CHAPTER XLVI
Lady Matlock watched for the first appearance of Pemberley Woods with considerable perturbation. When at length the carriage turned in at the lodge, her spirits were in great agitation. How different everything was to that very first time she had found herself riding up to the house – and yet how familiar. She again had no notion of what reception to expect, in this house that had been her home. The one thing she was sure of was that she would bear it all to see her children.
The carriage descended the hill, crossed the bridge, and drove to the door. All her apprehension eased on seeing two young faces running to meet her, with a smaller third following behind.
"Mama!" Bennet cried, grabbing at her legs before she had even fully stepped out. Sweeping all three into an embrace, Lady Matlock did not spot the red-faced Miss Hindmarsh in quick pursuit of her charges. Holding them close she felt whole again.
"I have missed you all so much."
"Lizzy! It is so good to see you." She looked up and swallowed down her spite. It would not do to be cruel to Miss Darcy, even if she was the unwitting fool in her brother's game. Lady Matlock was acutely aware that a report of her whole weekend would find its way to London. She intended to be on her best behaviour.
She greeted Miss Darcy, as if the younger woman had not stolen her children and home – as if she did not hate the sight of her – letting her sister-in-law lead her into the house that had been hers, a task made more difficult by the child she had acquired on each limb and the one in her belly.
The rain had quashed Miss Darcy's plans for a picnic, so instead they went through for tea in the yellow sitting room, the same one that opened onto the gardens where Georgiana had entertained Mrs. Gardiner and Miss Lizzy eight years before. There was a different intruder this time: Miss Charlotte Butler, Georgiana's pretty young friend. With a soft Welsh lit and eyes that shone bright with a defiant intelligence, Lady Matlock supposed there was a lot to admire in Miss Butler. She could see why Miss Darcy liked her: she might have herself, had they met a year ago. Had the young stranger not slept under the same roof as her own children for the past three weeks, while she was relegated to an illustrious cell.
The arrival of her own sisters' families put an end to Lady Matlock's sharp thoughts. Their delight at seeing her could only be genuine and it allowed for the particular pleasure of seeing her sons and daughter playing with their cousins. With the children present the adults' talk focused chiefly on them, allowing her to avoid any awkward questions. When gifts were produced, she basked in maternal pride at having found the instant favourites: two little wooden long bows with blunted arrows. She did not even mind if their poor aim broke anything of worth – in fact, she rather hoped they would.
It was not until the children had been put to bed, that the adults turned to the reason for Lord Matlock's absence. The papers reported a great deal of debate in the Commons over whether to open the King's evidence bags – thus giving the accusations within them any credit. (The Lords, being more for the King, had already established a committee to review the evidence.) William Wilberforce had been rolled out to try to talk some sense into the Queen: petitioning her to accept the settlement and return to the continent, for the country's sake.
"It is all most alarming," Miss Darcy said over supper. "I am so glad you are returned safe Lizzy, but I do worry for Fitzwilliam–"
"He will be fine!" Bingley cried, with all the certainty port can bring. "Why, to go up against Wellington and Darcy, especially when he is in one of his moods – I can see why they think she is deranged."
"Matlock." His sister said sharply. "My husband is Matlock now, brother."
"Oh, yes. Of course."
"What was the mood like in London, Lady Matlock?" Miss Butler asked.
"The lower orders are all for the Queen."
"That is true everywhere," Mr. Harrison said.
"It is the greatest folly," Bingley laughed, "that they think her pure and spotless as the snow."
"I think the folly," Miss Butler began, "comes from the Lords thinking they can drag a queen, whose sufferings have been felt by the whole the nation, through such an ordeal. The consequences will be on their own heads. I would not seek to make a heroine of Queen Caroline, but the nation as a whole is for her. The women of the nation are for her. How can we not be? It is absurd that a women whose behaviour is regarded as indulgence rather than vice when carried out by her husband, should be slandered. Given his behaviour, there is no doubt she is a victim, regardless of whether she is completely pure."
"Here here!" Mrs. Harrison cried.
"I would remind you both that this house, and the living you benefit from Catherine, belong to my husband, a member of His Majesty's Government. A minister, no less. The Queen's followers are no benign crowd, they are a mob. And she herself is the dupe of dangerous and wicked men. You will both exercise more caution in what you say in his household. Now," Lady Matlock stood. "I am in need of rest."
She left them chastised and – she hoped – convinced of her absolute commitment to the Government's cause, even if Miss Butler had spoken what her own heart dared not whisper. Instead, she wept, for Caroline's indignity and her own.
The bedchamber that had been hers held little attraction. Her heart was in the nursery, but if she went in now she risked waking the children. She would wait to the morning to see them – before saying goodbye again.
It was to the picture-gallery that she found herself walking. They were both there, hanging next to each other: the Darcys, looking as they had done in their youth. Mrs. Elizabeth Darcy's likeness was taken the summer after her marriage. She beamed, fresh-faced, in love and anticipating a summer of delight. Mr. Darcy had kept making her laugh while she sat: the artist, Mr. Someone-or-Other had quite despaired.
She looked back to her husband's portrait, and the smile she had all but forgot. Would they have carried on being happy, if his cousins or uncle or grandfather had just had more boys? If there was not such a stupid system of inheritance anyway?
Lady Matlock placed her hand on her growing stomach. How much had changed. He held her when she lost their first two, the unannounced baby who had not survived her first Season, and the second, who kicked too hard and too soon. That one was probably a girl, the physician thought: the first came too soon to tell. She could not picture them, but they came to her sometimes. They would have been happy children, she knew that. She wondered at this one still being there. She had not paid them much thought. In fact, at times, she tried actively not to; but they were starting to make themselves known now. They were a survivor, this little boy or girl, to hang on through all of her emotions and activities of the last four months. If they were that tough, she wanted them to be a girl; a girl needed to be tough. But her husband would want another boy, especially if Miss Darcy remained determined not to marry. And angry though she was, Elizabeth could not contemplate forcing Georgiana into the unhappy situation she found herself in.
Kitty and Lydia had held a mirror up to the type of person she was becoming as Mrs. Darcy, and she did not like what she saw – but that person was infinitely preferable to this Lady Matlock she was forced to become. This Lady Matlock, who said with such confidence lines she did not believe and would spread her legs for her husband just long enough that he could plant his seed, before moving on to younger, prettier company – who all, for some reason, had the face of her youngest sister – while she distracted herself with drink and baubles to numb the pain of his rank hypocrisy and her longing for a life, any life, that was different to the one she was living as they fell further and further into bitterness and resentment and she had been right, so right, that first time in Hunsford, she should never have let her aunt and uncle, her dear dear aunt and uncle, convince her to visit Pemberley when they should have been in the Lakes and somehow they still would have found Lydia at Foundlings where she would have been a good nurse and been so very, very happy–
"Ma'am?" A kerchief appeared before her, at the end of John Harrison's arm. "I was going to collect Jon and Betsie from the nursery, but I heard – well."
She took the offer kerchief and dried her eyes. "We are brother and sister, John. You need not call me ma'am."
"Of course, Lady Matlock."
She laughed and handed his offering back. "Thank you. I am just – it is very difficult, being so separated. What would the Bible advise me, other than to be a dutiful wife?"
He reddened. "I'm afraid I do not know enough of it by heart to tell you."
"My sister's right, you would make a poor bishop." With boldness she asked. "Aristotle though, I'd wager you could quote him."
"Only in English, and I've been told that does not count."
She snorted at that, then, remembering herself, said: "In truth now John, would your family in Manchester not be very proud if you were a bishop? And surely you can see that a seat in the Lords would allow you to help them. I've seen enough of your character, and characters like you, to expect you think on how to better society more than you do on the word of God. You would do well, brother, to consider my husband's offer."
He looked at her strangely, like one might if determining whether a cat is likely to purr or bite. "I will think on it, but to be honest – I think they are more likely to feel abandonment than pride. They already think–"
"That you have become too grand? Hm. We are a peculiar nation, far too much concerned with people knowing their place; rather less concerned with questioning why those places exist. I wonder if we will ever change."
"Before you left, you spoke with Catherine about establishing a school in Kympton, open to anyone who would benefit from it."
"Lord! That seems so long ago. What of it?"
"You asked me to think on what I would do, to improve the country. I would start there, if you are happy for me to."
"I would be delighted. Write up your proposal, present it to Mr. Clarke and – if my husband approves – I will give it my patronage. Though I would perhaps mention moral instruction, rather than philosophy, at least in the first instance."
He grinned. "Noted, sister."
That evening Lady Matlock fell asleep with a lighter heart than she had in many, many nights. The joy of seeing her children again in the morning was only equalled by the pain of parting with them in the afternoon. Through tears, she assured each one she would see them again very soon – with far more confidence than the last time she had made such a promise. Her behaviour, at least in public, had been beyond reproach. Compliance was made more bearable by the knowledge it not only kept her sister's husband's living secure but allowed him to promote that idea that had been so close to her heart, before she had had to lock it away. John and Kitty could do by proxy what she could not; but if her acquiescence gave them the patronage they needed, she could bear it.
As if to prove to herself that she could, she wrote to her lord husband as soon as she returned to his seat at Scarcliffe, with all the news of his sons' birthdays – presented in such a way as to gain his confidence in her having learnt her place. She wrote only that Mr. Harrison would speak with his steward about a philanthropic undertaking that would build the young man's reputation and, she hoped, give him a taste for what could be achieved from being in a more advantageous position.
She awaited his response with some dread, which made it all the more curious when none arrived. She continued to write, in the hope that soon he would allow her to return to Pemberley – but no reply came. It was only through others she knew he had not simply dropped dead.
June wound into July. Every day that passed without a letter wore at her hope. She wrote reminding him of her mother's celebration of her fiftieth year in August, which all of her daughters planned to attend. Given her new situation, she thought it prudent to ask his permission to attend. That did receive a terse letter of assent, but it was from his clerk, not him.
Georgiana sent increasingly long letters with tales of the children, as well as assorted pictures and stories they had written, promising her sister-in-law that she spoke about her to them every day and delighted in the shanty Bennet had taught her to play on the piano. Lady Matlock resigned herself to the fact that her children were at least being cared for by an aunt who loved them. Perhaps that was better than two morose parents.
Mr. Clarke called on her once a week. He seemed rather more inclined towards telling her what was going to happen with Mr. Harrison's project and the plans for renovating Scarcliffe than seeking her consent. She wondered what instructions he had received. She made a point of smiling pacifically and agreeing that everything sounded a grand idea and that no expense should be spared. It was, after all, her eldest's inheritance. Lord Matlock would receive no reports of his lady's impertinence from his steward. If she ever felt she had simpered too much she would take herself off to stand in front of the seventh Earl and remember his lady.
Trouble in London kept the Gardiners from travelling. Lady Matlock could not deny her relief, though when Mary wrote to say they had also declined attending her mother's celebrations, she did feel a pang of guilt. It could only be her presence that kept them at bay, though she knew her mother well enough to guess at whose presence she would prefer. Mrs. Bennet never boasted in the sitting rooms of Meryton about her brother.