Chapter Nineteen
One fine day, near the end of summer, Fitzwilliam Darcy was united in Holy Matrimony with Elizabeth Wickham, née Bennet, in the church of St. Laurence-in-Thanet.
Elizabeth was lovely in a yellow silk dress.
Both George and Emily were present, dressed in the finest floating little silks, and both delighted.
George cheered when the Reverend Harvey announced that they were man and wife, which prompted Emily to squeal, and they were shushed by a teary and grinning Georgiana.
Mr. Bennet had a warm, slightly teary smile the whole time.
After the wedding, Mr. Bennet set off to Longbourn, and promises were exchanged that they would all see each other again when the Darcys stopped at Longbourn on their way north in only a few weeks.
Elizabeth was lovely, smiling, bright eyed.
They then climbed into Darcy’s carriage for the first stage of what would be a slow and leisurely journey to London.
Darcy took Elizabeth’s hand as soon as he sat down in the carriage. His legs were tired, and his chest hurt. How he held himself while standing still during the ceremony had pulled at the tear in his chest. Oddly, it had been far more painful to stand in one place than it was when he walked.
The children were enthused by being on the road again, and they bounced about inside. Georgiana and Elizabeth kept them a little under restraint. It was comfortable and pleasant, even though the carriage was crowded—Darcy decided that he would purchase a larger one to go with his new family.
His family.
A big smile grew.
Elizabeth saw it and said with an impish smirk, “You are eager to visit Canterbury.”
Darcy laughed. “You are the one who wishes to see it.”
Canterbury was not far off the road between Ramsgate and London, and they had already planned for their trip to be a slow journey in three stages. On the way to Ramsgate, Darcy had gone the whole eighty miles between London and Ramsgate in one day, changing to the fastest horses at each station.
Bounce, bounce, bounce.
After half an hour of the banging that even their slow pace of about five miles an hour gave him, Darcy was ready to admit that Elizabeth was right that it would not have been wise to make the whole trip in one day.
They stopped to change the horses and the children hopped out, followed by Georgiana.
A second carriage had been brought for the servants to travel in.
Sally, who’d happily accepted the position as the nurse for the children, exited the second carriage to join Georgiana in chasing the two children around the green that surrounded the parish steeple.
Elizabeth helped Darcy down.
Her hands were so strong. He was almost shocked that he did not hate being weak when she helped him. They sat next to each other on a bench, hips and legs pressed together.
One of the servants was sent into the inn for small beer, bread, and cheese.
Darcy tore into his food with relish.
The doctor at his last visit had finally removed all restrictions upon Darcy’s diet, though he still advised Darcy to eat cautiously.
Darcy was still weak, and while he found joy in Elizabeth’s care, he looked forward greatly to when he would be able to take his proper place as the person who handed others out of carriages, and when he would be able to toss George and Emily around while tickling them.
Autumn was coming, and the air was clear and beautiful, and the sun was still bright enough that the wind did not bother them.
When they arrived near Canterbury, they went around the city to enter by the famous Western gate, with its sixty-foot-high medieval fortification that Darcy imagined had changed little since Richard FitzUrse and his companions cantered through on their way to murder Thomas a Becket.
George stuck his head out the carriage window, looking at every bit of the castle. “Thousands must’ve died! When they attacked that gate! There is nothing like it in London!” he said enthusiastically.
“What about the tower?” Elizabeth asked her son with a laughing tone.
“Ha, the tower,” George replied with a dismissive sneer.
“I do not think there were any substantial sieges of Canterbury,” Darcy said. “Not that I can recall, in any case.”
“Well, why not? No, there must have been. I bet dozens of people died right where the carriage went over.”
“The purpose of a fortification,” Darcy said, “is not to kill people when they attack. The purpose is to convince them to not attack, or if they are determined to attack, to force them to spend a great time and effort to build towers and ramps or dig mines so that they can defeat the walls without dying by the thousand.”
George frowned so deeply at that thought, that Darcy reached forward and ruffled the boy's hair. “But of a certainty someone died attacking it.”
“Maybe it was someone in a forlorn hope. They are people who run at the door to a fort with a big bomb at the end of a stick,” George eagerly replied. “Bobby told me about them—the boy from the other end of the crescent. His father is a don at Oxford. They almost always died.”
“Did Bobby tell you,” Elizabeth asked, “how they found gentlemen to do this duty?”
“Murderers and poor people.” George smiled and then he tried out what Elizabeth suspected was a new word that he had learned from Bobby, “Scum! The scum of the earth!”
“Why would they do that duty?” Elizabeth asked.
“Uhhhhh...don’t know.”
“I believe they received pardons or a substantial bonus in the case of survival,” Darcy offered.
“How awful—and George, be kinder in what you say about poor people.” Then Elizabeth grinned at her son. “We’ll visit the gates and look at the cathedral tomorrow morning before we leave.”
“Do we have to visit the cathedral? I don’t wanna.”
“Did you not know?” Darcy asked. “The most famous murder in the history of England occurred in that cathedral.”
“What?” He now had George’s attention.
“Oh, yes,” Darcy said. “There was an old bishop who lived there, and he made the King very angry. This was in the old days, before our constitution was established, when Kings could do almost anything they wished to. But they still had to respect God and the church. But this King said to the men who hung about him, ‘oh, will no one rid me of this pestilential priest’, and—”
“Did this bishop have the plague or lots of lice? Aren’t bishops clean?”
Elizabeth laughed. “Henry II simply did not like Thomas a Becket, and he wanted to insult him. It’s like if someone calls someone a cur. Nobody thinks that means they are actually a dog.”
“If I ever called someone a cur, I would mean that they are actually a dog,” George replied.
“Also,” Elizabeth added in a tone that reminded Darcy again of Mr. Bennet, “quite likely the story we have heard does not match precisely what was actually said by Henry II.”
“Boooo,” George replied, clearly full of disdain for that notion. “The murder! The murder! Did this bishop murder someone? Tell me about the murder.”
“No, no. It was four of the king’s knights, and they killed the bishop,” Darcy said as the carriage went down the main street.
It trundled past the great cathedral. “It was right in that church. The knights went in and said they were going to drag the bishop off, so he wrapped his arms around one of the pillars, and then they attacked the bishop with their swords. And if you want, you can see exactly where it happened tomorrow.”
“But they’ll have cleaned up the mess. Was there a lot of blood?”
“Yes,” Elizabeth smiled at her son, and answered for Darcy. “Supposedly they also kicked the brains about and scattered them on the floor.”
George’s eyes glowed. “Everyone knows that it is bad luck if you kill a priest!”
“It was bad luck for them,” Darcy said. “And for the king.”
“Maybe for his knights, but I do not think it hurt Henry II,” Elizabeth said. “He beat down those constant revolts, conquered Ireland, and ruled for another twenty-five years.”
“You can hardly approve of Henry II,” Darcy said.
“I approve of no king named Henry,” Elizabeth replied. “Only Richard Lionheart, and the various Georges who rule us presently. But I approve of all of our queens, simply by virtue of their sex. I only say that he began successful, and he continued successful until he died.”
“He was constantly at war with his own sons, and his eldest died while campaigning against him.”
“George, that is the lesson you should draw from the tale,” Elizabeth said to her son. “You shall inevitably come to a bad end if you lead an armed rebellion against your parents.”
“I would never rebel against Papa Darcy,” the boy smiled so sparklingly at Darcy that it made his heart melt.
When they settled into their rooms, Elizabeth removed and examined his bandage.
There was in fact a slight tinge of blood on it, which there had not been for several days, but as Elizabeth simply nodded and showed no concern at it, Darcy did not rouse himself to feel any anxiety upon his own account.
He was too tired in any case.
It was well into the evening by now, and they sat in the room and ate a light dinner.
George kept coming up to Darcy, and he prefaced every speech with ‘Papa Darcy.’
After they ate, Elizabeth read to them, with her clear voice, from the beginning of The Canterbury Tales:
Whan that Aprill, with his shoures soote
The droghte of March hath perced to the roote[…]
Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages[…]
And specially from every shires ende
Of Engelond, to Caunterbury they wende
The hooly blisful martir for to seke
That hem hath holpen, whan that they were seeke.
George asked Elizabeth a great many questions about what the archaic words meant, and then he got bored halfway through the explanation and started running about in circles, though the quick action of both Elizabeth and Georgiana prevented him from swinging around the poker as a sword as he shouted that he would kill the bishop.
Afterwards, everyone was sent off to their bedrooms, though the children clearly were still overexcited. Elizabeth spent a while talking with George before going to the master suite with separate bedrooms that Darcy had taken for him and Elizabeth.
Even though Darcy thought he should join with her, to sit with George as he was put to bed, Darcy found it difficult to get up. The matter was not one of an absolute duty that required action no matter how unpleasant it was.
He was tired.
Darcy felt a strong anxiety about this wedding night. He did not want to pressure Elizabeth or make her do anything that she did not wish to do. Yet, he wished for deeper intimacy, and to be free to touch her.
He found it difficult to stay awake. Elizabeth’s muffled voice and George’s occasional shouts entertained him as they sat together.
He tried to read the Knight’s Tale from the copy of The Canterbury Tales that Elizabeth had purchased when it was decided that they would visit the city, but the words swam in front of his eyes.
He was tired from the pain in his chest, the exhaustion in all his muscles, and the long day with richer food than he was accustomed to.
Elizabeth came in, still wearing the green cotton travel dress that she had changed into after the wedding. She smiled widely to see him on the bed with the book in front of him.
Her face glowed in the candlelight. Her lovely curves were outlined by her dress, and her cheeks dimpled. “I am glad you are not asleep. I’ve longed for it to be just us again—Papa was quite strict about that matter.” She laughed and sat next to him on the bed. “My dear Mr. Darcy.”
He took her hand. He was filled with a strong emotion, but a great deal of shyness. They stared at each other.
With a cracking voice, Darcy asked, “Could you read some more to me from the book? My eyes cannot focus.”
She took his hand and kissed it softly. “If that is what you wish right now.”
“I wish for you to be next to me.”
“Then I will remain here—you’d opened it to the Knight’s Tale? Quite a ridiculous story of high romance.”
“Which would you read?” Darcy asked.
“That is perfectly good, I have liked the Knight’s Tale well enough.”
Elizabeth rested her head against his shoulder. The lines of their bodies pressed together in the bed, Elizabeth’s dress against Darcy’s night robe. He reached over and placed his hand over her knee, and she squeezed it.
Darcy thought about kissing her, but it would hurt to roll onto his side, and he certainly could not hold himself above her the way that he had imagined he might.
Their eyes caught, and she smiled shyly at him, and looked down.
She placed a hand on Darcy’s thigh, right as he yawned widely.
Elizabeth laughed. “You found the travel harder than you anticipated.”
“I did,” Darcy said, feeling rather embarrassed, though he could not quite say about what. But he also felt as though any such embarrassment did not matter, since Elizabeth was with him, and she was not unhappy.
“You look as though you are about to sleep.” She smiled at him, kissed him on the forehead, and said, “This is not quite the same as my other wedding night, but I have enjoyed it—would you wish me still to read?”
It took Darcy several seconds to rouse himself sufficiently to answer.
As soon as she began to read Darcy found himself drifting off, before she even made it through the prologue. He wished to focus on the moment. He wished this evening would last forever.
When Darcy woke up in the morning, the bed was tilted slightly to the side and surprisingly warm. He shook himself awake, and in the early dawn light he found Elizabeth lying asleep next to him on top of the bed covers, still wearing her day clothes.
She had married him. Despite everything, she had been willing to marry him, to accept what he could give her and marry him.
Darcy rose and sat in the cushioned chair next to the empty fireplace. He watched how a curl of hair fluttered over her forehead in the draft.
Her cheeks glowed in the early morning light. The lips were a lovely soft red. He thought that it must have been uncomfortable to sleep in her clothes like that. She had removed her stockings, and he admired her bare ankles and toes.
Darcy wanted to wake her up with a kiss.
“Mama! Mama! Papa Darcy! Papa Darcy!” George banged on the door between the bedrooms and the sitting room.
Elizabeth woke with a start, yawned, and she said in a voice that was too low and controlled to quite be a shout, “Wait a little. Just a half minute.” His wife stretched, looked around, and when she saw Darcy looking at her, she gave him a glorious wide, unselfconsciously happy smile.
Darcy’s heart leapt.
“Good morning,” she said.
“Good morning, Mrs. Darcy,” he replied, smiling.