Matlock

Matlock

1 July 1812 Matlock, Derbyshire

Dearest Mary and Jane,

I hope you do not mind, but I will combine your letters for the rest of the holiday, since you are clearly sharing everything anyway, much to my great pleasure. It will save coin on postage.

As I have already described Oxford, Blenheim, Warwick, Kenilworth, and Birmingham in my previous letters I shall dwell on them no more. Now I have the most alarming part of the story to tell, and you shall be truly shocked. I am as well—though truth be told, I am more mortified than anything.

Yesterday we were to tour our last grand house before going to visit Aunt’s relations in Lambton, the great estate of Matlock. As with all the great houses, I did not want any chance of embarrassing our relatives by looking like penniless beggars, so I have been wearing my best attire and paying special attention to my appearance. In this case, by chance I was wearing the day dress I wore that day I walked to Netherfield when you were sick, all those months past, although I’ve done quite a bit of refreshing on it since then.

That seems like another lifetime.

The estate was stunningly glorious. In our tour, we have seen everything from the ostentatious yet hideously vulgar, to the refined and elegant. Matlock was the best example I have yet seen of pure refinement. Everything showed a true sense of taste and beauty going back several generations at least. It sounds like the opposite of how you describe Rosings, Jane. I must admit I was quite taken with the place.

The housekeeper was an interesting and amiable woman, the sort you could sit and chat with for hours. She has served the family faithfully for many years and sang their praises extensively.

She was a bit on the impertinent side, and even hinted that one of the Earl’s sons remained unmarried, much to the countess’s displeasure—as if such a man might be interested in me. I did take some comfort from her faith in my beauty, misplaced as it is. She had the look of truth about her, so perhaps this family is unlike all the very rich that we are more familiar with.

Pity we did not meet any of the Fitzwilliams during our earlier experiences. I remembered that Jane said the Colonel at Rosings was the son of an Earl, but I cannot remember which. It is unfortunate he was not the son of the Earl of Matlock, as the housekeeper makes him sound like a real man among men.

I believe I am wool-gathering, because I have yet to come to the most shocking part of the story. We were touring a gallery of paintings, mostly of long dead relatives that were not of very much interest, when I heard the most beautiful pianoforte I have ever encountered. This was an instrument that could have graced a London ballroom or even the Prince Regent’s music room, and whoever was playing it would not have been embarrassed to present at a London theatre. I must admit, I was thoroughly entranced.

Such was my distraction at the beauty of the music, I lost track of the housekeeper and my companions, trying to get just close enough to hear well.

I came upon a partially open door and looked through to see a young lady playing the instrument with a look of concentration that was quite formidable, as if she was dragging the music forth through sheer force of will. She could not have been very old, probably around the same age as Kitty, but there the similarities ended. This young lady was dressed very elegantly but simply, and she was entirely entranced in her music, as if being transported to another world, and she momentarily transported me to the same place. I swear, it was the most beautiful thing I have ever heard.

Such was my rapture with the music, it took me several moments to notice there was a well-dressed gentleman standing next to the pianoforte looking down on the young girl. I could only see both in profile, but something about them seemed familiar. The gentleman appeared older, so I surmised he was probably brother or uncle, rather than suitor. I felt guilty for intruding on the privacy of such a moment between family members and turned to leave.

As I hurried away in embarrassment, the last thing I spied was the gentleman turning his head. Apparently, he had sensed my presence. Perhaps I made a noise, but the last thing I saw of him as I turned to make my hasty exit was a glance at the side of his face. I am certain he did not see mine, and for that I am eternally grateful, because I saw just enough to recognise his visage.

Yes, my dear sisters, I am certain you have guessed his identity by now. I had been caught out spying in the private portion of the home by none other than Mr Darcy . Apparently, he has connexions to the family.

I was thoroughly mortified at having been away from the tour and invading the privacy of another’s home without leave, a break in propriety more like Lydia’s doing than my own.

Adding the embarrassment of running into the man that hates me the most in the world, I was frightened out of my wits. I am not actually silly enough to believe Mr Darcy will do me any real harm; but I was thoroughly overcome by the entire encounter. I thank the stars that he could not possibly have seen my face, as I hurried away from the room. At most he would have seen the back of my dress, which would tell him precisely nothing about my identity. It is not as if he would remember one lady’s dress from half a year ago.

I hurried from the room, and since we were close to the front door, I am ashamed to admit that I went out to the front of the house to hide in mortification. Our tour was nearly up so the carriage had already been pulled around after the horses had been seen to. I asked a kindly appearing older footmen to deliver a message to Aunt and Uncle that I was somewhat indisposed, and then I did the most mortifying thing possible. I simply went into the carriage and hid like a frightened girl, hoping that the gentleman would not come looking for me.

Mr Darcy did in fact come out of the house just a few moments later, apparently looking for the curious invader. I shrank back into the corner of the carriage and was surprised to see him look around for several minutes, before shaking his head and going back into the house. Apparently, he thought his domain was once again safe from intruders, and I simply waited for our aunt and uncle; and steadfastly refused to enlighten them on the exact nature of my indisposition.

I so hate repeating myself, but this was the most mortifyingly embarrassing moment of my life, and I cannot imagine what I would have said to him should he have caught up with me. What could I say, after acting so indecorously; after confirming all his worst suspicions about me? It was much too embarrassing for me to remember my fright of the man until much later. I truly hope he did not recognise me, although I’m quite certain he never got a look at my face so I believe I am safe, and it seems unlikely his opinion of me could diminish anyway.

Tomorrow, we go to Lambton, and all will be well. It is only a few miles from Pemberley, but I doubt I need worry about encountering Mr Darcy at the inn or with Aunt’s friends, so I am perfectly safe from notice.

While I have enjoyed our holiday, I am very much looking forward to being back home in Cheapside, and back to my own pursuits at the warehouse.

Yours mortified sister, Elizabeth