Chapter Twenty-Two
Elizabeth stood outside the drawing room door, one hand resting against the frame for support while her borrowed lungs worked to steady their rhythm.
Through the heavy wood, she could hear Lady Catherine’s voice, sharp with continued displeasure about the engagement and the note that had arrived advising that the wedding would take place in just a few days.
The confrontation she was about to initiate would require every scrap of cunning Elizabeth possessed.
She pushed open the door with careful pressure.
Lady Catherine sat in her usual chair, rigid with fury.
Mrs. Jenkinson occupied her position near the fire.
Both women looked up as Elizabeth entered, Lady Catherine’s expression dark while Mrs. Jenkinson’s eyes narrowed, the companion obviously wondering why Elizabeth would voluntarily enter such a fraught atmosphere.
“Mama,” Elizabeth said, forcing Anne’s voice to remain soft and deferential. “I wonder if I might speak with you about the wedding.”
Lady Catherine’s face flushed an alarming shade of magenta. “I have nothing to say about that travesty. Darcy has made his choice, and he will have to live with the consequences. The connexion is a disgrace to the family name.”
Elizabeth moved carefully into the room, settling onto the edge of a chair. “I understand your displeasure, Mama. But I think you may not have fully considered how absence from the ceremony will appear to society.”
The statement hung in the air. Lady Catherine’s eyes narrowed with dangerous attention, but Elizabeth had seen clearly that Lady Catherine did pay attention to her daughter, did love her and wanted her happiness. “Explain yourself,” the grande dame demanded.
“If you do not attend Darcy’s wedding, people will talk,” Elizabeth said, choosing each word with precision.
“They will say that Lady Catherine de Bourgh allowed personal pique to overcome family duty. That she valued her wounded pride above maintaining proper appearances. That she permitted a rift to develop between Rosings and Pemberley over something as trivial as disapproval of a bride.”
Lady Catherine’s hand tightened on the arm of her chair with enough force that Elizabeth heard the wood creak. “There is nothing trivial about Darcy marrying so far beneath himself. That Bennet girl has no fortune, no connexions of any value, a family whose behaviour borders on vulgar.”
“Perhaps,” Elizabeth agreed, maintaining Anne’s meek tone despite the fury that wanted to break through.
“But Darcy has made his choice, and society will judge not his selection of bride but your reaction to it. If you attend the wedding with appropriate dignity, you demonstrate that the de Bourgh family is above petty spite. That you value family unity over personal preferences.”
Lady Catherine said nothing, but something in her expression shifted. Elizabeth pressed her advantage.
“If you remain at Rosings, refusing to acknowledge the marriage, you give ammunition to those who already whisper that you are overly proud,” Elizabeth continued.
“But if you attend with grace, you control the narrative. You show society that you are magnanimous, that you put family loyalty above everything else. You demonstrate strength rather than weakness.”
The silence stretched long enough that Elizabeth wondered if she had miscalculated. Lady Catherine sat rigid, her face cycling through emotions. Finally, she drew a sharp breath.
“Very well. I shall attend this wedding. But mark my words, Anne, I do so only to maintain proper appearances and prevent further scandal. I do not approve of this match, and I never shall.”
“Of course, Mother,” Elizabeth said soothingly. “And I shall accompany you, so that all will know I hold no grudge that Darcy did not choose to marry me.”
Lady Catherine’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment Elizabeth thought she would refuse.
But then Lady Catherine sighed. “You know I mislike your being in London, the air is not good for your health... but you should be there, you are correct. Very well. I shall send a note to my brother Matlock, advising him that we shall wait upon him soon.”
Relief flooded through Elizabeth. She had done it. Had convinced Lady Catherine to travel to London, to bring her to the city where Jane waited with ingredients and plans.
“Thank you, Mama,” Elizabeth said, allowing genuine gratitude to colour Anne’s soft voice. “I know this is difficult for you.”
Lady Catherine rose with decisive movements. She crossed to the bell pull and yanked it with enough force that Elizabeth wondered if the cord might snap.
“Mrs. Jenkinson,” Lady Catherine said. “We leave for London tomorrow morning. You will see that Anne’s things are packed immediately.
Her medicines, her warmest shawls, the grey travelling dress and the darker green silk for the wedding itself.
Nothing too elaborate. We are attending out of duty, not celebration. ”
Mrs. Jenkinson had set aside her sewing and risen with an expression that suggested alarm. “Tomorrow, ma’am? But that is quite sudden. And Miss Anne’s health...”
“Will be attended to as always,” Lady Catherine snapped. “Bring whatever medicines and tonics she requires. But we cannot delay if we are to arrive in London with time to settle before this hasty ceremony.” She shook her head. “Marrying by special licence. What is Darcy thinking?”
Elizabeth sat quietly, hands folded in her lap. The special licence had not been Darcy’s idea at all. It was Anne, pushing to marry as fast as possible before anyone who knew Elizabeth Bennet well might come to suspect something was seriously amiss.
She had only days to stop the wedding and get her body back, before “Elizabeth Bennet” became Mrs. Darcy.
The carriage wheels ground to a halt on cobblestones, and Elizabeth looked up at Matlock House through weary eyes.
The Portland stone facade rose three storeys above the street, elegant in a way that spoke of wealth without Rosings’ need to overwhelm.
Neat rows of windows reflected the afternoon sky.
The entrance featured a portico supported by columns that managed to be imposing without feeling oppressive.
The journey from Kent had been brutal on Anne’s failing body. Every jolt had sent fresh waves of exhaustion through her limbs. Lady Catherine had maintained disapproving silence for much of the journey, while Mrs. Jenkinson watched Elizabeth with that same assessing gaze.
A footman opened the carriage door and offered his hand. Elizabeth took it gratefully, her legs trembling as they made contact with solid ground. The London air smelled different from Kent’s, carrying traces of coal smoke and horse traffic.
Lady Catherine descended with far more certainty, her movements brisk. She swept toward the entrance without waiting. Elizabeth moved after her slowly, Mrs. Jenkinson close behind.
The entrance hall struck Elizabeth with its restrained elegance.
Where Rosings assaulted visitors with gilt and grandeur, Matlock House welcomed with wood-panelled walls and an elegant checkerboard of black and white tiles.
A curved staircase rose along one wall. Fresh flowers sat in a vase, their scent mingling with beeswax polish.
A butler materialised, taking Lady Catherine’s outer garments and directing servants to deal with the trunks. Elizabeth surrendered her own cloak and bonnet with relief.
“Lady Matlock is expecting you in the drawing room,” the butler said. “If you will follow me.”
They climbed the stairs, Elizabeth gripping the banister. Each step sent fresh protests through tired muscles. Lady Catherine swept ahead while Mrs. Jenkinson remained at Elizabeth’s elbow.
The drawing room occupied the first floor’s front corner. Cream walls decorated with muted landscape paintings provided backdrop for furnishings upholstered in shades of gold and soft green. A fire burned in the marble fireplace, but the room’s atmosphere felt airy rather than stuffy.
Lady Matlock rose from a sofa as they entered, and Elizabeth found herself immediately struck by the difference between this woman and Lady Catherine.
Where Lady Catherine’s face carried perpetual disapproval, Lady Matlock’s showed genuine warmth softened by laugh lines.
She wore a gown of deep blue that suited her colouring.
“Catherine, how good to see you,” Lady Matlock said, embracing her sister-in-law. “And Anne.” She turned toward Elizabeth, her expression transforming into something that looked remarkably like delight. “My dear niece, how pleased I am that you’ve come.”
She crossed to Elizabeth and took both her hands, the gesture conveying warmth without pitying overtones. Lady Matlock’s hands were warm and firm, her grip gentle but not treating Elizabeth as though she might shatter.
“Thank you for having us, Aunt,” Elizabeth managed. “It is kind of you to accommodate us on such short notice.”
“Nonsense,” Lady Matlock said. “You are family. Our home is always open to you. Please, sit. You must be exhausted from the journey.”
Elizabeth lowered herself onto the sofa, grateful beyond measure. The cushions were soft but supportive, the angle comfortable. Lady Catherine settled into a nearby chair with visible stiffness.
A gentleman who must be Lord Matlock entered through a door at the room’s far end.
He was a distinguished man in his late fifties, his hair more grey than dark but his bearing upright.
His face showed the aristocratic features Elizabeth recognised from Darcy, though softened by what looked like genuine kindness.
“Catherine,” he said, nodding to his sister with reserved courtesy. “Anne.” His gaze moved to Elizabeth, and she saw assessment there but also something that might have been concern. “Welcome to our home. I hope your journey was not too taxing.”
“Thank you, Uncle,” Elizabeth replied. “The journey was manageable.”