

He drew in a steadying breath, allowing the familiar scent of leather-bound books and aged parchment to settle his disordered mind. Here, at least, was sanctuary, a haven from the incessant chatter, the well-meaning but insistent cheer of Bingley, the calculating smiles of Miss Bingley, and the oh-so-disturbing presence of Elizabeth. No, Miss Elizabeth Bennet, he corrected himself sternly, though even the formality of her name could not dull the vivid image of her sharp eyes and teasing smile that lingered unbidden in his thoughts.

“Foolishness,” Darcy muttered under his breath. He reached for the open volume on the small table beside him— The Iliad , translated by Pope—and fixed his gaze on its pages with the kind of grim determination one might reserve for battle.

Yet Achilles’ wrath and Hector’s valour blurred before him, the words refusing to take shape. Instead, his mind betrayed him, replaying moments indelibly etched in his memory: the graceful curve of Elizabeth’s neck as she bent her head over her book; the faint lilt of amusement in her voice as she sparred with Miss Bingley over some trifling matter; the way her laughter, low and rich, like a sonnet come to life, had seemed to ripple through the very air, leaving him disarmed.

“Madness,” he whispered harshly, snapping the book shut with a decisive clap, as if such an act could silence his unruly thoughts. And for a time, it worked. The library grew still again, broken only by the occasional crackle of the fire and the distant murmur of voices beyond the door.

But then the handle turned.

The sound, soft yet unmistakable, startled him from his reverie. Darcy straightened almost imperceptibly, his hand tightening on the armrest as the door creaked open. And there she was.

Elizabeth Bennet paused in the doorway, her hand resting lightly on the frame. Her dark curls were windswept, as though she had just returned from one of her countryside walks, and her cheeks held a faint flush that only heightened her natural beauty. She glanced around the room, her eyes alighting on him with a flicker of surprise before settling into polite composure.

“Mr Darcy,” she said, inclining her head with a small, measured nod. “I did not realise the library was occupied.”

He rose at once, though his movements felt oddly mechanical, as if his limbs were suddenly foreign to him. “Miss Elizabeth,” he replied, his voice carefully neutral. “You need not leave on my account. Pray, make yourself comfortable.”

“Thank you,” she said simply, stepping inside. There was no artifice in her manner, no coquettish fluttering or calculated simpering, as he might have expected from another woman in her place. Instead, she moved with quiet purpose, scanning the shelves until she found what she sought: a slim volume bound in green.

She settled herself in a chair near the hearth, the distance between them neither too close nor too far, and opened her book without another word. Darcy watched her for a moment longer than was strictly proper, noting the way her lashes cast delicate shadows on her cheek as she read, before forcing himself to resume his seat.

Silence enveloped them. Not the strained, awkward sort that demanded filling, but something softer, more companionable. The clock ticked steadily on the mantelpiece; the fire crackled low and warm. Occasionally, Elizabeth shifted slightly in her chair, the rustle of her skirts mingling with the faint turning of pages. It was, Darcy realised with no small amazement, remarkably pleasant.

An hour passed, or perhaps more; time had a curious way of losing meaning in her presence. At length, Elizabeth closed her book and rose gracefully to her feet. “Good day, Mr Darcy,” she said.

“Good day, Miss Elizabeth,” he managed, hoping his tone betrayed none of the strange warmth that had settled over him.

And then she was gone, leaving behind only the faintest trace of lavender and the curious sensation of having been truly at peace.

Darcy remained seated, staring at the spot where she had stood. For all his confusion, for all his determination to guard himself against the danger she posed, one thought persisted above all else: how rare, how utterly extraordinary, it was to simply exist with someone—without pretence, without expectation—and find it so extraordinarily... agreeable.

The parlour at Netherfield was aglow with candlelight, the golden hues casting a soft radiance over the assembled company. Dinner had been an elaborate affair as always, and now the party had settled into their evening routines; cards for some, conversation for others, and for Caroline Bingley, her singular pursuit of Mr Darcy’s attention.

“Miss Eliza,” Caroline’s voice rang out with an affected cheerfulness that made Darcy glance up from his seat near the fire. He had been attempting to concentrate on Lady Matlock’s recounting of some minor London scandal, but the sound of Elizabeth’s name seemed to pierce through his defences with startling efficiency.

“Yes, Miss Bingley?” Elizabeth responded evenly, though there was a flicker of amusement in her dark eyes. She had been seated beside Jane, her posture relaxed yet dignified, as though perfectly at ease despite the grandeur surrounding her.

“Shall we walk about the room? It is such a tiresome thing to sit still for so long, do you not agree?” Caroline stood gracefully, smoothing the delicate folds of her gown as she cast what could only be described as a calculating glance towards Darcy.

Elizabeth rose smoothly to her feet, her expression one of polite acquiescence. “If you please, Miss Bingley.”

As they began their circuit, Darcy’s eyes, against his better judgement, followed Elizabeth’s figure. There was a lightness to her step, a natural grace that seemed wholly unstudied, unlike Caroline’s deliberate movements. Her curls bounced faintly with each stride, and the faintest trace of amusement played upon her lips, as if she were engaged in a private jest.

“Pray, Miss Eliza,” Caroline said with forced gaiety, “do tell me, what is your opinion of Netherfield? Do you find it quite to your taste?”

“Netherfield is exceedingly fine,” Elizabeth replied, her tone measured but edged with humour. “Though I confess, I find it most remarkable not for its architecture or furnishings, but for the lively company it attracts.”

“Ah,” Caroline said, clearly fishing. “You must mean my brother. He is forever assembling the most… varied of parties, is he not?”

“Varied, yes,” Elizabeth agreed innocently. “Quite delightfully so. I daresay I should never have imagined myself debating the merits of Hertfordshire mud with such esteemed individuals as Mr Darcy and yourself, Miss Bingley.”

Lady Matlock, who had been listening with quiet amusement, let out a delighted laugh. “You are quite wicked, Miss Elizabeth,” she declared, her eyes twinkling. “But I must say, I rather enjoy it.”

“Indeed,” added the earl, who had been half-listening from his chair, “a sharp wit is worth its weight in gold these days. Too many young ladies simper and sigh; it is refreshing to hear someone speak with sense and spirit.”

Darcy’s lips twitched, almost imperceptibly. For once, he did not feel the sting of Elizabeth’s teasing; rather, he found himself oddly charmed by it. There was no malice in her words, only a playfulness that warmed something deep within him.

“Miss Elizabeth is certainly never dull,” he remarked, his tone quieter but laced with an uncharacteristic softness that prompted Lady Matlock to glance at him curiously. “A rare quality, indeed.”

“High praise from Mr Darcy!” Elizabeth teased lightly as she and Caroline came to a halt near the fireplace. “Perhaps I ought to frame it and hang it in the Longbourn parlour.”

“Perhaps you ought,” Darcy returned, his voice carrying the faintest hint of amusement, a fleeting moment, but enough to leave Elizabeth smiling as she resumed her seat.

Caroline, meanwhile, looked decidedly less pleased, her lips pressed into a thin line as she sat down with exaggerated elegance. Darcy, however, paid her little heed. His thoughts, much to his own dismay, were thoroughly occupied elsewhere.

The following morning, the day of the sisters’ prescribed return to Longbourn, was a Sunday, and of course attending church must be part of the routine of the day. The Matlocks had cheerfully invited Jane and Elizabeth to share their carriage for the trip to St. Peter’s in Meryton, and they had gladly accepted, though Mr Bingley had looked disappointed he had not managed to get his invitation to Jane in first.

By the time the sisters descended to the hall, they found the Matlocks waiting with characteristic grace. The countess, wrapped in an elegant cloak of deep green velvet, greeted them warmly, while the earl offered a jovial bow.

“Miss Bennet, Miss Elizabeth,” he said with a twinkle in his eye, “I trust you are prepared to brave both the rigours of the sermon and the hazards of the roads?”

“Indeed, my lord,” Elizabeth replied with a mischievous glint, “though I confess I am more apprehensive about the latter. Hertfordshire roads are notorious for their ability to turn a pleasant journey into an adventure.”

“Then let us hope our coachman is equal to the task,” Lady Matlock said with a serene smile, gesturing for them to follow her out. As Elizabeth stepped into the crisp morning air, she caught sight of Mr Darcy standing by the Bingley carriage, his expression inscrutable as always. He inclined his head in polite greeting, but she thought she detected a flicker of something softer in his gaze, a notion she dismissed as quickly as it arose.

“Now Miss Elizabeth,” the earl said as he handed her into his carriage, “you must promise not to scandalise the congregation with any of your sharp observations. Church is no place for wit, you know.”

“Then I shall endeavour to be as dull as possible, my lord,” Elizabeth replied with feigned solemnity. “Though I make no promises should the vicar provide fodder for commentary.”

The earl chuckled heartily, and Lady Matlock’s lips curved in amusement as they settled into their seats. The ride to Meryton passed in relative ease, the conversation alternating between light pleasantries and gentle teasing. Elizabeth found herself genuinely enjoying the company of the Matlocks, whose good humour and lack of pretension were a welcome contrast to the affected airs of others she had encountered at Netherfield.

At the church, the service was much as Elizabeth had expected; solemn, lengthy, and punctuated by the occasional cough or shuffling of feet from the less devout members of the congregation. She dutifully joined in the hymns and managed to keep her thoughts from wandering too far, though she could not help but notice Mr Darcy’s presence at the end of the pew. His posture was as upright as ever, his profile severe yet undeniably handsome in the soft glow of the stained glass.

“Are you quite comfortable, Lizzy?” Jane whispered at one point, perhaps noticing her distraction.

“Perfectly, dearest,” Elizabeth assured her with a small squeeze of her hand. “Though I fear I may soon find myself counting the panes of the window to keep awake.”

“Do not let Lady Matlock hear you say such a thing,” Jane murmured with a faint smile. “She would think you most irreverent.”

“Then I shall keep my irreverence between us,” Elizabeth replied, stifling a grin as the vicar launched into another lengthy passage.

When the service concluded, the party made their way to Longbourn in the warmth of the Matlocks’ carriage. Elizabeth noted how Jane seemed to brighten with each mile closer to home, her spirits lifting visibly as the familiar countryside came into view. For her part, Elizabeth felt a curious mixture of relief and trepidation; while she was glad to return to her family, she could not ignore the strange, fluttering sensation that stirred whenever she recalled the way Mr Darcy’s eyes had lingered on her during the morning’s proceedings.

“Home at last,” she murmured as the carriage pulled into the drive, steeling herself for whatever chaos awaited within, though with Lord and Lady Matlock invited to dine again, she hoped the worst of her family’s excesses might be restrained in their noble guests’ presence.

The clinking of silverware and the gentle murmur of conversation filled the Bennet dining room as the family, along with their distinguished guests, partook in an excellent dinner of roast lamb and, surprisingly to Elizabeth, very sensible and refined conversation. Elizabeth, seated opposite Lady Matlock, stole a glance at her father, who was leaning back in his chair with an expression of uncharacteristic mirth. The Earl of Matlock appeared equally amused as the two exchanged quips over their glasses of wine.

“Ah, Bennet, you have not changed a whit,” the Earl said with a hearty chuckle. “I recall your penchant for skewering the absurdities of life.”

“Well, my lord, some absurdities only grow sharper with age,” Mr Bennet replied dryly, though the corner of his mouth twitched upward. “And I daresay I find no shortage of fodder for amusement under my own roof.”

Elizabeth nearly choked at this remark, but quickly disguised it with a delicate cough.

Lady Matlock arched a brow, her lips curving into a knowing smile. “Indeed, there is something to be said for the wit of a man surrounded by five daughters,” she observed, her tone light but perceptive. “One imagines he must cultivate humour as a survival tool.”

“Humour or resignation,” Mr Bennet quipped, though his gaze softened as it flickered briefly to Elizabeth. She felt a flush creep up her neck, equal parts pride and embarrassment at being so singled out.

What struck Elizabeth most, however, was how natural her father seemed in the company of these titled acquaintances. There was none of the guarded reserve or sardonic deflections he often wielded in society. Instead, he appeared genuinely at ease, something Elizabeth had rarely witnessed outside the sanctuary of his library. It was a curious revelation, and one that left her oddly warmed.

“Papa seems quite transformed,” she murmured to Jane, who sat beside her. Her elder sister smiled faintly, dabbing at her lips with a napkin.

“Perhaps it is the company,” Jane suggested softly. “There is a kindness about the Matlocks that invites such ease.”

“Kindness, indeed,” Elizabeth agreed, her gaze shifting to Lady Matlock, whose presence seemed to cast a calming spell over the table. Even Mrs Bennet, typically prone to fits of nerves and effusive chatter when in the presence of those she perceived to be her betters, had adopted a more measured tone. She was now deep in conversation with Lady Matlock about the advantages of Bath waters versus those of Tunbridge Wells, nodding along with surprising composure.

“Mama appears most sensible this evening,” Elizabeth remarked to Jane, lowering her voice further. “It is as though Lady Matlock wields a magic wand of decorum.”

“Or perhaps Mama simply wishes to impress,” Jane replied with a gentle laugh. “Though I confess, it is rather refreshing.”

“Indeed,” Elizabeth murmured, wondering what Lady Matlock might make of her mother’s usual exuberance were it to emerge unchecked.

“Ah,” Mr Bennet’s voice broke through her musings, drawing the attention of the table. He leaned forward slightly, his expression one of mock gravity. “I fear I must interrupt this convivial scene with news that may cause some dismay, or delight, depending on one’s perspective.”

“Do not tease us, Mr Bennet!” cried Mrs Bennet, her decorum momentarily slipping as she fixed him with a look of eager curiosity. “Pray, what is it?”

“Merely this: our esteemed cousin, Mr Collins, is to arrive tomorrow,” he announced, pausing for effect. “No doubt with all the pomp and circumstance befitting his station as heir to Longbourn.”

A hush fell over the table, broken only by the faint clink of Lady Matlock setting down her fork. She glanced at Mrs Bennet, whose expression had frozen into a tight-lipped smile that did little to disguise her inner turmoil. The countess’s kind eyes lingered on her hostess with sympathy.

“Mr Collins?” Lady Matlock ventured gently, her tone inviting clarification. “A relative, I gather?”

“Indeed, madam,” Mr Bennet replied, his voice laced with irony. “A clergyman of no small consequence, or so he would have us believe. He is also the fortunate future inheritor of this modest estate, thanks to the wisdom of entailment laws.”

“How unfortunate for your daughters,” Lady Matlock said diplomatically.

Mrs Bennet, meanwhile, had regained enough composure to speak, though her voice trembled ever so slightly. “Oh, yes, Mr Collins is quite... well, he is very pious, my lady. And most attentive to his duties, I believe.” She clasped her hands tightly in her lap, as though bracing herself for some impending calamity.

“How admirable,” Lady Matlock replied kindly, though her gaze remained fixed on Mrs Bennet, as if sensing the weight of her unease. Elizabeth marvelled at the woman’s ability to convey understanding without a single word of condescension.

“Well,” Mr Bennet said, breaking the tension with a sly grin. “Let us not despair prematurely. Mr Collins may yet prove to be a source of endless entertainment.”

“Or endless vexation,” Elizabeth muttered, too quietly for anyone but Jane to hear. Her sister stifled a laugh, and Elizabeth couldn’t help but smile. Whatever their cousin’s visit might bring, she resolved to meet it with her usual fortitude, and perhaps a touch of humour, for good measure.

After the Earl and Countess made their departure and the elder Bennets had retired, Mr Bennet to his study and Mrs Bennet to her rooms in a fit of distress over the impending arrival of Mr Collins, Lydia erupted, her cheeks flushed a furious crimson and her curls bouncing with every indignant step as she paced the parlour.

“Back to school? Back to school !“ she cried, throwing herself dramatically onto the chaise as though her very spirit had been mortally wounded. “And who, pray tell, gave her …” she spat the word as though it were poison, “…the right to dictate my entire life?”

Elizabeth, who had been rearranging a small vase of greenery on the mantlepiece, set it down with deliberate care and turned to observe her youngest sister’s theatrics with a raised brow. Kitty hovered uncertainly in the corner, clutching her embroidery hoop like a shield and casting nervous glances between Lydia and the door, as though debating whether escape might be prudent.

“Do you know what she said to Mama?” Lydia continued, leaping up now with an urgency that could not possibly be contained whilst seated. Her arms flailed for emphasis, nearly toppling a delicate porcelain figurine from the side table. “She said it would do us good to cultivate discipline and refinement !”

“Well,” Elizabeth interjected dryly, “there is some merit in her suggestion. Discipline, at the very least, has always seemed a foreign concept to you.”

“That is not funny!” Lydia stamped her foot, the impact rattling the floorboards. “And then Mama just nodded along as though she were some meek little lamb led to slaughter! She agreed to it! To all of it! No assemblies, no parties, and…” here her voice reached a pitch so shrill that Mary, seated primly with a book, winced and closed it with an audible snap. “No Netherfield ball!”

“Ah, there it is,” Elizabeth mused aloud, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “I knew this tirade must have a central tragedy. The loss of the ball, of course, eclipses all other concerns.”

“Yes, it does!” Lydia exclaimed, entirely missing the sarcasm. “How am I to dance with officers if I am locked away in some dreary classroom with nothing but Latin verbs and arithmetic for company?” She shuddered. “It is cruel, Elizabeth. Positively barbaric!”

“Perhaps,” Elizabeth replied, moving to take the chair opposite her sister, “but I cannot help but wonder if Lady Matlock might have a point. You are rather… spirited, Lydia, and not everyone finds that endearing. It may not hurt to acquire a touch more decorum.”

“Decorum!” Lydia fairly screeched, her incredulous laughter ringing through the room. “You sound just like her! That priggish, meddlesome…”

“Now, now,” Elizabeth interrupted swiftly, holding up a hand. “Let us leave name-calling aside, shall we? It is neither spirited nor endearing.”

“Well, I hate her!” Lydia declared vehemently, throwing herself back onto the chaise with such force that the cushions groaned in protest. “I hate her and her airs and her knowing looks, and I hate that she has ruined everything! And Kitty,” she twisted her head to glare pointedly at her silent, erstwhile ally, “do stop cowering and say something useful for once!”

“But perhaps Lady Matlock only meant to help,” Kitty stammered, her voice trembling slightly as she glanced at Elizabeth for reassurance. “She is quite kind, after all.”

“Kind!” Lydia scoffed, sitting bolt upright again. “If this is kindness, I should rather take my chances with cruelty.” She cast a beseeching look at Elizabeth, her eyes wide and dramatic, as though expecting her elder sister to throw herself into the fray on her behalf. When no such rescue appeared forthcoming, she flopped back onto the chaise with a despairing sigh. “It is utterly hopeless. My youth is being squandered, Lizzy, and you seem content to sit by and watch it happen!”

“On the contrary,” Elizabeth replied, suppressing a smile as she rose to retrieve her book from the side table. “I find it endlessly entertaining.”

The evening had settled into a rare calm at Longbourn, the chaos of Lydia’s earlier outburst having subsided like a passing storm. Elizabeth sat in her room, the fire crackling gently in the hearth and casting flickering shadows on the walls. She was halfway through a novel, her feet tucked beneath her comfortably, when a soft knock at the door interrupted her peace.

“Come in,” she called, setting the book aside and knowing full well who it would be.

Jane entered with her usual grace, her golden hair neatly plaited for the night and her expression serene, though her lips curved in a faintly conspiratorial smile. She crossed the room and sank onto the edge of Elizabeth’s bed, smoothing the folds of her dressing gown as she did so.

“Poor Lydia,” Jane began. “She is quite distraught. I sat with her for a time until she finally fell asleep. Kitty, though, seems resigned to her fate, though she is two years older.”

“Yes, poor Lydia indeed,” Elizabeth replied dryly, leaning back against the cushions. “Her suffering truly knows no bounds. To think, being denied a ball! How will she survive such a deprivation?”

“Lizzy,” Jane chided softly, though her eyes twinkled with amusement. “You must not tease. It is very hard for them both. They are young, and their pleasures, however frivolous they may seem to us, mean a great deal to them.”

“Frivolous? You are too kind, Jane. If I had been sent back to school at their age, I imagine my greatest grievance would have been the quality of the bread and butter, not the prospect of missing a ball.” Elizabeth paused, arching a brow. “But you did not come here to plead Lydia’s case, did you?”

Jane hesitated, her hands fidgeting slightly with the ribbon tied at her waist. Her serene countenance gave way to something more uncertain, though no less composed. “No,” she admitted at last. “In truth, I find myself somewhat relieved.”

“Relieved?” Elizabeth echoed, though her tone held no surprise. “Do go on.”

“Only think of it, Lizzy,” Jane said earnestly. “Lydia and Kitty will benefit greatly from returning to school. They will learn discipline and propriety, and perhaps even gain some accomplishments beyond flirtation and idle chatter. And as for the assemblies and parties…” She paused, lowering her voice slightly. “Well, we can hardly deny that their behaviour at such events has been... spirited, to put it kindly.”

“Spirited,” Elizabeth repeated with a chuckle. “That is indeed a most charitable description. I daresay Lady Matlock would use another word entirely. But Jane,” her expression softened as she leaned forward, “you must not feel guilty for thinking this way. I agree with you wholeheartedly.”

“Do you?” Jane asked, her blue eyes widening slightly.

“Of course,” Elizabeth replied. “Lydia and Kitty will rail against it, naturally, but in time, they may even thank the countess for her interference.” She tilted her head thoughtfully. “Though perhaps not until they have daughters of their own.”

“That is a rather distant consolation,” Jane said with a smile, her earlier hesitation fading. “But I suppose it is better than none at all.”

“Precisely,” Elizabeth said, reaching out to squeeze her sister’s hand. “And in the meantime, let us enjoy this brief reprieve from their antics. Who knows how long it shall last?”

“Not long, I suspect,” Jane said with a quiet laugh, rising gracefully from the bed. “But I shall take your advice and make the most of it while I can. Goodnight, Lizzy.”

“Goodnight, Jane,” Elizabeth replied, watching her sister glide from the room with a fond smile. Once alone, she picked up her book again, though she found herself rereading the same sentence several times over. For all her teasing, she could not help but feel a small measure of hope that Lady Matlock’s influence might yet bring some much-needed order to their lively household, though whether it would prove a blessing or merely a new kind of chaos remained to be seen.