The Meryton Chapel
In the end, they had plenty of time, and Elizabeth wondered what all the fuss was about.
Mr Wright, who had baptised Elizabeth twenty years earlier, and was not in the least looking forward to the disagreeable task of calling the banns the following Sunday, and furthermore sought a way to spike Mr Bennet’s guns, said the words at two minutes to twelve.
“May I now present the Darcys and Bingleys.”
A big huzzah went up from the assembled crowd, which consisted of every villager and visitor they happened to meet between the lending library and the church, but which did not include any Bennets, who were unaware of the ceremony and not invited.
Mr Fletcher stood up for Mr Bingley, while Charlotte stood up for Jane. Mr and Mrs Herbert stood up for Elizabeth, and Mr Fletcher took on the onerous ceremonial chore of giving both brides away.
The brides were radiant, the grooms handsome, and the wedding breakfast consisted of Mr Darcy throwing a purse of coins to the innkeeper and telling him to see to it, as he bustled his bride into their carriage.
They briefly discussed leaving straightaway to London, but quickly decided that, based on their respective levels of passion, they should let pragmatism be their guide.
London was several hours away, while Netherfield was several minutes, and better yet, entirely devoid of Bingley’s sisters and other assorted riffraff.
They all met in the drawing room for heartfelt greetings between the sisters, but it did not take all that long to run its course, and nobody saw anything of either couple until breakfast three days later.
Naturally, Fletcher was present to inform them of the absolute chaos that had ensued in the village and Longbourn.
He gleefully recounted how the Bennet coach had been turned away from Netherfield no less than six times.
Elizabeth laughed to learn her husband (she might never grow accustomed to the pleasure that phrase evoked) hired most of Mr Bennet’s soldiers out from under his nose with the simple expedient of paying them the same salary, then matching the amount in grog.
Mr Fletcher was very much in his element when he similarly described how Lady Catherine de Bourgh had been turned away. Since everyone but Jane was accustomed to a certain level of cursing (and she would have to become so), he even outlined the entire discussion in detail, to howls of laughter.
Jane introduced Mrs Hughes, who had chaperoned her that first awful night at the Netherfield ball, and suggested she would make a good lady’s maid for Elizabeth. A nod from her husband, and the deed was done.
Jane sweetly said, “There is only one problem with that scheme, Lizzy.”
“Which is?”
“When you shout ‘Fletcher’, which one will you mean?”
Elizabeth burst out laughing. The two were paying far more attention to each other than the crowd. “They can draw straws.”
Jane once again jumped into the breach. “I have one question.”
“Ask away,” Bingley said.
“Unless my geography skills have degraded since marriage, which I suppose is possible, this is not Scotland. How did you get our father to sign Lizzy’s wedding contract and the license? I cannot imagine he gave his consent willingly… though I suppose I could be wrong.”
Bingley and Darcy grinned brightly and chuckled, while their wives did their best to scold them with a stern look. Both decided they would have to work on it, because they were having no success at all.
Bingley finally said, “Shall we?”
“Certainly,” Darcy said, then slouched in his chair, and did his best to simulate an ornery, creaky old man.
Bingley jumped up and pantomimed placing a stack of papers in front of him.
“Sign here, if you would, my good man.”
Darcy obligingly signed without even looking at the paper, and Bingley pantomimed turning the pages over to get another copy.
“And here… and here… and here… and here… and here… nearly done… only six more.”
Elizabeth and Jane both stared at each other and burst out laughing.