Chapter Fifteen
Elizabeth
The November morning held a bitter chill that seemed to seep through the very stones of St. Michael’s Church.
Elizabeth stood at the altar in her mother’s ivory silk.
The seamstress had worked miracles to alter it in mere days, yet Elizabeth felt as though she were wearing a costume for a play she had never auditioned for.
Beside her, Darcy stood rigid in his best coat, his face a mask of composure that revealed nothing of his thoughts. They had not spoken since entering the church, had barely acknowledged each other’s presence.
“Dearly beloved,” the rector began, his voice echoing in the small space, “we are gathered together here in the sight of God…”
Elizabeth’s attention drifted from the familiar words to the faces watching from the pews.
Her family occupied the front rows—Mama dabbing at her eyes with a lace handkerchief that did nothing to disguise her nervous anxiety.
Jane caught her eye and offered an encouraging smile that Elizabeth could not bring herself to return.
Behind them sat the neighbourhood’s finest, drawn by curiosity as much as courtesy.
Mrs Long leaned close to Mrs Lawrence, their whispered conversation hidden behind painted fans.
Sir William Lucas beamed with the satisfaction of witnessing such momentous events, whilst Charlotte sat beside him with downcast eyes.
“Fitzwilliam Darcy, wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife…”
The words washed over Elizabeth like water over stone.
She had dreamed of her wedding day since childhood, imagined herself radiant with joy as she pledged her heart to a man who adored her.
Instead, she stood here seething with anger that threatened to choke her, bound to a man who had failed her when courage was most needed.
Yet even as fury burned in her chest, doubt gnawed at its edges. Had she truly seen Wickham clearly that night? The more she reflected upon it, the less certain she became. The poor light, her terror, the confusion of the moment—perhaps her mind had filled in details that memory could not provide.
But Darcy had been there. Darcy had seen everything. And Darcy claimed uncertainty where she expected confirmation.
“Lady Elizabeth Bennet, wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband…”
“I will,” she said, the words scraping her throat like broken glass.
The ceremony proceeded per protocol. They exchanged rings—a simple gold band that felt foreign and cold upon her finger.
At the end of the ceremony, they merely stood facing each other whilst the rector pronounced them man and wife.
No tender embrace sealed their union, no joy marked the moment.
Only duty, performed before watching eyes that missed nothing.
The wedding breakfast at Netherfield proved an exercise in endurance.
Elizabeth moved through the receiving line as though she were a sleepwalker, accepting congratulations she did not want for a marriage she had never chosen.
Lady Ashworth complimented her gown whilst studying her face for signs of distress.
Mr Peterson declared Darcy a fortunate man whilst his wife whispered behind her fan to Mrs Young.
“Cousin Elizabeth,” Mr Collins approached with characteristic deference. “What a blessed occasion this is. Though I confess the circumstances leading to such haste were rather… unfortunate.”
“Indeed. Most unfortunate.”
“Still, one must make the best of Providence’s design. You have secured an excellent situation, despite the irregularities.” Collins’ voice carried satisfaction. “I am certain all would approve of such practical arrangements.”
“Would they indeed? How gratifying to know I meet with society’s standards for managing scandal.” Before she could respond with words she would certainly regret, Jane appeared at her elbow. “Lizzy, Lady Lucas wishes to speak with you about the flowers.”
Elizabeth allowed herself to be drawn away, grateful for the rescue from whatever unwelcome commentary awaited her.
“You are not yourself today,” Jane observed quietly as they moved towards the windows overlooking the garden.
“Am I not? And what self should I be, pray? The blushing bride, overcome with happiness?” Elizabeth’s voice carried an edge that made Jane flinch. “Or perhaps the grateful recipient of masculine protection, swooning with gratitude for my husband’s gallant rescue?”
“Lizzy—”
“I apologise.” Elizabeth closed her eyes, ashamed of her tone. “You do not deserve my ill humour. It is only that I feel so… lost. I no longer trust my own perceptions, Jane. That night on the terrace—was I certain of what I saw, or merely frightened into assumption?”
“What do you mean?”
“I told everyone it was Wickham who attacked me. I was so sure, so absolutely convinced. Yet Darcy claims he cannot confirm it, cannot swear to the man’s identity with certainty.” Elizabeth’s voice dropped to a whisper. “What if I was wrong?”
Jane’s expression grew troubled. “Do you truly doubt what you experienced?”
“I doubt everything now. My memory, my judgement, my very sanity some days.” Elizabeth laughed bitterly. “Perhaps this is what madness feels like—the gradual erosion of certainty until nothing remains but questions.”
“You are not mad, Lizzy. You are angry and hurt and confused, which is entirely understandable given the circumstances.”
“Am I? Or am I simply a foolish woman who allowed her imagination to create villains where none existed?”
Their conversation was interrupted by Darcy’s approach. He moved with careful formality, his expression giving nothing away.
“Might I have a word, Lady Elizabeth?”
Jane excused herself, leaving them alone near the windows. Elizabeth waited for him to speak, her jaw tight with suppressed emotion.
“I wanted to thank you,” Darcy began, “for conducting yourself with such dignity today. I know this situation is not what either of us would have chosen.”
“Dignity?” Elizabeth’s laugh held no humour. “Is that what you call seething rage barely contained? How perceptive of you.”
“Elizabeth—”
“Lady Elizabeth when we are in public,” she corrected him sharply. She was grateful that at least she would not have to carry his name as Mrs Darcy, for she would always be Lady Elizabeth as she outranked him from birth. Small mercies.
“Very well, Lady Elizabeth.” His voice remained level despite her verbal assault. “I merely wished to express my hope that we might find some measure of civility between us. For both our sakes.”
“Civility?” Elizabeth whirled to face him, her control finally fracturing. “You want civility from the woman whose reputation you destroyed through your cowardice? Whose life you have ruined with your weakness?”
She knew she ought not to strike out at him, but the doubt gnawing at her made everything worse.
After all, she was no longer so certain she had seen Wickham clearly herself.
And yet, a part of her could not give up the thought that she had seen him.
And if not him, who else would have attacked her?
There was no reason for anyone else to have done so. And Darcy held the truth. She knew it.
Her head ached and she longed to leave this place. All her belongings had been brought to Longbourn that very morning. Her maids were unpacking as they celebrated this farce of a wedding. She would live away from her family now, with this stranger whom she did not know.
His face went white. “I understand your anger—”
“Do you? Do you understand what it feels like to doubt your own memory? To wonder if you are losing your mind because the one person who could provide answers chooses silence instead?” Her voice rose despite her efforts at control.
“I was so certain, so absolutely sure of what I saw. Yet you—you who were there, who witnessed everything—you claim ignorance where I expected support.”
“The circumstances were confusing—”
“The circumstances were clear enough for you to strike down my attacker. Clear enough for you to chase him into the night. Yet somehow not clear enough for you to identify him with certainty?” Elizabeth shook her head. “Either you are lying, or I am mad. Which is it, Mr Darcy?”
“Perhaps,” he said quietly, “we should discuss this at home, rather than provide entertainment for our wedding guests.”
But Elizabeth was beyond caring about appearances.
The rage that had been building for days finally erupted.
“How perfectly this situation serves your purposes, does it not? You needed employment, security, and that you had but you needed a place in society—and here I am, handed to you like a prize.”
Darcy blinked in confusion. “I beg your pardon?”
“From steward to master of an estate in a single night. How very convenient that your moment of heroics resulted in such excellent advancement.”
“Lady Elizabeth, surely you cannot believe—”
“What I believe is that you saw an opportunity to elevate yourself through marriage to an earl’s daughter. Now you have both security and status, all at the modest cost of one evening’s convenient heroics.”
The words were cruel and she knew they were likely not true. She had seen his visage when her father announced they had to wed. He hadn’t wanted to any more than she but her anger demanded expression.
“I see.” Darcy’s voice had gone very quiet, very controlled. “You believe I orchestrated my own circumstances deliberately.”
“I believe you are beneath my notice, Mr Darcy. A fortune hunter who used my distress to climb the social ladder.”
The words hung between them. Darcy’s expression became completely shuttered, and for a moment, Elizabeth thought she saw genuine hurt flash across his features before the mask settled back into place.
“I see.” His tone was perfectly polite, perfectly cold.
“Then perhaps you should reflect upon what it says about your own character that you married such a man. After all, I did not force you to accept this arrangement. You preferred to save your reputation and that of your family when you could have taken the harder road and risked ruination. There were other options of course. A convent, for one. But that would have been beneath your notice also, I imagine.”
Before Elizabeth could respond, he turned and walked away, leaving her standing alone near the windows whilst the wedding breakfast continued around them.
She had won the argument through sheer viciousness, yet victory felt remarkably like defeat.
he also was not entirely wrong. She could have left, joined a convent.
Other fallen ladies had done the same. But she had not wished to.
Not had she entertained the idea. She had not fought her father very hard either against the marriage. It had been convenient.
She watched Darcy disappear into the crowd as she reeled from the assault of her own mind.
What have I become? I have always prided myself on fairness, on judging people by their actions rather than their circumstances. Yet here I stand, having just accused an innocent man of crimes I know he did not commit.
She knew Darcy was not a fortune hunter, knew he had tried to help her that night. Yet her anger demanded a target, and he was convenient. If she could not have justice against her true attacker, at least she could wound the man who had failed to provide the certainty she craved.
The realisation brought her no comfort. If anything, it made her feel smaller, meaner, less like the woman she had always believed herself to be.
Across the room, Darcy stood in conversation with her father, his posture rigid with controlled emotion. Whatever they discussed appeared serious, formal—perhaps arrangements for their new living situation, or estate business that required immediate attention.
My husband, she thought, the word strange and foreign in her mind. For better or worse, in sickness and in health, till death do us part.
The vows they had just spoken seemed less like promises than threats—warnings of the long, bitter years that stretched ahead of them both.
The afternoon was fading outside the windows, and soon this wretched day would end. But the marriage would continue, day after day, year after year, binding them together in mutual resentment and regret.
Elizabeth closed her eyes and wondered what manner of woman she would become, trapped in such circumstances. She feared she already knew the answer.