Chapter Eleven #4
“I do not believe Papa has told her much of anything beyond the initial dowries,” Elizabeth admitted. “Arriving here must have been a surprise.”
“I told her enough to put her mind at ease. She complains, you know, because she is afraid.”
“She might have been spared that,” Elizabeth said.
“She might have been,” Aunt Olivia agreed quietly.
“The dowries for you and your sisters never depended upon you coming to live with us, but we did ask your father to send one of you girls to Weymouth House. Thomas felt you were the right girl. I believe he knew your mother would be angry with him and decided to allow her to think we had insisted.”
It sounded like something Papa would do. “It was unkind,” Elizabeth said quietly, thinking of a life at Longbourn with her mother, “but it was the right decision. I love Mama, but…”
“In any case,” Aunt Olivia continued, “Thomas did not explain, nor was your mother willing to listen if he had. They are both at fault. As are your uncle and I for not understanding what had happened and tending to it sooner.” She smiled. “We are all of us imperfect, dear. But we all love you.”
Elizabeth sat down on the settee. “It is hardly your fault, but I thank you, Aunt.”
“Well, that is that,” Aunt Olivia replied, rather self-satisfied. “Now, I have something for you. I had to fend off your groom to give you this,” she said gleefully. “He had his own ideas.”
“Oh dear,” Elizabeth said with a chuckle. “You must have been formidable indeed.”
“Not at all,” Aunt Olivia demurred. “For he is not to be thwarted in such a direct way. I appealed, rather, for the right to give you a gift from your Uncle Phillip. To that, he had no answer.” She slid a rectangular box from her sleeve.
“Phillip selected this for you before your coming-out. He meant for you to wear it at your ball. He would be thrilled to see you wear it today.”
Elizabeth’s eyes began to sting. “I wish he could, Aunt Olivia.”
The older woman handed her the box. “I believe he will, dearest.”
She took the box from her aunt in trembling hands and carefully opened the lid.
Inside was a necklace of small but perfect oval sapphires trimmed in gold and set off by a single teardrop sapphire in the center.
She said nothing at first, content to run her finger along the stones.
“Uncle Phillip chose this for me?” she asked.
“He did,” Aunt Olivia replied gently. “Here, turn away so I may…” She took the necklace and fastened it around Elizabeth’s neck.
Elizabeth placed her hand over it where it lay on her chest. “I am so very grateful to you and Uncle Phillip,” she whispered. “Everything I have is due to you.”
“Do not be ridiculous,” Aunt Olivia said, but her tone was affectionate rather than brusque. “Everything you have is due to you. We might have offered you the world and still have seen you fail had you not worked diligently to become worthy of the gift.”
“You are not supposed to argue with me,” Elizabeth retorted, unable to hide a grin. “It is my wedding day.”
“Then do not say silly things, and I shall not have to correct you,” Aunt Olivia retorted.
The women looked at each other silently for a moment, and then both laughed.
There was a knock at the door.
“Come,” Elizabeth called, and John stepped through. Elizabeth stood. She ran her hands along her skirt, trying to pull out wrinkles that were not there.
John blinked twice, his eyes suspiciously glossy, before he cleared his throat and said, “I see Phillip has given you his gift after all.” He took Elizabeth’s hand and kissed it. “You are beautiful, my dear.” He bowed deeply to them both and held out a hand to Aunt Olivia.
“Livy,” he said quietly, “may I have the honor of escorting you ladies downstairs?” He inclined his head towards the hallway. “I believe I heard something about a wedding, and the groom is currently pacing the drawing room like an angry bull.”
“We should go,” Elizabeth replied immediately.
“Nonsense,” Aunt Olivia said as she lifted her hands for assistance in rising. Once on her feet, it took her a moment to catch her breath. “It will do him no harm to wait. The boy has grown far too used to having his way in all things.”
“Then I wonder he wishes to marry our Lizzy,” John teased.
“Elizabeth?” Georgiana called. Her head appeared around the door. “Oh, I did not mean to interrupt,” she explained, her cheeks flushing pink. “I will just wait for you out here.”
“Not at all,” Elizabeth said, waving her inside. “Please come in. Do you know my cousin?”
Georgiana nodded. “We were introduced this morning.” She curtsied. “Pardon me, Your Grace, but my brother asked me to give these to Lizzy.” She thrust out her hands. In them was a small bouquet of roses.
White roses.
Darcy did not mean to pace the floor waiting for Elizabeth, but he was impatient to begin the ceremony.
He had not had nearly enough time with her of late and was anxious to claim her company for himself.
He would wed, the attendees would be fed, and then they would all go home.
Elsewhere. He and Elizabeth would remain here in Kensington—he had grown very fond of the house and grounds already.
He was especially grateful that Anne had come—he would not feel any guilt sending Georgiana and Anne with the Matlocks to enjoy a prolonged visit while he and Elizabeth began their lives together.
Richard tried to press a glass of wine into his hand, but he resisted. He did not need port to calm himself, he needed his bride. Bingley asked whether brandy would be more to his taste.
“Or a strike to the head,” Richard muttered. “May I never wed at all if this is what it does to a stoic man like you.”
“I only need Elizabeth to arrive,” Darcy said, his manner abrupt. “Leave off.”
There was a stifled squeal near the windows. Darcy saw Mr. Gardiner handing Miss Mary a guitar. He had never seen one in person and wondered where the man had procured it.
“Hmm,” Richard said. “A Spanish guitar. Are there masters who teach that?”
Darcy shrugged. He had no idea.
Richard’s gaze searched the drawing room now filled with relations. “Bingley,” he hissed, “where is your sister? She is not trying to storm the rooms upstairs, is she?”
Bingley grinned and shook his head. “Caroline returned to Auntie Cleopatra’s home in town last night, rather unexpectedly.”
“Hoping for an invitation?” Richard asked.
“Lizzy was generous enough to invite them both,” Bingley replied, “but I thought Caroline’s presence a risky proposition at best with a duke, a marquess, and an earl in attendance.”
“Not to mention their wives,” Richard added, tugging at his cravat.
Bingley nodded. “My aunt was happy to have Caroline stay a little longer. That being the case, I did not bother to relay the invitation to my sister.”
“You lied, Bingley?“ Richard asked, grinning. “I should never have thought it of you.”
“Only of omission, my friend,” Bingley replied cheerfully. “It is still a sin, but for such a cause I thought I might be forgiven.”
Darcy lifted his face to the ceiling and blew out a gust of air. “You are a good friend, Bingley.”
“I am a wise friend,“ Bingley replied, shaking his head, “and Elizabeth will be my sister at the end of January. I do not wish for her,” he grinned at Darcy, “or her husband, to be cross with me.”
There was a stirring outside in the hallway, and Darcy straightened up so abruptly that Richard flinched.
Bedford entered with Mrs. Russell on his arm; he delivered her to the duchess before returning to the back of the room, where Mr. Bennet waited.
Bingley hurried to a seat, and Richard put the wine away and resumed his place at Darcy’s side.
At last, Mr. Bennet stepped outside and reappeared with Elizabeth.
Darcy’s breath caught at the sight of her in the doorway, her hair elegantly coiffed, coppery highlights shining in the cold sunlight that streamed through the windows. The rosy bow of her lips, her creamy skin, the glint of the gold in her eyes—he could barely force himself to remain still.
In one hand, Elizabeth held his bouquet, and his heart ached with tenderness. He caught her eye; her entire face radiated joy. He glanced down at the flowers and back up at her. “Aphrodite,” he mouthed, and her cheeks pinked.
Mr. Bennet walked Elizabeth into the room and brought them to a halt next to Bedford.
The duke held out his hand in a gracious sign of condescension, and Elizabeth’s father shook it.
He then formally handed Elizabeth over to Bedford.
Elizabeth kissed her father’s cheek and then Bedford led Elizabeth to Darcy.
It was difficult to concentrate while the vicar spoke, but Darcy managed it during the brief service. He said his vows and gazed deeply into her eyes as she said hers. He slid the wedding band onto her finger reverently and had to remind himself to breathe when she smiled up at him.
Richard prodded him in the back when it was time to sign the register, but he barely felt it. Elizabeth had taken his arm, her light touch sending a shiver down his spine.
“Thank you for my flowers, Fitzwilliam,” she whispered to him as they bent over to sign their names.
“Thank you for marrying me, Elizabeth,” he whispered back.
Elizabeth was still removing hair pins when Fitzwilliam entered the room with a lit candle in his hand.
She swallowed hard when she saw him in his dressing gown but giggled when he stood facing her empty bed for a moment, clearly wondering where she might have gone.
At the sound, he turned to see her still sitting at the vanity.
When his eyes met her own, his expression softened.
“Where is your maid?” he asked, setting the candle down and coming to help.
“I sent her away,” Elizabeth said. “I wished to wait for you by myself.” She nodded at the growing pile of pins. “I have been a bit precipitous, I am afraid. I knew our sisters spent an hour taming my hair, but I did not realize it would be so difficult to undo.”
Her scalp tingled as his fingers combed through her hair, carefully searching for pins and removing them. “You have a talent for this,” she told him.
“I had a much younger sister,” he reminded her.
“She was, and is, a very fortunate girl,” Elizabeth replied, leaning back, reveling in his touch. After a moment, she recommenced her work. “We must be nearly finished,” she said with a laugh.
There was a faint clink as Fitzwilliam dropped three more pins into her pile. “Nearly,” he agreed.
Finally, she found the last pin and placed it on the table.
She stood to face him, her hair flowing down her back as she shook it out.
It was long and thick, and she was pleased that he seemed to appreciate it.
He reached out to run his hand through it from her crown to the ends, stepping so close that she was able to lay her cheek upon his heart, the palms of her hands resting on his chest.
He leaned down and touched her lips with his own.
She released a soft sigh and he took a step back, her hands in his, to stare at her—just stare, his eyes dark, intense, reminding her of the picture with which she had confronted him.
Of their dance at Netherfield. She knew it was love, had known it for some time.
But… ardent. Ardent. Her husband reached for her dressing gown.
“Ohhhh,“ she exhaled, as understanding dawned.