Page 9 of The Meddling Matlocks (Pride & Prejudice Variations)

Chapter Nine

Darcy reined in his horse so sharply that the poor creature gave a startled snort, pawing at the road in protest. He hardly noticed. His eyes were fixed ahead, unblinking, as though staring too long might make the entire scene evaporate before him.

But no, there he was. Wickham . Wickham, with that infernal roguish smirk, standing much too close to her . Elizabeth Bennet. And she, utterly oblivious to the sheep in wolf’s clothing, seemed to be listening intently to whatever nonsense Wickham was undoubtedly spewing.

Darcy’s chest tightened. For a fleeting moment, he thought perhaps this was some cruel trick of the light, but no. There was no mistaking those dark, calculating eyes or that smug tilt of the mouth. Wickham was speaking, gesturing with an ease and familiarity that made Darcy’s blood boil. And Elizabeth! She stood there, her expression one of polite interest, her curls slightly dishevelled from what must have been another of her walks. Did she not see the danger? Could she not sense the venom beneath Wickham’s honeyed words? His grip on the reins tightened until his knuckles turned white.

And then, as if sensing the weight of Darcy’s glare, Wickham turned his head. Their eyes met, and for a brief, charged moment, neither man moved. Darcy could feel his heart pounding in his ears, each beat a drum of suppressed anger and loathing. Wickham’s expression shifted; the easy charm faltered for just a fraction of a second before his composure returned. With insulting nonchalance, Wickham touched the brim of his hat, offering Darcy the barest nod of acknowledgment.

The audacity. The sheer gall.

Darcy’s jaw clenched. How dare he? As though they were equals. As though Wickham had any right to stand there, polluting the air with his lies. Wickham’s smirk deepened, clearly revelling in Darcy’s silence, before turning back to Elizabeth with a flourish, continuing his performance as though nothing had happened.

“And where are you and your sisters bound this fine morning, Miss Bennet?” Bingley inquired, cheerfully oblivious to Darcy’s turmoil.

“To my aunt’s house, of course, Mr Bingley!” Lydia Bennet was the one who spoke, not giving her sister Jane the chance to respond, even though Bingley had addressed the question to her. Lydia’s tone was bright and carried not the faintest trace of deference. “We mean to pay her a visit, though I daresay it is nothing so exciting as galloping about the countryside on horseback!”

“Then I hope you’ll convey our regards to your aunt,” Bingley replied, his eyes crinkling with genuine warmth. He tipped his hat with a flourish that would have befitted a knight returning from battle rather than a gentleman exchanging pleasantries on a country road. “A pleasant day to you both.”

“Thank you, Mr Bingley!” Lydia chirped before adding, with a conspiratorial twinkle in her eye, “Though I do wish we might exchange places! What fun it must be to ride so freely!”

“Quite so,” Bingley agreed with a laugh, clearly charmed by her audacity. “But alas, the horses would not thank me for such a trade.”

Elizabeth’s lips quirked upward, and Darcy’s chest tightened at the sight. How could she find such impertinence endearing?

“Come along, Darcy,” Bingley remarked over his shoulder, tugging his mount into motion once more. “We ought not delay the ladies any longer.”

Darcy hesitated but a moment before following, though his movements were slower, almost mechanical. His thoughts swirled in a tempest of suspicion and discomfort, the image of Wickham standing so casually beside Elizabeth burned into his mind. What business could he possibly have with her? And why did she look so... unaffected? Surely, if she knew what sort of man he truly was, her countenance would betray some measure of distaste, or at the very least, caution. But no, there she had stood, poised and composed, as though Wickham were nothing more than an ordinary acquaintance. The thought was maddening.

“Darcy?” Bingley’s voice pulled him back to the present, its usual buoyancy tinged with mild concern. “You’re uncommonly quiet today. Are you well?”

“Yes,” Darcy replied shortly, though the word felt hollow even as it left his lips. Well? How could he claim to be well when Wickham was here in Meryton, weaving his web of deceit unchecked?

“Excellent!” Bingley said, undeterred by Darcy’s clipped tone. He turned his gaze skyward, observing the scattered clouds with an air of utmost contentment. “It’s a perfect day for a ride, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Indeed,” Darcy murmured, though his agreement was perfunctory at best. His focus remained inward, his thoughts circling tighter and tighter around the same question: what, if anything, should he do? Wickham’s presence was like a stone dropped into a placid pond, sending ripples of unease through every corner of Darcy’s mind. And yet, as much as he longed to act, to confront Wickham directly or to warn those who might fall prey to his charm, the constraints of civility held him fast.

By the time they reached Netherfield’s gates, Darcy realised he had scarcely heard a word of Bingley’s chatter. His friend, fortunately, seemed none the wiser, prattling on about the upcoming ball with unabashed enthusiasm. Darcy, however, remained ensnared in his own thoughts, his resolve hardening with each step of his horse’s hooves. Wickham had already caused enough damage in his life. He would not stand idly by while the scoundrel wreaked havoc anew.

Darcy dismounted with a swift, practised motion, his boots landing on the gravel of Netherfield’s drive with a decisive crunch. The reins were handed off to a waiting groom without so much as a glance, his attention fixed elsewhere entirely. His thoughts remained in tumult, a chaotic tangle of duty and indignation, but as he approached the house, a flicker of clarity began to emerge from the storm. He did not have to shoulder this burden alone. The truth of it struck him like an unexpected gust of wind: Lord Matlock knew about Wickham, knew the whole unpalatable truth of all Wickham’s dealings with the Darcy family.

“Blast it,” Darcy muttered under his breath, striding through the front doors with purpose. The halls of Netherfield seemed unusually quiet for once—no Miss Bingley lurking to waylay him with simpering compliments, no Mr Hurst wandering about in search of his next meal. It was a rare reprieve, though Darcy scarcely noticed. His mind had latched onto one thought and would not release it: Lord Matlock must be consulted.

“Ah, there you are!” came a familiar, jovial voice from down the corridor. Darcy halted mid-step, turning to see his uncle emerging from the drawing-room with all the ease of a man who had just enjoyed an excellent luncheon. Lord Matlock was every inch the picture of geniality, his silver hair catching the afternoon light, his hands clasped behind his back as if he had not a care in the world.

“Uncle,” Darcy greeted, inclining his head in polite acknowledgement, though his tone carried the weight of his preoccupation. “May I have a word with you?” He glanced down the empty corridor, ensuring their privacy before continuing. “In the library, if you please.”

“How very dramatic,” Lord Matlock said, arching a brow in amusement. “Shall I prepare myself for revelations of national importance, or merely familial intrigue?”

Darcy did not dignify this with a response, merely turned on his heel and began making his way to the library. Lord Matlock chuckled softly, falling into step beside him with an air of mild curiosity.

“Mr Darcy!”

Darcy winced, but it was impossible to escape. Miss Bingley had popped up from goodness knew where and latched onto his arm.

“You are back! Tell me, was it a pleasant ride this morning? I should have come with you, perhaps, but really it is a little chilly to ride out…”

“Indeed,” Darcy said, trying unsuccessfully to disengage his arm. Lord Matlock watched with great amusement. “If you will exc…” but Miss Bingley had the bit between her teeth and was wittering on about how healthful exercise was, all the while squeezing his arm in a most disconcerting way.

“Miss Bingley.” Lord Matlock finally came to Darcy’s rescue. “If you will excuse us, there is a matter of business I need to discuss with my nephew.”

“Business?” Miss Bingley laughed lightly, and still seemed in no hurry to relinquish her hold on Darcy. “Oh, how tedious!”

“But necessary, I fear.” Lord Matlock stared her down, and finally Miss Bingley seemed to realise he did not mean to relent.

“Well,” she said with one of her false, tinkling little laughs, “I am sure you will grace us with your company when your business is concluded. I shall be in the parlour!”

Darcy breathed a sigh of relief as Miss Bingley finally let go. Offering a courteous bow, he waited while she dawdled away, looking over her shoulder all the while as though hoping he would call her back, before giving his uncle a look of silent thanks.

The library, when they reached it, was blessedly unoccupied. Darcy closed the door behind them with a measured click, cutting off any potential interruptions. The heavy scent of leather-bound volumes and polished wood filled the space, a comforting familiarity amidst the turmoil in Darcy’s chest.

“Well then,” Lord Matlock said cheerfully, lowering himself into one of the armchairs by the fire. He stretched out his legs with the ease of a man entirely at home in his surroundings. “What weighs so heavily on your mind, Fitzwilliam? And please do not tell me it concerns accounts, I am far too full from luncheon to endure such tedium.”

Darcy hesitated for a moment, pacing a short distance before finally speaking. “I fear the matter is far more serious than accounts, Uncle.”

“Indeed?” Lord Matlock leaned forward slightly, his expression sharpening with interest. “Do go on.”

Darcy drew a deep breath, steadying himself. This was no small thing, laying bare the troubles that had plagued him since Ramsgate. But if there was anyone he could trust to provide sound counsel, and perhaps a measure of reassurance, it was his uncle.

Before he could begin, however, Lord Matlock tilted his head, a sly smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Unless, of course, you wish to confess your admiration for a certain young lady. If so, allow me to assure you, I would whole-heartedly approve.”

“Uncle,” Darcy said sharply, his cheeks darkening despite himself. “This is hardly the time for jesting.”

“On the contrary, my boy,” Lord Matlock replied with a twinkle in his eye. “It seems exactly the time for it. You’ve been brooding like a thundercloud since I arrived in Hertfordshire—it does a man good to laugh, you know.”

“Not at present, it does not,” Darcy returned, though the faintest hint of a smile threatened to betray him. If nothing else, his uncle’s levity served to remind him why he had sought this conversation in the first place: to find a path through the storm, with the guidance of a wiser man.

“She is a woman of many qualities,” Lord Matlock said. “Dedication, not least.”

Dedication ? Darcy’s mind flew back to what had just occurred, to Caroline Bingley’s most dedicated attempt to gain his attention. Surely his uncle could not think…

“Uncle Henry,” Darcy said, his voice clipped. He remained standing, as though taking a seat might suggest complicity in what he feared was coming. “I hope you are not under the misapprehension that I have…any intention of pursuing Miss Bingley.”

“Miss Bingley?” Lord Matlock echoed, his brow furrowing momentarily before amusement dawned across his features. He chuckled, low and rich, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “Good heavens, no, Fitzwilliam. What gave you such an idea?”

“Your comment about courtship, and dedication…” Darcy began stiffly, though relief coursed through him like a sudden thaw. He felt absurd now, but the memory of Caroline’s simpering attempts at conversation just before they entered the library had clearly left its mark.

“Ah,” his uncle interrupted, waving a dismissive hand. “Miss Bingley indeed. No, my boy. My reference was to a far livelier prospect, a certain Miss Elizabeth Bennet, whose fine eyes and sparkling wit you seem unable to ignore.” The twinkle in Lord Matlock’s eye returned tenfold, his grin almost wolfish. “Even if you won’t admit it aloud.”

“Elizabeth Bennet!” Darcy blurted, his composure momentarily shattered. He straightened, clearing his throat and clasping his hands behind his back as though the act might restore order to the chaos swirling inside him. “That is… you mistake me, Uncle. Her connections…”

Lord Matlock leaned back, fixing Darcy with a shrewd look. “Let us not pretend your own circle is without blemish. Shall we discuss Miss Bingley once more, or would you prefer to examine the source of the Bingley fortune itself? Trade, is it not? And rather recent trade at that.”

“That is hardly…”

“Hardly relevant?” Lord Matlock interjected sharply, raising a silver brow. “Indeed, such things can be overlooked when we wish to . Tell me, Fitzwilliam, when did you become so inclined to sound like Miss Bingley herself, casting stones from her glass house? You disappoint me.”

The words landed heavily, though there was no cruelty in their delivery. Darcy flinched nonetheless, his thoughts racing. For all his uncle’s mirth, his tone carried the weight of undeniable truth.

Across the library, Lord Matlock sat waiting, his brows raised in faint amusement as though Darcy’s consternation was no more troubling than a misplaced bookmark.

“Now,” Lord Matlock began, settling back into his own seat with the air of a man thoroughly enjoying himself, “let us turn our attention to Mr. Bingley and Miss Jane Bennet, shall we? An excellent match, if you ask me.“ He swirled the ruby liquid in his glass, his tone light but deliberate.

“Miss Bennet?” Darcy echoed, startled from his spiralling thoughts. His uncle could not truly mean… “Surely you jest, sir.”

“Not at all,” came the easy reply. “She is a charming young lady, quite well thought of by her neighbours, and her beauty is beyond compare. My dear Fitzwilliam, considering the happy improvement it would make to Mr. Bingley’s standing, I dare say he ought to be thanking his lucky stars.” Lord Matlock tilted his head, his sharp gaze resting on Darcy like a hawk sizing up its prey. “Do you disagree?”

Darcy hesitated, his mind racing for an argument that might withstand his uncle’s scrutiny. Jane Bennet was indeed beautiful—‘angelic’ had been Bingley’s rhapsodic declaration—but what of her family, her lack of dowry and connections?

“But Bingley could…” Darcy began stiffly, only to falter at the knowing look Lord Matlock sent his way.

“Could what? Look higher?” The Earl chuckled, a rich sound that filled the room. “Perhaps, but to what end? He has neither title nor ancestral estate, and while his fortune is respectable, its source in trade will not be overlooked in the higher circles.” He leaned forward slightly, his voice taking on a touch of gravity. “Bingley stands to gain far more by allying himself with a family respected in their community than by chasing after some society miss who would see him as little more than an upstart merchant’s son.”

Darcy opened his mouth, then closed it again, his rebuttal crumbling before it could form. It was maddening how effortlessly his uncle dismantled every argument, leaving him stranded in the discomfiting territory of silent agreement.

“Now you, on the other hand,” Lord Matlock continued, his tone turning contemplative as he regarded Darcy over the rim of his glass, “are in an entirely different position. You are already one of the wealthiest men in England, with a name and lineage that need no embellishment. Tell me, my boy.” His lips quirked into a faint smile. “What precisely do you stand to gain by marrying for anything other than your own inclinations?”

Darcy shifted in his chair, his throat tightening. The question, posed so casually, struck deeper than he cared to admit. “It is not so simple,” he muttered, looking away.

“Why ever not?” Lord Matlock pressed, his amusement softening to something gentler. “I daresay your Aunt Margaret and I have learned a thing or two about the matter, having endured wedded bliss for these many years. And I can tell you this much,” the Earl’s expression turned rather pointed, “there is no greater folly than binding oneself to a woman who offers no challenge, no spark. A dull companion, however impeccable her connections, would make for a most tedious life.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with implication. Darcy stared at the carpet, the intricate pattern blurring as his uncle’s meaning took root. A woman who challenged him. A woman who sparked…what? Irritation? Fascination? Something perilously close to admiration?

“Your aunt and I,” Lord Matlock added, his voice softening further, “would far rather see you happy, Fitzwilliam. Truly happy, with someone who understands you, who pushes you to be better, who makes you feel alive.”

‘Alive’ was not, Darcy thought grimly, the sensation he was presently experiencing. More accurately, he felt as though the ground were shifting beneath him, the careful foundations of his convictions tilting precariously under his uncle’s relentless logic.

“There is… something else I must speak to you about,” Darcy managed after a moment, his tone carefully measured. He clasped his hands behind his back, a habitual motion when he wished to appear composed. “It concerns a matter of grave importance.”

“Good heavens, boy, you sound like you’re about to deliver news of war.” Lord Matlock chuckled, gesturing for Darcy to continue. “Go on, then. Out with it.”

Darcy hesitated only briefly before plunging ahead. “Wickham is in Meryton.”

The effect was instantaneous. Lord Matlock’s genial countenance froze, his eyes narrowing as though the name itself were offensive enough to darken the very room. “Wickham?” he repeated, his voice now clipped and sharp. “Here? In Hertfordshire?”

“Indeed,” Darcy confirmed grimly. “He has joined the militia stationed in Meryton.”

“That scoundrel…” Lord Matlock cut himself off, rising to his feet and beginning to pace the length of the room with a swiftness belying his years. “What mischief is he plotting now? Surely he cannot have followed you here?”

“Unlikely,” Darcy replied, though the thought had crossed his own mind more than once. “Yet his presence is no coincidence. Wherever Wickham goes, trouble follows.” He paused, swallowing hard against the surge of anger threatening to rise. “And there are those in this town whom I would see protected from his influence.”

“Ah,” said Lord Matlock knowingly, pausing mid-step. His gaze fixed on Darcy with an intensity that made his nephew shift uncomfortably. “Miss Elizabeth, is it?”

He could not deny it. “Yes… that is, her family may be particularly vulnerable to Wickham’s charms. He is adept at weaving falsehoods and exploiting trust.”

“Indeed,” Lord Matlock murmured, his initial severity tempered now with thoughtfulness. “We cannot allow him to ensnare any unsuspecting parties, least of all those to whom you—or indeed Bingley—might hold some attachment.”

“Precisely,” Darcy said, relieved that his uncle seemed to grasp the urgency of the situation without further elaboration.

“Well, we must act swiftly, but not rashly,” Lord Matlock declared, resuming his pacing. “Fortunately, your aunt has already written to your cousins to invite—or rather command—them to attend the ball, and they will arrive shortly. Richard’s expertise will prove invaluable in addressing this matter.”

“Richard?” Darcy echoed, momentarily distracted by the mention of his cousin, the Colonel.

“Of course,” Lord Matlock said. “Who better to liaise with Colonel Forster regarding Wickham’s position in the regiment? With Richard’s rank and experience, he will know precisely how to handle such a delicate situation. They should be here by Monday at the latest.”

“Next Monday,” Darcy repeated, frowning slightly. “That leaves nearly a week…”

“How much damage can Wickham truly manage in so short a time?” Lord Matlock interjected, waving dismissively. “Rest assured, Fitzwilliam, the matter will be dealt with in due course. Until then, let him spin whatever nonsense he pleases; his lies unravel soon enough in the face of truth.”

Darcy inclined his head, though inwardly he questioned whether such optimism was warranted. Still, the weight of responsibility on his shoulders felt marginally lighter knowing Richard would soon be involved. If anyone could neutralise Wickham’s schemes, it was the Colonel.

“Very well,” Darcy said at last, his voice firm despite the lingering unease in his chest. “We shall wait for Richard’s arrival. But I remain unconvinced of Wickham’s restraint.”

“Nor should you be,” Lord Matlock agreed with a wry smile. “But let us not allow him to rob us of our wits, or our tempers. For now, keep an eye on things, my boy, and leave the rest to me.”

“Thank you, Uncle,” Darcy said sincerely, feeling the beginnings of gratitude stir beneath his anxiety. And yet, as he watched Lord Matlock exit the library with the same confident stride he had entered, Darcy couldn’t help but wonder just how many lives Wickham might entangle before Monday arrived.