Chapter Thirty-Four
The house was awake in every corner, footsteps on stairs, doors opening and closing, low voices of servants, the rustle of silk and linen. Everyone was in preparation for the wedding which was to take place the following day. Elizabeth and her husband had escaped it all, if only for a moment.
They stood together at the open window of the nursery parlour overlooking the south green, their son–Fitzwilliam Richard Darcy–asleep in Elizabeth’s arms, one small fist curled into the lace at her sleeve.
“He sleeps through anything now,” Darcy murmured, watching the child with a quiet wonder he still had not outgrown. “Six months ago, a servant at the door would have startled him.”
Elizabeth smiled. “He has had six months to learn that each sound is not a personal insult to his dignity.”
Darcy kissed the crown of the baby’s head, then Elizabeth’s temple. They were silent for a moment, the future pressing gently rather than urgently upon them.
“Do you think,” Elizabeth said at last, “that Lydia ever imagined this?”
“That she would marry again?” Darcy shook his head.
“No. Nor that she would be this happy. Nor that she would be–” He searched for the word, then settled on honesty.
“Whole. Wickham is most certainly receiving his eternal punishment for what he did to her. For what he did to her and so many others.”
Elizabeth’s eyes were on the lawn below, where gardeners were checking over everything to ensure that every bush, every bloom, was perfect before the gardens were filled with guests the next day. “Three years is a long time to heal. But she used it well.”
“She did,” he agreed. “She even learnt to play the harp.”
Elizabeth’s expression softened. “She learnt restraint the hard way. And quiet acceptance was perhaps the hardest lesson of all.”
They both knew whom she did not speak of.
“Mr and Mrs Denny will come today?” Darcy said carefully.
“They will,” Elizabeth confirmed. “Kitty does what is required. No more, no less. Lydia has learnt not to press her. I doubt they will speak a single word to each other.”
“How do you feel about it?” he pressed. “I know how important it was to you that they would reconcile eventually.”
Elizabeth shifted Fitzwilliam slightly against her shoulder. “I no longer ask for what Kitty cannot give. I think that is the final lesson of growing up.”
“Collins says that Longbourn is doing well. Better than he expected when they arrived.” Darcy said. “It was good of Mr Helston to allow him to return to perform the ceremony for Lydia.”
“Mary will manage our childhood home well, and the future of Longbourn will be love and care,” Elizabeth said. “And Mrs Bennet–”
“Will complain,” Darcy finished gently. “But she is safe, provided for, and surrounded by people who indulge her far more than they ought.”
Elizabeth laughed quietly. “The damage she can do from Netherfield’s dower house is limited, though my Uncle Gardiner tells me that she has demanded to visit him in Gracechurch Street. Heaven forbid.”
They fell silent again.
“Willoughby cannot wait to bring Lydia to Combe Magna.” Darcy said at last. “He speaks of it endlessly and says it prospers far beyond his early hopes. Knowing his reputation as a young man, I did not expect too much of him, though I would never deny anyone who asked for advice just because I thought they might squander it. He said that he wished to improve, and he did.”
Elizabeth nodded. “Redemption is rarely loud. It prefers steady work.”
Darcy looked down at their son. “And this is what comes next.”
From the hall came the distant sound of Lydia’s laugh; soft, controlled, unmistakably her own.
Elizabeth exhaled. “She is ready.”
Darcy smiled. “So are we.”
They stood together a moment longer–husband and wife, parents,–before turning back toward the life waiting just beyond the nursery door.
Elizabeth had thought herself long past being surprised by Lydia.
She was wrong. From her place near the front of Lambton’s church, Elizabeth watched her youngest sister enter on Mr Gardiner’s arm, and for a moment the familiar stone walls, the excited crowd, the whole world, seemed to simply fade away.
Lydia Wickham–who in a matter of moments would be Lydia Willoughby–walked steadily towards her future. Her expression was radiant.
That alone felt miraculous.
She was dressed with elegant simplicity, her rose gown pale and unadorned compared to the finery Elizabeth once expected that her youngest sister would require. Georgiana Darcy walked behind her, serene and composed.
The church was full; entirely full. Friends and neighbours packed the pews and stood along the walls.
Even the local widows and spinsters–the vigilant guardians of propriety–were present, whispering not with censure but anticipation.
Whatever judgments that may once have been made regarding Lydia’s first choice of husband, today they had been set aside.
Miss Deborah and Miss Matilda Jenks both dabbed at their eyes with their handkerchiefs. They and Miss Poole had been kinder to Lydia than anyone, and Elizabeth blessed them for it.
Elizabeth’s gaze shifted instinctively to Darcy beside her.
He was straight and composed as always, but she knew him too well not to see his quiet satisfaction.
Pemberley’s people had come. Lambton’s people had come.
Lady Catherine, who had recently taken up residence in Pemberley’s dower house to dote upon the grandson of her sister, sat beside her brother in a prominent pew.
Lady Matlock was resplendent, and Lady Priscilla watched her husband Colonel Brandon as he waited beside the groom.
Colonel Brandon waited near the chancel, dignified as ever, years fading from his face as he grinned back at his wife.
And finally…John Willoughby.
Elizabeth watched the groom closely as he turned to receive his bride.
There was no trace of the restless charm that once unsettled ladies by the dozen.
What she saw in his eyes was reverence. Relief.
Something perilously close to awe. The groom glowed with happiness as he watched his bride take her place beside him.
Lydia simply smiled as she and her uncle approached.
Mr Collins’s voice was steady, solemn, and filled the church as the ceremony began.
This, Elizabeth thought, was the true astonishment of it all.
Not that Lydia had married again. Not that she had married well. But that she had married right. When Mr Gardiner placed Lydia’s hand into Willoughby’s, Elizabeth felt something inside her ease at last. Not triumph. Not vindication. Peace.
The introduction of Mr and Mrs John Willoughby was met first with an awed hush.
Then a sigh so collective it seemed to lift the very roof off the church.
As Lydia turned around, now Mrs Willoughby, the church broke into congratulations and cheers so loud that Mr Collins was obviously quite shocked by such a din in a church.
Outside, it was the very best sort of chaos.
The church bell rang. The doors opened. Lambton surged forward in anticipation of seeing the bride and groom. Farmers, tenants, shopkeepers, servants in their best coats, all of the locals had turned out to see the oft pitied Mrs Wickham start anew.
Hats waved. Flowers thrown onto the path. All of those whom Wickham had hurt were now beaming as if Lydia’s happiness were their own. The day had the air–not of a scandal redeemed–but of a fairy tale set right.
Lydia and Willoughby emerged into the sunlight, Georgiana and Colonel Brandon behind them, and for the briefest moment Lydia’s eyes met Elizabeth’s across the crowd. There was gratitude in her gaze…and courage.
Elizabeth instinctively reached for Darcy’s hand. He took it instantly, lacing his fingers through hers.
“This,” he murmured into her ear. “Is what comes of patience.”
Elizabeth smiled, watching her sister laugh as rose petals, rice, and grain rained down around her. “This,” she replied. “Is what comes of resilience.”
~The End~