Chapter 26
Elizabeth did not awaken until nearly noon the following day.
For a moment, she lay still, uncertain why her limbs felt so delightfully heavy and why the house was so uncommonly quiet. Then memory rushed back in a bright, breathless wave—the proposal, her father’s grave consent, her mother’s shrieks, Jane’s blushes, the double announcement.
She buried her face in her pillow and laughed.
Engaged.
The word felt at once thrilling and astonishing. She half-expected someone to burst into her chamber and declare the whole thing a dream brought on by too much dancing and too little sleep.
But no one burst in.
Longbourn, it seemed, had surrendered entirely to indolence. They had not returned home until nearly sunrise, and even Mrs. Bennet—who ordinarily rose early after any triumph in order to recount it—had succumbed to fatigue.
Elizabeth dressed slowly, pausing more than once to examine her reflection with narrowed eyes, as though some outward mark might have appeared upon her to denote her new condition. She looked the same. Only her smile betrayed her.
Downstairs, she found Jane already in the breakfast room, her hair only half arranged and a teacup cooling before her.
“Lizzy,” Jane breathed, rising at once to embrace her.
They laughed softly together, a shared understanding passing between them that words could not improve.
“Mama has declared today a day of rest,” Jane confided. “She insists that no one in Hertfordshire will dare call upon us after such late hours.”
Elizabeth arched a brow. “That is, perhaps, the only sensible declaration she has made this week. After arriving home at nearly dawn, I would not wish to make any calls today, either.”
The day unfolded lazily. Mary did not practice. Lydia did not demand ribbons. Even Kitty seemed subdued. The servants moved quietly, grateful, no doubt, for the unexpected reprieve from their mistress’s excitements.
It was, Elizabeth thought, the calm before an entirely different storm.
The following morning shattered that illusion.
Shortly after breakfast—this time taken at a respectable hour—the sound of carriage wheels announced visitors. Mrs. Bennet nearly dropped her teacup in delight.
“They have come already!” she cried. “I knew they would not be able to stay away!”
Elizabeth’s heart leaped as she moved toward the window to see Bingley and Darcy descending from a carriage. Darcy turned, and handed down Georgiana, serene and graceful despite the chill, and Lady Anne, elegant and composed, her expression warm as she surveyed Longbourn.
Elizabeth scarcely remembered crossing the room, only that Darcy’s eyes found hers almost at once and softened in a manner that made her pulse quicken.
After greetings and congratulations were renewed—Mrs. Bennet insisting upon repeating every exclamation she had uttered the night before—the gentlemen exchanged a glance.
“There is a matter of business we must discuss,” Darcy began.
Mrs. Bennet stiffened in delighted anticipation. “Business! Oh! How very grand that sounds!”
Bingley smiled apologetically. “Darcy and I must return to London for a short time. We intend to call upon our attorneys to have the marriage settlements drawn.”
Mrs. Bennet pressed her hand dramatically to her chest.
Darcy continued, his tone steady. “As I am not in my home parish, and as winter advances quickly, I do not wish to delay matters by the posting of banns. The roads to Derbyshire will become difficult before long. Therefore, I shall obtain a common license.”
Mrs. Bennet gave a small, strangled shriek.
“A common license!” she repeated reverently, as though he had announced a coronation. “Oh, my dear Lizzy! How very distinguished! No waiting three Sundays for the whole county to whisper about it!”
Elizabeth, though amused, focused instead on what truly mattered.
“When did you intend to marry, then?” she asked quietly.
Darcy met her gaze without hesitation. “I had hoped for some time before Christmas.”
The words struck her with unexpected force.
“Before Christmas?” she repeated.
She had imagined—without quite realizing she had done so—that the Gardiners would be present. They were due in Hertfordshire on the twenty-third of December. The thought of standing at the altar without her beloved aunt and uncle pricked sharply.
“It would have been pleasant,” she admitted carefully, “to have my aunt and uncle present.”
Darcy’s expression shifted—concern mingled with regret. “If you would prefer to wait—”
“Oh!” Bingley interrupted, brightening suddenly. “Why not a double wedding? Friday, the twenty-seventh of December! After the Gardiners arrive.”
Jane’s eyes widened in hopeful delight.
But Mrs. Bennet recoiled as though personally affronted.
“The day after Boxing Day?” she cried. “Impossible! The servants will all be exhausted! There will be no one to arrange flowers or cakes or—oh! It cannot be done!”
Elizabeth could not help laughing. “And with the four Gardiners in residence, the house would be in complete disarray,” she admitted. “Mama would be in hysterics, our house would be overrun with callers, and no one would know which sister was to be dressed first.”
Jane smiled ruefully.
Elizabeth turned back to Darcy. “Perhaps sooner would be wiser.”
Relief flickered in his eyes.
“When we are in London,” he said softly, “you shall visit your aunt and uncle as often as you wish. They shall be received in my house whenever they please.”
The promise steadied her.
Meanwhile, Bingley had begun calculating aloud. “As our banns must be called, Jane and I cannot marry before Sunday, the fifteenth of December—that being the third reading.”
“So, what day would be best?” Jane asked.
Elizabeth tapped her chin thoughtfully. “There is the old wedding rhyme,” she mused.
Lydia blinked. “What rhyme?”
“Monday for health, Tuesday for wealth, Wednesday the best day of all…” she recited lightly. “If Sunday the fifteenth is the third reading, then Wednesday the eighteenth would suit admirably.”
There was a moment’s pause.
“Wednesday the eighteenth,” Darcy repeated.
Bingley clapped his hands once. “Perfect!”
Jane smiled radiantly.
Mrs. Bennet looked between them all, clearly calculating gowns, dinners, and bragging rights. “Very well! Wednesday the eighteenth! It shall be done!”
The matter settled with remarkable swiftness, Darcy and Bingley requested a private word with Mr. Bennet.
“We must obtain your written approval,” Darcy explained. “My stepmother’s godfather is a bishop. With your letter—and Bingley as witness—the common license may be procured without delay.”
Mr. Bennet regarded him with faint amusement. “A bishop for a godfather? Very well. I suppose I must not stand in the way of efficiency.”
The gentlemen withdrew to the study.
Elizabeth stood at the window, watching as papers were later folded and sealed, as coats were donned and hands shaken. The visit, though joyful, had been briskly purposeful.
Too brisk.
She had not expected to feel the ache that settled in her chest as Darcy prepared to depart.
He approached her quietly before stepping outside.
“It will not be long,” he assured her. “Only a few days.”
“I know,” she replied, striving for cheerfulness. “You must not allow the bishop to misplace the license.”
A faint smile touched his mouth. “I shall stand over him if necessary.”
His hand closed briefly over hers—warm, steady—before he released her.
Outside, Bingley was already assisting Jane into her cloak for a moment’s private farewell. Georgiana and Lady Anne lingered near Elizabeth.
“We shall call daily,” Georgiana promised softly. “If you will permit it.”
“I shall insist upon it,” Lady Anne added with gracious warmth. “There is much we must discuss.”
Elizabeth managed a smile, though her eyes followed Darcy until his carriage disappeared beyond the hedgerow.
Only then did she allow herself to exhale.
It was a strange sensation—to be so certain of one’s happiness and yet feel its temporary absence so keenly.
But Wednesday the eighteenth of December was not far off.
And she would not be Elizabeth Bennet much longer.
∞∞∞
London received Darcy with its usual gray dignity—cold stone, thinner sunlight, and an air of industrious urgency that felt entirely different from the softer rhythms of Hertfordshire.
He wasted no time in handling his affairs. The sooner he completed his errands, the sooner he could return to Elizabeth.
The morning after his arrival, he presented himself at the chambers of his family’s solicitor, Mr. Harding, whose father and grandfather had both managed Darcy affairs before him. The office smelled of ink, sealing wax, and leather bindings—comfortingly permanent scents.
Mr. Harding rose at once.
“Mr. Darcy. I was pleased to see your note yesterday. Congratulations are in order, then?”
“They are,” Darcy replied evenly, though he did not conceal his satisfaction. “I am to be married on the eighteenth of December. We must have the settlements drawn immediately.”
The solicitor’s brows rose only slightly at the speed implied, but he gestured toward a chair. “Very good, sir. Let us begin.”
Darcy removed his gloves and sat opposite the broad desk, clasping his hands.
“I intend to settle twenty thousand pounds upon Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
Mr. Harding’s pen paused only a fraction before resuming its movement. “To be secured upon marriage?”
“Yes. Invested in government securities, the interest to be hers.”
“At four percent,” Harding murmured, calculating, “that would provide her with eight hundred pounds annually.”
“Her pin money,” Darcy confirmed. “Independent of household accounts.”
The solicitor inclined his head approvingly. “Very well, sir. That is quite generous of you.”
“It is no more than she deserves.”
Indeed, Darcy did not intend Elizabeth to feel herself dependent upon his goodwill for every ribbon or book she might desire. Her independence of mind deserved independence of means.