Chapter 26 #2
“In the event of my death,” Darcy continued, “the twenty thousand remains entirely at her disposal. In addition, she is to retain her pin money free of interference.”
“Of course.”
“And Pemberley,” Darcy went on, “shall be inherited by our eldest son. If there be no sons, then the eldest daughter, provided her husband takes her surname. I will not see the estate diverted from my direct descendants.”
Harding nodded briskly. “I will set up the usual clauses as part of the inheritance documents.”
Darcy hesitated a moment before adding, “Should I predecease her, Mrs. Darcy is to reside at Pemberley’s dower house for the duration of her life, should she choose it.”
“The dower house is in excellent condition,” Harding observed. “Recently refurbished.”
“It shall be hers,” Darcy said quietly. “No heir may displace her.”
The solicitor wrote without comment.
There were additional provisions—dowries for any younger daughters, guardianship clauses should their children be minors at the time of his death, and careful language to prevent future legal entanglements. Darcy examined each draft with meticulous attention, adjusting phrasing where necessary.
By the time the documents were prepared for execution, the winter afternoon light had begun to fade.
As Darcy rose, Harding allowed himself a faint smile. “You are marrying a fortunate lady, Mr. Darcy.”
Darcy paused only a moment before replying, “I am the fortunate one, Mr. Harding.”
From there, he had one final errand. If I hurry, I may be able to complete everything today and return tomorrow… if Bingley is amenable, that is.
The common license could not be obtained without the proper authority, and that authority rested—most conveniently—on Bishop Ashford, who happened to be Lady Anne’s godfather.
Darcy was shown into a warm, book-lined study in the bishop’s London residence. The man who rose to greet him was broad of frame, silver-haired, and possessed of eyes that twinkled with perpetual amusement.
“Fitzwilliam!” the bishop boomed. “Come to confess your sins?”
“If I were, it would not be to you,” Darcy replied with a smile.
Bishop Ashford was well aware of Darcy’s Catholic beliefs, and he was one of the few clergymen in England who did not decry him for it. It had become something of a jest between the two of them over the years.
Chuckling, Bishop Ashford waved Darcy into a chair. “I received your note yesterday. It seems you are getting married, then, eh? What does my goddaughter think of your betrothed?”
“Lady Anne approves of her.” Darcy could hear the satisfaction in his voice. “She and Georgiana both have enjoyed making her acquaintance.”
“And this young woman is aware of your… beliefs?”
“Yes, she is. She has consented to allow our children to be raised in the tradition of my ancestors.” Darcy’s words were delicate, knowing that even a bishop’s office had walls with ears.
“Is she of age?”
“No, she is not yet one-and-twenty. I have brought a letter from her father that grants his permission. Should you need it, my friend Mr. Bingley was present and can attest to its authenticity.”
Darcy produced the sealed letter from Mr. Bennet, as well as that of Bingley, who had stood dutifully as witness to the request. The bishop broke the seal, scanned the contents, and made a low humming sound.
“Very convincing,” he said at last.
Darcy stiffened slightly. “Convincing?”
The bishop’s brows rose innocently. “One must always be cautious. Young men in love have been known to forge signatures.”
Darcy’s posture straightened at once. “I assure you, sir, I would never—”
The bishop’s deep laugh cut him off. “My dear boy, I am jesting!”
Darcy blinked once, then felt the faintest heat rise to his collar.
“You take matters of honor seriously,” the bishop continued, still smiling. “A commendable trait in a husband.”
Darcy inclined his head, recovering his composure. “Marriage is not a matter to be trifled with.”
“No, indeed.” The bishop dipped his pen into ink. “And this young lady—does she understand that she is marrying a man who debates legal phrasing before breakfast?”
A faint, reluctant smile touched Darcy’s mouth. “She understands me better than anyone.”
“Then she must be a formidable woman.”
“She is.”
The bishop signed the necessary papers with an exaggerated flourish. “There you are. A common license. You may be married at once, wherever you please, without the inconvenience of banns.”
Darcy accepted the license with careful reverence. It was a small sheet of paper, unassuming in appearance. Yet it removed delay, uncertainty, and the hazard of worsening winter roads and calling the banns in Derbyshire.
“Thank you, sir.”
The bishop’s expression softened. “Bring her to call upon me in the spring,” he said kindly. “I should like to meet the lady who has secured you.”
“I shall.”
When Darcy stepped back into the chill London air, the document secure within his coat, he felt an unfamiliar impatience settle upon him.
The settlements were drafted. The license obtained. Nothing now stood between him and the eighteenth of December—save a handful of days.
He found that he did not much care for days.
Nothing can stop us now, my love.
∞∞∞
The first morning after Darcy departed, Elizabeth bore his absence with admirable composure.
By the second, composure had begun to fray.
It was not that she doubted him—never that. It was the roads.
The dreadful, rutted, winter-darkened roads.
Each time the wind rattled the shutters, her imagination supplied images unbidden: a wheel striking ice, a carriage overturned in a ditch, a horse shying at some unseen obstacle.
Once, waking from an uneasy doze before dawn, she was certain she had heard the crack of splintering wood and sat upright in bed with her heart racing before reason returned.
“You are being foolish,” she told herself sternly.
But the mind, once supplied with calamity, proved reluctant to surrender it.
On the second afternoon, her father appeared in the drawing room with a letter in his hand and an expression of exaggerated solemnity.
“I have received correspondence,” he announced, “from a gentleman whose vocabulary surpasses even my own. I do not think I have ever seen so many four-syllable words on one page since I read Johnson’s Dictionary for amusement during your mother’s first confinement.”
Elizabeth sprang to her feet before she could stop herself.
Mr. Bennet regarded her over the top of the folded paper. “It is addressed to me, you understand.”
“Yes, Papa,” she said, attempting dignity and failing entirely.
He held her gaze for a moment longer—long enough to tease—before relenting. “Very well. I find that I am not so tyrannical a parent as to withhold news of a young man from his betrothed.”
He passed the letter to her.
Elizabeth retreated to the window, her fingers trembling slightly as she broke the seal.
Darcy’s hand was steady, the tone measured but unmistakably warm.
He informed Mr. Bennet that the common license had been secured without difficulty. He was only awaiting the solicitor’s final copies of the marriage settlements. “Several copies,” he specified, with typical thoroughness. All was proceeding as intended. He anticipated his return within a few days.
Elizabeth read the letter twice.
Then a third time.
The tightness in her chest eased. The imagined wreckage dissolved under the reassuring solidity of ink and paper. He was well. He was efficient. He was coming back.
The remainder of his absence she resolved to endure with purpose.
If she could not have him present, she would have his family.
Georgiana and Lady Anne called daily, precisely as promised. Their visits, at first polite, soon grew into something warmer—more unguarded.
Elizabeth discovered quickly that Georgiana’s modesty concealed extraordinary talent. One afternoon, at Elizabeth’s urging, she consented to play upon Longbourn’s rather neglected pianoforte.
The first notes were delicate. The second phrase shimmered.
Within moments, the small drawing room seemed transformed. Georgiana’s fingers moved with effortless grace, drawing depth and feeling from the instrument that Elizabeth had never suspected it possessed.
Jane sat spellbound. Even Mary lowered her book in humbled admiration.
Elizabeth felt a curious swell of affection.
“She is nearly a prodigy,” she murmured later to Lady Anne.
“She is happiest at the pianoforte,” Lady Anne replied softly. “Music has always steadied her.”
On another afternoon, while Georgiana and Jane bent over a duet, Lady Anne requested a private word.
They walked slowly along the frosted lawn, the air sharp but bracing.
“There is something I wish to speak to you about,” Lady Anne began, her tone gentle but deliberate. “When you are settled at Pemberley.”
Elizabeth’s heart gave a small, anticipatory flutter.
“I have considered,” Lady Anne continued, “that it might be best for Georgiana and myself to remove to the dower house upon your marriage. Newlyweds require privacy. The main house would be entirely yours.”
Elizabeth stopped walking.
“To the dower house?” she repeated.
Lady Anne smiled kindly. “It is comfortable, and I am accustomed to managing with very little fuss. I would not have you feel watched—or constrained.”
Elizabeth stared at her, astonishment plain upon her face.
“That is entirely unnecessary,” she said at once. “More than unnecessary—it would be disastrous.”
Lady Anne blinked in mild surprise. “Disastrous?”
“I have never managed a household of Pemberley’s magnitude,” Elizabeth admitted candidly. “I have never commanded a staff so large, nor overseen such extensive accounts. I will be relying, quite shamelessly, upon your guidance.”
Lady Anne studied her closely.
“You would not find our presence… intrusive?”
“On the contrary,” Elizabeth replied earnestly. “I would find your absence alarming. I am used to a household full of women and their noise. What would I do with only a husband for company?”
A slow warmth spread across Lady Anne’s expression.
“Very well,” she said at last. “We shall remain.”
Elizabeth’s shoulders relaxed in visible relief.
“But,” Lady Anne added, lifting a gloved finger, “only on one condition.”
Elizabeth braced herself. “Name it.”
“You must persuade Fitzwilliam to take the master’s chambers, with yourself in the mistress’s.”
Elizabeth furrowed her brow. “He does not use it now?”
“After his father’s death, he would not remove me from them. I did not press him. We have remained as we were.” Lady Anne’s eyes softened. “It is time.”
Elizabeth felt a swell of unexpected emotion.
“I will speak to him,” she promised quietly.
“And another condition,” Lady Anne continued.
Elizabeth laughed. “You bargain fiercely, madam.”
“You must tell me—plainly—if Georgiana or I ever make a nuisance of ourselves.”
Elizabeth could not help smiling broadly. “Only if you promise equal honesty regarding my choice in furnishings, meals, or gowns.”
Lady Anne’s answering laugh was low and genuine. “Agreed.”
By the time they returned to the house, something had shifted—subtly but unmistakably. What had begun as formal courtesy was becoming something else.
Inside, Georgiana rose from the pianoforte as they entered, her eyes bright. “Miss Elizabeth,” she said shyly, “would you try the second movement? I think you will like it.”
Elizabeth joined her at the bench, their shoulders brushing lightly.
Lady Anne watched them both, and for a moment the three of them shared a look—unspoken but certain.
It was not merely alliance.
It was the beginning of family.
And in Darcy’s absence, that warmth steadied Elizabeth more surely than she would have believed possible.