Chapter 8
The Matlock chapel smelled of winter roses and candle wax. Behind Darcy, the assembled were in their places. Lord and Lady Matlock, Georgiana, Mary, Mrs. Gardiner, and Bingley. In the row behind them sat Lady Sefton, Mrs. Drummond-Burrell, and Lady Cowper.
Richard leant toward him. “Nervous?”
“No.”
Richard’s jaw twitched. “That is either very reassuring or very alarming.”
“Richard.”
“Yes?”
“Be quiet.”
The door at the back of the chapel opened.
Elizabeth appeared on Mr. Gardiner’s arm. Darcy forgot everything else. The ivory silk gown. The white roses in her dark hair. The beauty of her face and form. Her eyes found his across the length of the small chapel and stayed there.
Mr. Gardiner walked her toward him with dignity. When Gardiner placed her hand in Darcy’s, he wordlessly conveyed all that a guardian must.
Darcy gave a slight nod, understanding completely.
Elizabeth’s hand was secure in his. As he looked at her, the chapel and the assembled guests and the vicar with his open prayer book all fell away.
“You are late,” he said for her ears alone.
“I am precisely on time,” she replied with that particular spark in her eyes that he intended to spend the rest of his life provoking. “You were impatient.”
“Guilty.”
Behind her, Jane took her place opposite Colonel Fitzwilliam.
The vicar cleared his throat.
The ceremony was perfect. Darcy made his vows in a voice that was composed and certain, as though he had always known these words and was only given the occasion to speak them. When Elizabeth made hers—clear and unwavering, her eyes fixed on his—he felt peace.
He was aware, distantly, of Jane weeping softly, of Georgiana pressing her hands together, of Richard standing perfectly straight and solemn — until Bingley let out a hushed sound of mirth that cracked his composure.
“I pronounce that they are Man and Wife…” the vicar said.
Though not part of the ceremony, Darcy embraced his bride. She kissed him back with a surety that suggested she wanted to celebrate this moment at least as much as he. They had no reservations about expressing their pleasure in a chapel full of their closest relations.
Lady Matlock made a sound that might, in a less dignified woman, have been described as a sniffle.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the vicar announced, visibly pleased with himself, “Mr. and Mrs. Fitzwilliam Darcy.”
Elizabeth faced the assembled party, taking it all in.
Jane, tearful and radiant; Mary, joyful; the Gardiners, loving and steady; Georgiana, practically vibrating with happiness; Richard grinning broadly; Lady Sefton, Mrs. Drummond-Burrell, and Lady Cowper appearing satisfied, as if they were singularly responsible for the happy occasion; Lord and Lady Matlock, side by side, Lady Matlock still dabbing her handkerchief to her eyes while Lord Matlock wore the expression of a man who had been correct all along and was too well bred to say so; and Bingley, who gave Elizabeth a look of such genuine, uncomplicated delight that she laughed aloud.
It was, Darcy thought, the finest sound he had ever heard.
He tucked her hand into his arm and leant down. “I love you, Mrs. Darcy.”
Elizabeth’s expression radiated love.
“Not as much as I love you, Mr. Darcy.”
And they walked together out of the chapel and into their life.
The day after the wedding, the announcement appeared in The Times:
Married, on the 17th of December, at Matlock Chapel, Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley, Derbyshire, to Miss Elizabeth Bennet, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Bennet of Longbourn, Hertfordshire.
In his study at Longbourn, Mr. Bennet read the notice once. Then again. Then a third time, as though repetition might somehow alter the words or soften their meaning.
He set the paper down and removed his spectacles, pressing his fingers to his eyes.
The fire crackled in the grate. Outside, he could hear Mrs. Bennet’s voice carrying from the drawing room, telling Lady Lucas gossip about Mary and Mr. Collins.
She had declared it nearly as good as having Lizzy married to him.
Nearly. So, she had not yet seen the newspaper.
Mr. Bennet sat alone in the silence of his library.
He was, by his own assessment, a man of keen intelligence and limited application.
A man who had spent the better part of twenty years retreating to this room rather than engaging with the consequences of his choices.
He had always told himself this was harmless, that his detachment was a form of wisdom.
That his wit was a reasonable substitute for effort.
The memory of the Netherfield ball returned with the force of a physical blow.
He had sought Darcy out deliberately. He could admit that with the newspaper open on his desk, he could no longer hide from himself.
He had seen a proud man intently observing his favorite daughter and had decided to exercise his cleverness at that proud man’s expense.
He had told Darcy about the betrothal. He had made his little joke, delivered his set-down, and walked away to the card room, satisfied with himself.
He handed Darcy the motive. He told the man—who Bennet now understood with painful clarity was already in love with Elizabeth—that she was being forced to marry another. And then he had retired to play cards while his daughter’s future was being decided by a man completely unrelated to him.
He had done this. Not Mrs. Bennet, whose foolishness had provided the occasion. Not the entail, which had provided the anxiety. Not Mr. Collins, who had provided the threat. Him. His pride. His careless, clever tongue. His preference for the witty remark over the responsible action.
He had disliked Darcy for his pride without once acknowledging his own.
He had dismissed him as cold and arrogant without crediting the intelligence and feeling that had apparently been there all along, waiting to be recognized.
Elizabeth had seen it. Of course, she had.
She had always been the cleverest of them all.
He picked up the newspaper again and read the notice once more.
Mr. and Mrs. Fitzwilliam Darcy. He dreaded informing his wife since she would wail her joy at having a daughter married. Ten thousand a year.
He set the paper down, folded his hands, and allowed himself one small, genuine smile.
Whatever else he had done wrong—and the list was considerable—he had produced Elizabeth. He had raised her, however imperfectly, into the woman who had been clever enough and brave enough and good enough to capture the heart of a man like Mr. Darcy.
That, at least, he could claim. It would have to be enough.
One week after their wedding, Darcy found his wife in their library.
He paused under the lintel, looking at her.
Elizabeth sat curled in the chair by the fire—her chair now, as naturally as though it had always been so—her feet tucked beneath her and a letter open in her lap.
The dark waves of her hair gleamed in the afternoon light.
A small smile played at the corner of her mouth as she read.
He had spent twenty-eight years in this library at Darcy House without once thinking it lacked anything. He understood how very wrong he had been.
“From Mary?” he asked, coming to sit across from her.
“Yes.” Elizabeth folded the letter with the satisfied air of someone who had received precisely the news she hoped for. “She is well. Very well, it seems.”
“And Mr. Collins?”
Elizabeth’s smile widened. “Apparently, most pleased with your aunt’s changes to Mary’s hair and the colors she chose for her wardrobe.” She giggled. “When she stepped out of Mr. Bingley’s carriage, Mama failed to recognize her own daughter.”
Darcy raised an eyebrow. “It was a remarkable transformation.”
“Mary was always remarkable,” Elizabeth said.
“No one troubled to notice.” She smoothed the letter in her lap.
“My father is desperate for news of me, apparently. But he is too proud to ask outright. Nor can he stir himself to write. Mary has decided it is past time he learned humility and is volunteering nothing. She is keeping Jane busy with Mama so Papa can ask her nothing.”
“She is wise.”
“She always was.” Elizabeth set the letter aside.
This woman had walked into his life in a muddy hem and altered everything he thought he knew about himself. He felt the familiar, still-astonishing weight of how deeply he loved her.
“Do you have any regrets?”
Elizabeth rose from her chair and crossed to him, standing beside him with the ease of a woman entirely at home. She took his face in her hands, and he saw in her expression everything he needed to know before she spoke a word.
She kissed him. Not briefly, not lightly, but with a tenderness so complete that it rendered the question almost unnecessary. Almost.
When she drew back, her eyes were at peace. “None.”
Darcy covered her hands with his, holding them against his face.
Outside, London went about its busy December business.
Somewhere in Hertfordshire, Mr. Bennet sat in his library with a newspaper that had changed everything.
And here, in the library of Darcy House, Darcy held his wife and knew, with absolute certainty, that this was exactly where they were meant to be.
A letter had arrived that morning—brief, addressed to Elizabeth in her father’s hand.
She had read it twice, then showed it to him without a word.
Mr. Bennet was not, Darcy suspected, a man given to apologies.
It, at least, contained an acknowledgment along with a line from Shakespeare about wisdom coming too late.
And at the bottom, in careful script: I am glad you are well, Lizzy. I am glad you chose wisely.
It was, Darcy understood, as close to a blessing as the man would ever give.
Setting the missive aside, Darcy held the woman who filled him with light and purpose and love. He would cherish her forever.
A choice freely made.