Chapter 36
Mrs. Bennet’s Bedchamber
Longbourn
Elizabeth Bennet stepped into her mother’s bedchamber and was greeted with a wail of indignation from her mother, who was lying in her bed propped up by several pillows.
“Oh, Lizzy!” Mrs. Bennet cried out. “You simply must speak to Mary! She is insisting that I move out of this room, and I cannot bear it, not when your father is barely cold in his grave! And where am I to go? I would not wish to take your room, or Lydia’s, or Kitty’s, and Jane’s old room, while large, is far too cold for me. You must…”
“Mamma,” Elizabeth interrupted, “please allow me to tell you something of importance.”
Rather to her surprise, Mrs. Bennet did stop speaking, and Elizabeth made her way over to the chair next to the bed.
“Mamma,” she said once she had seated herself. “Mr. Darcy of Pemberley asked me for my hand in marriage, and I accepted.”
Mrs. Bennet’s fretful countenance gave way to wide-eyed shock, followed a minute later by a beaming smile.
“Mr. Darcy asked you to marry him,” the older woman finally whispered.
“Yes.”
“Oh Lizzy. Oh … is it true that his estate earns ten thousand pounds a year?”
Elizabeth suppressed a sigh. She loved her Fitzwilliam because he was kind, and generous, and caring, and intelligent, and brave.
The fact that he was absurdly rich was a minor facet of who he was.
Mrs. Bennet, however, having lived decades with the specter of poverty in her future, naturally thought of wealth first.
“Yes,” Elizabeth said. “He and William are in the library right now, talking about wedding settlements.”
“Oh Elizabeth, my dear girl. Mrs. Darcy, how well it sounds! You will have such jewels, such carriages, such pin money! I will go completely distracted! Three girls well married! I can hardly believe it, oh Lizzy!”
Elizabeth allowed her mother to rejoice for a full ten minutes before she said, “So you see, Mamma, I will soon be married to Mr. Darcy, so you can take my bedchamber, which is opposite this one and almost as large, and it is warmer than Jane’s.”
***
Library
Longbourn
William Collins gestured toward the chair near the fire. “Please sit down, Mr. Darcy.
He did so, and William took the chair across from him. It was a cool day outside, and the fire in the grate crackled pleasantly, exuding a charming woody smell.
“What can I do for you, sir?” he asked.
Darcy said, “I wish to inform you that your cousin, Elizabeth Bennet, accepted my hand in marriage yesterday.”
William stared in wonder for a long moment, and then his lips curled up in a delighted smile.
The last weeks had been exhausting, first with Anne de Bourgh’s flight from Rosings and Lady Catherine’s subsequent fury, followed by the shocking death of Mr. Bennet, whereupon the Collinses had made their way to Longbourn where Mrs. Bennet was in hysterics, and then Lieutenant Wickham had attacked Caroline Bingley, and…
“That is truly wonderful news, sir,” he said, pulling himself back to the present. “I am confident that you and Elizabeth are very well suited.”
Mr. Darcy grinned back and said, “I have been in love with her for many months, but it took time and Providence to bring about our engagement. I cannot tell you how happy I am.”
William nodded. “And I am overjoyed for you. Now, when do you and Elizabeth wish to marry?”
“Soon,” Darcy said simply. “I know that Elizabeth is in mourning, but I have no desire to wait for months. If you think it reasonable, perhaps we can marry in a few weeks?”
William leaned back in his chair and considered this for a moment.
It was a trifle unusual for a lady to wed while mourning her father, but it was not dishonorable to do so.
What is more, there was a prudent sense in an early marriage.
William knew, because Mary had told him, that Mrs. Bennet did not find Elizabeth a soothing daughter, largely because Elizabeth refused to bestow more pity than her mother deserved.
Moreover, life would be simpler when both of Mary’s elder sisters were married and elsewhere, as no one would look to Jane or Elizabeth for guidance at Longbourn.
“I think that is a wonderful idea,” William said.
***
Caroline’s Sitting Room
Netherfield Hall
That Evening
The soft cotton of Caroline's nightgown and the heavier flannel of her dressing gown were reassuring comforts.
She clutched them tightly together at the neck as she stared into the fire leaping in the hearth.
Part of her had wished to simply stay in bed and hide from the world, buried safely beneath her own blankets.
She had, however, come to the reluctant conclusion that she could not hide in bed forever and thus had crept out to the sanctuary of her own sitting room.
Thanks to her efforts, it was both a genteel and comfortable room.
When she had first arrived at Netherfield Hall, the furnishings had been abysmally shabby, and she had drawn from her own fortune to replace the chairs and couch and end tables with ones that were more to her own taste.
Function was combined with exquisite style, and she was justifiably proud of her efforts.
This evening the room was more than a mere point of pride and comfort.
It was a solace, a haven from the cruel scoundrel who had assaulted her by her archery range.
She passed a trembling hand across her throat.
She fancied she could still feel the cold, cruel steel of the knife-blade pressed to her skin.
Caroline gulped and shuddered, overwhelmed with horror once again.
She still could not believe how close she had come to being dragged off by a villain to be compromised and trapped in a revolting marriage.
At best perhaps he planned only to compromise her and extort money from Charles for her return, leaving her besmirched and desolate.
Perhaps he had even planned to kill her. She shuddered again.
It had not happened. It had not, and thank the good Lord for that.
Caroline attended church every Sunday along with her relations, but that was merely because it was expected.
She knew several of the common prayers by heart and could recite them with the most devout.
She had never been particularly pious, though.
Going to church was the thing to do, so she did it. It did not really mean anything to her.
Today, however, her thoughts followed a very different route.
It could not be anything but Providence that the Bennets had arrived when they did, and Caroline's gratitude overflowed into a mantra of thanks to the Lord above.
If it were not for Elizabeth and Lydia Bennet, she would have been lost to a terrible fate.
Even in the midst of her own terror, which was so great she had felt faint, she had been astonished at Elizabeth's courage in confronting Wickham.
It had been Lydia, however, who had truly saved her.
Like an Amazonian warrior, she had gathered her strength and resolution and bent her bow and shot the villain.
The shot itself had been superb! Caroline herself was no mean archer, but it was one thing to shoot at an unmoving target with a painted bullseye, and it was quite another altogether to take aim at a living man.
Had the situations been reversed and Lydia held captive, Caroline wondered if she would have been able to make the same shot.
A sudden gust of wind rattled the panes in her windows, making her jump and suck in her breath.
A moment later she relaxed again, scolding herself feebly for being frightened of nothing more than the wind.
She was safe here in this room in her brother's house.
The rogue who had tried to make off with her was locked up in Meryton under heavy guard.
Over the next few days, Caroline would need to return to society, to smile and act serenely, while everyone clucked and sympathized and gossiped. She could give no sign of the perturbation in her soul in public. But for now, she would relish this refuge.
There was a soft tap on the door, and in spite of herself, Caroline winced.
“Come in!” she called.
The door opened to reveal her brother and his wife.
“Caroline,” Charles said gently, “may we come in?”
“Yes, of course, please do,” she said wearily.
The pair entered with careful expressions and sank down on the settee across from Caroline’s chair.
Her eyes dropped to Charles’s right hand and Jane’s left, which were now clasped together.
Ordinarily, such a display of affection would annoy Caroline, because it was a reminder that her brother had chosen his wife based on love rather than on more sensible attributes like money and connections.
Now, she was aware of a throb of resentful envy. Jane was happily married, and Caroline was single. If she was married, she would not have been a temptation to the vile George Wickham.
“How are you feeling, Sister?” Charles asked.
She blew out a breath and said, “I am better, I suppose. That is to say, nothing is wrong with me physically, save for a few bumps and bruises, but I do feel rather…”
She trailed off and looked out the window where the setting sun was lighting the sky in oranges and pinks.
“What happened to you was dreadful,” Jane said kindly, and Caroline’s eyes treacherously filled with tears once more.
This was ridiculous. She would not cry again. She would not.
She resolutely wiped her eyes and turned back to the couple.
“I am all right,” she said firmly. “I will come down tomorrow morning.”
“You do not need to until you are ready,” Charles said.
“No, I need to, because if I do not…”
She heaved a sigh and managed a smile. “I will be all right.”
“Good, good,” Charles said, “now, I … that is…”
He trailed off and looked at Jane, who leaned forward and said, “Caroline, I am certain that this will be a surprise, but Mr. Darcy announced his engagement today.”
Caroline felt the breath leave her lungs in one big swoosh, and she had to remind herself a moment later to breathe. She stared into Jane’s face, which was gently sympathetic, and then she shifted to Charles who was looking nervous.
“Who,” she demanded, “is Mr. Darcy engaged to?”
Silence again for a minute, and then Jane said, “My sister Elizabeth.”
Caroline blinked and gulped, leaned back in her chair, and thought profoundly.
Two days ago, she mused, she would have been incandescently furious at such a statement. Now, with the memory of Wickham’s hand on her arm, and a sharp blade at her throat, she felt strangely detached.
“Congratulations to them both,” she finally said. “I am certain they will be happy.”
She was distantly amused when the married Bingleys exchanged startled glances, and then Charles smiled broadly.
“Yes, they are well suited,” he said.
Caroline considered this. On the one hand, Elizabeth Bennet and Fitzwilliam Darcy were not well suited at all. The former was the impecunious daughter of a dead country gentleman, while the latter was the fabulously wealthy and high born master of the largest estate in Derbyshire.
But Elizabeth was clever, and vibrant, and unusual, and apparently that was enough to win Mr. Darcy’s heart. It seemed odd to Caroline who had worshiped status for her entire life, but gentlemen were odd at times.
“Yes,” she said aloud, “they are very well suited.”
It occurred to her that if Darcy was not going to marry her, he might as well marry her sister-in-law’s sister. Once Elizabeth was Mrs. Darcy, the Bingleys would be connected by marriage to the Darcys.
“I am pleased for them,” she said, and that was even partially true.