Chapter 23
Bedchamber
The Golden Daffodil Inn
Gretna Green
The Next Morning
Once again, Elizabeth was confronted by an unfamiliar ceiling when she opened her eyes.
She felt cozy and warm and lay comfortably still as memory slowly surfaced.
There had been a … white-washed smithy, and an anvil, and oh yes, a very short wedding ceremony.
She was a married woman now, Elizabeth Bennet no more, but Elizabeth Darcy, and they had retired directly from the ceremony to the quaint little inn down the road for the night.
It was a delicious recollection, and she shifted slightly, snuggling deeper beneath the blankets.
She bumped against a warm bulk at her back and froze; her beloved husband slept the sound sleep of the exhausted behind her, and she had no wish to inadvertently wake him.
The last week had been a hectic one, with Wickham’s threats and the flight north to Scotland and the rapid marriage.
Fitzwilliam deserved to rest as long as he wished.
Very carefully, Elizabeth snuggled a little closer.
She was grateful that Annette had thought to pack a thick flannel nightgown and wrapper, as her new husband’s valet had likewise packed a warm woolen nightshirt and breeches.
Perhaps the Scots were used to the frigid temperatures here and did not feel them, but in Elizabeth’s opinion, the provided blankets were not quite warm and heavy enough for the local climate.
The cold air of the room seeped right through them, making the heavy nightclothes a necessity.
Outside, the wind was whistling around the eaves, and the sound of cartwheels in the road faintly reached their room at the back of the inn.
Elizabeth wondered idly what time it was.
Carefully lifting her head, she craned it towards the curtains drawn in front of the small window across the room.
Flecks of bright sunlight peeped through the slit between the fabric, and she realized that it must be quite late already.
The thought brought no urgency with it; she was enjoying the luxury of being snuggled up with her new husband, warm and safe and perfectly comfortable.
She was forever beyond the reach of her father’s unkind schemes and wrath, or Lady Catherine de Bourgh’s ire, or Mr. Collins’s unwelcome advances.
“Elizabeth?” Darcy’s deep voice murmured.
“Yes?”
“Are you awake?”
She chuckled. “Yes, I am.”
“Did you sleep well?”
“I did, very well.”
“Good,” he replied softly, and a long arm reached out to wrap around her warmly clad form. “I am glad.”
She rolled over and scooted toward in the bed until they were nested together.
“I love you, Fitzwilliam,” Elizabeth said, relishing the warmth of her husband’s body.
“I love you too, with all my heart and soul, my darling Elizabeth.”
***
Sitting Room
Pemberley
19th February 1812
The door was opened by Darcy’s butler, who stepped within and announced, “Lady Catherine de Bourgh, Mr. Bennet, and Mr. Collins.”
Lady Catherine narrowed her eyes and glowered angrily at the woman clutching her nephew Darcy’s arm. Finally she would be afforded the pleasure of confronting this conniving woman who dared put her own plans at risk.
“So,” she said haughtily, “you must be the trollop who has dared to entice my nephew into an ungodly, dishonorable relationship.”
Darcy’s face stiffened at these words, and he said, “Lady Catherine, I will thank you not to insult my wife, or I will have you thrown out into the snow.”
Lady Catherine felt her mouth drop open. Wife?
Mr. Bennet, who was at her left, recovered more quickly than she did.
“Wife? Preposterous! She is not yet of age!” he snapped.
“Which is why we journeyed to Gretna Green and were married a week ago,” Darcy said coolly. “You are all too late.”
“No,” Lady Catherine said, her nostrils flaring. “It is impossible! No!”
“It is nonetheless true,” Darcy declared. “Elizabeth and I are both of age in Scotland, we wished to wed, and we did so. We are husband and wife before God and legally married before man.”
Lady Catherine stared at her nephew, thunderstruck. It could not be. It could not! For literally decades she had been scheming for her daughter and nephew to marry.
Mr. Collins, who was standing to her right, cleared his throat and said, “Mr. Darcy, surely it is quite impossible that any marriage between you and my cousin is even possible. Miss Elizabeth Bennet is affianced to me, and you are engaged to your fair cousin, Miss de Bourgh.”
“I was never engaged to my cousin Anne,” Darcy stated.
“Nor was I ever affianced to you, Mr. Collins,” Elizabeth chimed in irritably.
“But you are!” Mr. Collins declared. “Your father says that you are!”
“After refusing your offer, I ran away from Longbourn to avoid being forced to marry you, Mr. Collins,” Elizabeth said calmly. “Moreover, while a lady may not have much power, she does have the right to refuse to wed.”
“We will have this so-called marriage annulled!” Lady Catherine declared, having recovered sufficiently to speak. “Darcy, you will marry Anne, and Mr. Collins, you will marry…”
She trailed off as Darcy released Elizabeth’s hand and took a few dangerous steps forward. She was a tall woman, but Darcy was far taller, and for the first time, she felt a genuine frisson of alarm.
“Lady Catherine,” Darcy said in a soft voice which somehow managed to be menacing as well.
“I will not tell you this again. I am married to Elizabeth. She is my wife, and I take my responsibility to care for and protect her very seriously. This is my house, and my life, and I do not want you here. There is quite a pleasant inn at Lambton, and you may stay there.”
She gaped in horror. Stay in a common inn? Was her nephew mad?
“Lady Catherine de Bourgh will never stay in a common inn!” Mr. Collins said indignantly. “It would be entirely beneath her dignity.”
“It is possible,” Mrs. Darcy said, “that you might be permitted to stay here, Lady Catherine, but only if you are able to treat me with the respect that I deserve as the mistress of this house.”
Lady Catherine stared incredulously at the young woman. While the girl’s tone was courteous, the words were ridiculous. Respect? For a young harlot who had stolen Darcy away from Anne? Never!
She turned a fulminating look on her nephew and said, “If you do not annul this marriage, I will release Georgiana’s letters to Wickham to the press!”
This, to her considerable pleasure, transformed Darcy’s expression from determination to surprise and then, unless she very much mistook the matter, concern.
“Letters?” he demanded harshly. “What are you talking about?”
She reached into her reticule and pulled them out.
“I spoke to George Wickham at length, and I am aware that my niece nearly ran off to Gretna Green with him. I was shocked that a Darcy would do such a thing, but given your behavior with Miss Bennet, perhaps it is no great surprise. Georgiana wrote Wickham twice and…”
She trailed off as Darcy plucked the letters from her hands and opened them. He took a step to the right and turned slightly, which caused the light from a candelabra to fall on the paper.
He started to read, and Lady Catherine was pleased to observe the growing dismay on Darcy’s face. Georgiana had not expressed herself indelicately, but the mere fact that she spoke of her love of a steward’s son was enough to cause gossip from one end of London to the other.
When Darcy had finished both letters, he lifted his face to her, his jaw clenched.
“My dear nephew,” she said in a softer tone as a self-satisfied smile laid claim to her face, “you know I have no desire to create problems for you or Georgiana, but as your elder, I must … what are you doing?”
What Darcy was doing was turning his back on her and marching toward the blazing fire. She watched him, mouth agape, as he threw both letters into the fire, with the papers promptly blazing up.
“How dare you?” she shrieked a moment later. “That was my property, not yours! I bought it!”
“Did you?” Darcy asked, turning on his heel and marching over to his aunt. “From Wickham? I see. Were there only two letters?”
She stared at him, the blood thundering in her ears.
She should have kept one letter back, but it never occurred to her that Darcy would mistreat her so horribly.
How dare he take the letters she had purchased, and at considerable expense.
He must have gone mad, her nephew, and there was no doubt the source of his madness.
“This is your fault!” she cried out, pointing a bony finger at Miss Bennet, for Mrs. Darcy she was not! “You scheming, wretched strumpet! You have drawn my nephew away from his duty to…”
Darcy took a few steps forward and placed his large hand across her mouth, forcing her to stop talking.
“Duncan! Come in with the footmen!” he called out, and as Lady Catherine lifted both hands in an attempt to remove her nephew’s palm from her mouth, she heard the sound of booted feet behind her.
“Escort Lady Catherine to her carriage and direct the coachman to the Inn in Lambton,” Darcy ordered as he dropped his hand.
“I will not leave!” she cried out indignantly. “Not until you … unhand me! Unhand me! How dare you?”
Two tall young footmen had come up beside her, one on each side, firmly seized her arms, and attempted to lift her off her feet.
Lady Catherine was a tall woman and, using this height to her advantage, dug in her heels.
This did not do as much as she would have liked to hinder the two footmen, who simply adjusted their ungentle grips and half carried, half dragged her towards the door.
"Darcy!" she screeched, outraged and stunned.
"You cannot permit this! I am your aunt!
This is an affront! Get your hands off my person!
" she added to the footmen as they dragged her away from the sitting room where Darcy remained.
She might as well be shouting at two brick walls, for all the mind they paid her.
She was hauled unceremoniously out into the vestibule, where Darcy’s butler stood, his face a mask of calm betraying none of the shock and horror appropriate to seeing a respected lady being manhandled in such a manner.
Instead, he swung open the door as the footmen approached with their ignominious passenger and stepped out ahead of them.
Down the steps the four of them went, the three servants and Lady Catherine, still protesting her rough treatment and the disloyalty of her nephew.
The butler opened the carriage door, then stood by watching dispassionately as the two footmen rudely thrust Lady Catherine into the interior of the box.
She staggered and fell to her knees, catching herself with her hands on the squabs, and simply knelt there a moment, panting in disbelief.
Through the still-open door she glimpsed her maid; the woman, mute with horror and scandalized shock, stumbled down the steps to rush into the carriage.
The butler shut the door firmly and called to the coachman.
A whip cracked, and the carriage jolted forward.
Lady Catherine pulled herself to her feet and collapsed into her seat, dazed.
This was impossible! Never before had she been subjected to such disrespect!
She stared out the window, her mind reeling and sluggish, as Pemberley vanished from view.