Chapter 32
Once matters had been resolved with Wickham—for Elizabeth did not feel he merited the title of even a mere mister—everything returned, with surprising speed, to its usual state.
Or nearly its usual state.
Longbourn still rang with Mrs. Bennet’s exclamations, Lydia’s laughter, Kitty’s questions, Mary’s moral observations, and Jane’s soft attempts to soothe them all.
Mr. Bennet still retreated to his library when domestic joy grew too loud for his constitution, though Elizabeth had lately caught him smiling into his book more often than reading it.
The younger girls still spoke of balls, ribbons, officers, and the astonishing fact that villainy might enter a drawing room wearing a handsome face.
Mrs. Philips still gathered and dispensed every acceptable particular with an industry that would have suited a government office.
Yet everything was different.
Elizabeth was engaged to be married.
Not merely betrothed in the ordinary way, with settlements to consider and congratulations to receive and new gowns to be made, but betrothed to Darcy—to the man she had secretly admired, defended, wondered over, misunderstood, loved, and almost lost before she had ever properly had him.
There were moments when she could scarcely credit it.
She would be seated with her needlework or walking the garden path or listening to her mother determine, for the sixth time in one day, which lace best suited a bride of her complexion, when the truth would rise up within her with such force that she had to lower her eyes to hide the smile.
She was to marry Darcy.
And if her joy had needed any increase, it was found in those who came with him.
Georgiana remained at Netherfield until all fear of immediate danger had passed, and by the end of that time Elizabeth could not imagine thinking of her as anything but a sister.
She was shy still, and often quiet, but there was sweetness, humor, and unexpected strength beneath it.
She had faced Wickham’s exposure with trembling hands and a lifted chin, and Elizabeth loved her more for both.
Colonel Fitzwilliam—Richard, for she had been given leave to call him so—declared that any sister of Darcy’s who had defeated a scoundrel by spelling was entitled to every privilege of family.
He came and went between Netherfield and Longbourn with such cheerful freedom that Mrs. Bennet nearly forgave him for not being the heir to an estate.
He teased Darcy without mercy, charmed Mrs. Philips, frightened Lydia into something very like respect by promising to introduce her only to officers who knew how to behave, and treated Georgiana with a brotherly mixture of nonsense and watchfulness that Elizabeth could not help admiring.
On the whole, she had no cause to repine.
A wedding date was set. Marriage contracts were drawn, examined, argued over, and signed.
Mr. Philips took his duties so seriously that Elizabeth suspected he enjoyed terrifying the other solicitors.
Lord Matlock approved everything with a care that made her grateful, and Lady Matlock wrote to Elizabeth with such affectionate warmth that Mrs. Bennet carried the letter about for two days as proof that her daughter was beloved by an actual countess.
Elizabeth’s own fortune remained, to her relief and some amusement, exactly as Lord Matlock had arranged it.
Netherfield was hers, protected in law and destined for her children, though its income might be directed in such ways as good sense permitted.
Darcy, after the first shock of discovering her hidden wealth, had said only that he was glad for her security and still more glad she had not been obliged to sacrifice it.
Elizabeth had looked at him carefully then, searching for wounded pride or disappointment, but found none.
He seemed, if anything, quietly grateful that one more burden had been removed from their shoulders.
It was then she knew, fully and finally, that she had chosen well.
The waiting, however, was dreadful.
Elizabeth had once believed herself a patient person.
This was proved false within the first week.
The days stretched endlessly. Every call from Darcy felt too short, every parting too long, every necessary discussion of linen, settlements, servants, carriages, trunks, and gowns a conspiracy to prevent her from becoming his wife.
And yet, when she later looked back upon those weeks, they seemed to have vanished like mist in morning sun.
The days had crept like weeks.
The weeks had flown like days.
And then, quite suddenly, she stood in the church at Meryton, her hand in Darcy’s, and heard herself make promises that settled upon her soul like home.
All of Darcy’s family had come.
Lord and Lady Matlock were present, the former solemn and dignified, the latter openly moved.
Viscount Milton attended with his wife and shook Darcy’s hand with grave affection before turning to Elizabeth and assuring her that the family had needed her for years, whether they had known it or not.
Richard stood near Darcy and behaved with admirable propriety until the very moment after the ceremony, when he murmured something that made Darcy’s mouth twitch despite his best efforts.
Even Lady Catherine de Bourgh came, accompanied by Miss Anne de Bourgh.
The grand woman had separated herself from her late sister’s family many years before, determined to preserve her daughter’s reputation, consequence, and eligibility from the shadow George Darcy had cast over his own name.
Elizabeth had heard enough to understand there had been pain beneath the pride, and fear beneath the severity.
As Rosings was only fifty miles from Longbourn, and as the earl had written both to encourage her attendance and to vouch for the respectable nature of his nephew and his nephew’s chosen bride, Lady Catherine had made the journey.
Her congratulations were stiff. Her gaze was searching. Her comments upon the size of the church, the quality of the breakfast, and the management of the Bennet household were delivered in a tone that suggested both judgment and restraint.
Elizabeth, who had already survived Wickham, the marriage settlements, her mother’s nerves, and three fittings of a gown whose sleeves had apparently been constructed by an enemy, found Lady Catherine rather less terrifying than advertised.
Miss de Bourgh was thin, pale, and quiet, but when Georgiana took her arm, she smiled. Elizabeth thought there might be hope there too, in time.
Jane wept through half the ceremony. Mrs. Bennet wept through all of it, loudly enough that Mr. Bennet was obliged to hand her his own handkerchief after hers became unequal to the task.
Mary looked solemnly pleased. Kitty and Lydia whispered until a look from Richard silenced them both.
Mr. Philips stood with Mrs. Philips, his face bright with pride, and when Elizabeth signed the register, he sniffed and pretended it was dust in the church.
Elizabeth Bennet.
She looked at the name for a moment before setting down the pen.
The last time.
When she turned, Darcy was watching her.
Not with triumph. Not possession. Not impatience.
With tenderness.
As if he understood that joy could still hold a farewell within it, and that even happy changes asked a little courage.
She smiled at him.
Then she signed the next paper as Elizabeth Darcy.
That, she found, required no courage at all.
The wedding breakfast passed in a blur of embraces, toasts, laughter, tears, and Mrs. Bennet’s repeated assurances that she had always known Elizabeth would marry very well, though perhaps not quite so well, for who could have guessed?
Mr. Bennet kissed Elizabeth’s forehead before she left and held her hands longer than was his habit.
“You have done well, Lizzy,” he said quietly.
She looked at him in surprise, for his voice was too serious for teasing.
“Thank you, Papa.”
His fingers tightened once around hers. “Be happy.”
“I mean to be.”
“Then I shall not spoil the occasion by offering advice.”
“That may be the best advice you could offer.”
He laughed softly, kissed her again, and let her go.
And then Elizabeth was in the carriage beside her husband.
Her husband.
Darcy sat close enough that their shoulders brushed whenever the carriage shifted.
Georgiana accompanied them, at Elizabeth’s insistence and Darcy’s great satisfaction, for they were to make Pemberley a home together.
She sat opposite, shyly radiant, and though she sometimes looked out the window in silence, there was no terror in her now.
Wickham had been removed from her future.
What remained was uncertain, but it was hers.
The journey north was long, but Elizabeth did not weary of it.
Darcy told her of towns, inns, hills, roads, and old family stories.
Georgiana described Pemberley’s music room, her favorite walks, the stream where Darcy had once fallen in as a boy and blamed a stone, though Richard insisted that Darcy had simply been too proud to admit he had slipped.
Elizabeth listened to every word and gathered them close.
She had known Pemberley first as an obligation, then as a wounded estate, then as a beloved place spoken of by those who missed it. Now she would see it for herself.
She was determined to love it.
No matter what state it was in, she thought privately.
Darcy had warned her, though never dramatically.
There remained repairs undone. The retrenchment had left its mark.
Some rooms were closed, some tenants still required attention, and the grounds had not been kept to the standard they once had.
Elizabeth believed him. She understood neglect, recovery, and work postponed for want of money.
Longbourn had taught her that beauty and difficulty often shared the same roof.
Still, as the carriage climbed through the last wooded rise and the valley opened before them, Elizabeth forgot every sensible expectation she had formed.
Pemberley lay below.
The house stood large and handsome upon rising ground, its stone warmed by the afternoon light.
Behind it, wooded hills rose in gracious shelter; before it, the stream wound through the park with a natural ease no artifice could have improved.
The lawns were not as finely kept as they might have been.
Here and there, growth had gone a little too wild, and a distant path appeared almost swallowed by encroaching green.
Yet none of it diminished the scene. If anything, the want of rigid symmetry added to its charm.
The place did not impose itself upon the landscape; it belonged to it.
Elizabeth leaned forward despite herself.
“Oh,” she whispered.
Darcy watched her, saying nothing.
The carriage rolled onward, and more of the house came into view.
There were signs of care as well as want: repaired stonework on one wing, newly cleared drainage near the lower grounds, fresh thatching on a cottage glimpsed through trees, and in the distance, sheep scattered over a green slope.
This was not a dead estate waiting for rescue.
It was a living place that had been wounded and was healing.
Her throat tightened.
She thought of the young man who had sold luxuries, paid debts, kept tenants in their homes, and given his sister every safety he could while denying himself comfort.
She thought of the boy who had loved a father who had not deserved it and had chosen, somehow, not to become bitter.
She thought of the man beside her, silent now because this mattered too much for easy speech.
The carriage stopped at a turn where the view was fullest.
Darcy stepped down first, then turned to hand her out. Georgiana followed more slowly, her eyes bright with emotion. For a few moments, all three stood together in the soft air, looking down upon Pemberley.
Darcy’s arm came around Elizabeth with a hesitation that was not uncertainty, but reverence. As though he wished to hold her and the moment both, and feared to disturb either.
“What do you think?” he asked quietly.
Elizabeth looked at the house, the hills, the water, the softened lawns, the unfinished work, the beauty that had endured neglect and was waiting for love.
Then she looked up at him.
“It is beautiful.”
His expression loosened, relief and joy mingling so deeply that she was glad she had spoken simply. No cleverness was needed. No teasing could have improved the truth.
“It needs work,” he said.
“So do most worthwhile things.”
A smile touched his mouth. “You are not dismayed?”
“By overgrown lawns? Uneven paths? Rooms in want of use?” She turned slightly in his arm and looked once more over the valley. “No. I think Pemberley has been waiting.”
“For what?”
“For you to stop bearing it alone.”
His arm tightened around her.
Georgiana, standing on Elizabeth’s other side, slipped her hand into hers. Elizabeth clasped it at once.
Together they looked down at the house that would be their home.
There would be work ahead. Elizabeth knew it with the certainty of one who had never believed happiness meant idleness.
Tenants to know, accounts to understand, rooms to open, repairs to order, gardens to reclaim, neighbors to meet, servants to encourage, and a sister to love into confidence.
There would be disagreements too, no doubt.
Darcy was too decided and she too opinionated for perfect serenity.
But they had already learned how to speak when afraid, how to forgive when wounded, and how to stand together when threatened.
That, Elizabeth thought, was worth more than symmetry.
Pemberley did not need a mistress who wanted only grandeur.
It needed affection, patience, courage, laughter, and a great deal of practical sense.
She could give it all of those.
Darcy bent his head, his voice low for her alone. “Welcome home, Elizabeth.”
Home.
The word settled over her with all the sweetness of a promise kept.
She rested her hand over his where it lay at her waist, felt Georgiana’s fingers warm in her other hand, and looked once more upon Pemberley with a heart so full it seemed impossible it could ever have known emptiness.
“Home,” she said.
And so it was.