Chapter Twelve
Eizabeth was weary, but happy. After a night spent in enthusiastic conversation with Jane, they had decided upon a double wedding.
But as Mr. Bingley was not to attend church with them—his arm was still bound, and he did not wish to excite comment—they had convinced their mother not to make any announcements until after Christmas, when Mr. Stanton might begin to call the banns.
Mr. Darcy walked over to the village church with them, though, and sat himself at the end of their pew—immediately to the right of Elizabeth.
“This is a very pretty chapel,” he said, glancing around.
“It is not as large as the one in Meryton,” Elizabeth said.
“It is older, though.”
“Yes. Longbourn, and thus the village, have been here for nearly three hundred years. Meryton is perhaps a century younger.”
“Lizzy,” Jane said from her seat on Mary’s left side, “Kitty and Lydia have forgotten their prayer books. I have lent them mine to share, and as you know, Mary prefers to have her own. Would you lend me yours?” She smiled, and Elizabeth was certain she detected a sort of smugness in it, not that she minded.
“Mr. Darcy has brought his, you see. Perhaps he would be so good as to share it with you?”
For once, Mary had nothing to say, for her nose was already buried in the psalms. Mr. Darcy, however, smiled widely and muttered something about a side-saddle. Elizabeth handed her book over to Jane and attempted not to blush in church.
“I like your sister very much,” Mr. Darcy whispered to her as Mr. Stanton began the service.
Elizabeth nodded. “You should. She has been quite your champion.”
He had the good grace to look a bit chagrined before they both turned their attention to the service.
Or at least, she tried to listen closely.
Mr. Stanton was an excellent speaker, and she had never had trouble before, but Mr. Darcy was so close as they huddled over his prayerbook.
Was it normal that the heat from his body both warmed her and caused her to shiver?
“The sermon today,” Mr. Stanton said in his sonorous voice, “is the proverb ‘Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall.’”
Mr. Darcy started a bit and took an anxious look about him, but Mr. Stanton was not the sort of pastor to single out a parishioner in such a way.
It was one reason he was so beloved. Even so, her betrothed appeared discomfited as Mr. Stanton began to recount the sorts of temptations to pride that faced each of them every day.
Elizabeth thought it spoke well of Mr. Darcy, that he could recognize such a fault in himself.
She too, had to accept that pride and prejudice were both flaws in her character.
There was a commotion at the back of the chapel. All heads turned towards the sound, and even Mr. Stanton stopped speaking.
A woman’s voice, harsh and bitter, rang out over the peace of the gathering. “Where is he? Where is my nephew?”
“Good God,” Mr. Darcy said in a sort of strangled mumble.
“What is it?” Elizabeth asked.
The door was thrown wide. “Fitzwilliam Darcy!” a woman exclaimed. “You will come with me at once!”
“That,” Mr. Darcy said with a groan, covering his eyes with one hand, “is my aunt, Lady Catherine.”
Elizabeth took a good look at the woman who was, even now, vigorously striking the bottom of her walking stick against the stones of the church floor as she strode forward.
She was tall and broad with severe grey hair and a vigorous sort of energy.
A green velvet hat leaned at a precarious angle from one side of her head.
Dragon indeed. Elizabeth could almost see smoke escaping from the older woman’s nostrils.
Lady Catherine stopped next to their pew and fixed her eyes upon Elizabeth.
Well, Mr. Darcy had warned them.
He had already extricated himself from the pew to face Lady Catherine, taking his aunt’s arm and attempting to escort her back the way she had come. But the older woman yanked her arm away from his and would not be silent.
“Have you any notion of what is being said about you and that ridiculous daughter of a backwater farmer?” She glared at Elizabeth again. “Is that her?”
“We will discuss this outside,” Mr. Darcy hissed.
Papa, the backwater farmer of Lady Catherine’s imagination, only smirked. “It appears that you shall not be the only one with silly relatives when you marry, eh, Lizzy?” Unfortunately, he was required to speak loudly as he was standing all the way at the other end of the pew.
Half the crowd turned to look at her.
Elizabeth closed her eyes, but it was not enough.
For though she could not see the curious stares or Lady Catherine’s expression twisted in anger, she could still hear it all—Lady Catherine’s indignant shouts, Mamma’s crowing, her intended’s vain attempts to quiet his aunt, and the whispers that buzzed like bees as the village reacted to the unprecedented event taking place before them.
Lady Catherine, and no doubt she and Mr. Darcy, would be the topic of discussion at every dinner table in the village tonight.
Well, there was nothing for it. She offered Mr. Stanton a look of apology. His expression cleared as he glanced from her to Mr. Darcy, and then to Lady Catherine.
“Madam!” the pastor commanded. “You will sit and be quiet, or you will exit this sanctuary at once.”
“Do you know who I am?” Lady Catherine thundered.
Mr. Stanton smiled. “We all do, madam. You are Mr. Darcy’s aunt and a living example for my sermon today.”
Papa half laughed, half grunted. Elizabeth snuck a glance at him—her father was nodding most assiduously in agreement, arms crossed over his chest with a sardonic grin as he observed the scene.
The pastor pointed at Lady Catherine, who gasped at the shock of Mr. Stanton’s rudeness. “There is none among us without sin, but it is our duty to always labour towards a blameless life.” He turned to his entire flock. “Has this woman handled her anger wisely?” he asked, referring to the proverb.
“No!” the crowd crowed gleefully, for never was a sermon relished more than when someone else was the object of it. The fact that their pastor had before always refused to do so made this a wonderful moment for them all.
“Psalms 14:3,” Mr. Stanton stated. “‘In the mouth of the foolish is a rod of pride.’ Isaiah says, ‘Woe to the crown of pride,’ and finally, Proverbs again: ‘A man’s pride shall bring him low.’ I might add a woman’s pride is every bit as dangerous.
This woman is so proud that she disdains not to travel on the Sabbath in order to break up a holy meeting in a house of God! ”
The congregation offered a series of satisfied gasps.
Elizabeth was of the mind that God had a rather well-developed sense of humour. He must. If she was correct, He would be enjoying himself a great deal just now.
“Lady Catherine,” she heard Mr. Darcy say grimly as Mr. Stanton continued to speak, “either you remove yourself willingly from this chapel at once, or I shall toss you over my shoulder and carry you out with no more dignity than a sack of onions. Do you understand me?”
“You would never,” the older lady hissed, but whatever she saw in her nephew’s countenance made her whirl away and finally, finally, exit the building. Mr. Darcy tugged the hem of his waistcoat and followed her out.
“I shall never miss church again!” Lydia exclaimed happily.
The incident had kindled a fire in Mr. Stanton, and it was another half an hour before the flames died down.
Stomachs were rumbling throughout the sanctuary, and Elizabeth was certain their hunger would be blamed upon Lady Catherine’s dramatic entrance.
She only hoped they would not extend that blame to Mr. Darcy, and while she was terribly curious to hear what he was saying, Elizabeth did not dare walk out of doors to find out.
Eventually, there was the light rumble of carriage wheels rolling away, and Mr. Stanton ended his sermon.
When the pastor had completed the ending prayers, everyone rushed to the churchyard to see whether they might glean any additional gossip from the confrontation between staid Mr. Darcy and his sacrilegious aunt.
Elizabeth and Jane held back for a moment. “Well,” Elizabeth said, “you did once say you would like to see Lady Catherine and me in a room together.”
Jane gave her a sidelong glance. “I did not mean for it to be a church.”
“Do you think he felt obligated to return her to Kent?” Elizabeth asked quietly. “She could work on him at length once she had him there, and she has separated couples before.”
“Elizabeth,” Jane remonstrated. “Have a little faith.”
Elizabeth plucked up her courage and peered outside. Alas, there was no sign of either of them. She felt her heart sink a little before she felt a tapping on her shoulder.
“Miss Elizabeth,” Mr. Stanton said, “might I have a word?”
Her shoulders drooped, but she turned to follow Mr. Stanton. Her curiosity rose as he led her through the church and into the back where there were several small rooms. Mr. Stanton opened the door that led to a study of sorts.
Inside stood Mr. Darcy, the very picture of dejection with his eyes cast down to the brim of the hat he was worrying with both hands.
She could breathe again. “There you are,” she said with no little relief, stepping past Mr. Stanton and into the room. “I thought you must have been forced to escort your aunt home.”
“No, of course not,” he said, confused, but still not looking at her.
“I put her in her carriage and sent her away, then came around the back to offer my profuse apologies to Mr. Stanton. Even I would never have guessed my aunt could be so lost to propriety that she would break up a Sunday service.”
“Thank you, Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth said gently.