Chapter 25
Lady Catherine’s Private Parlor
The Inn
Lambton
One Hour Later
The force of Lady Catherine de Bourgh's incredulity and rage was such as could only find relief in movement.
With clenched fists and a heaving bosom, she stalked back and forth across the tiny provincial room that had been provided for her private sitting room.
The best that could be said for it was that the fire was built high and warm, with the basket beside the plebeian hearth filled plentifully with wood by the awe-struck innkeeper.
Well he should regard her with servile admiration!
It was an unfathomable honor for his mean little public house to be graced by the presence of an earl's daughter!
He had served her himself and had assured her that he was bringing her the very best that his establishment had to offer, and she was certain that he was telling the truth.
It was easy to see that he mostly served members of the lower classes, rather than Quality, for the meal he brought was scarcely adequate, and certainly not such as must be pleasing to any well-bred lady with a discerning palate.
Her breakfast had consisted of only tea and toast with honey, and a tiny pat of butter that the proprietor had produced with quite unwarranted pride, and several slices of ham with its tough rind still on.
Lady Catherine reached the small glass window, glared first at its spotless surface, and then at the minor darn in one of the faded linen curtains.
It was exemplary of the entire room; clean, perhaps, and tidy, eminently suitable for the respectable commoners who frequented it, but entirely unworthy to house her.
She was Lady Catherine de Bourgh, wealthy wife of Sir Lewis de Bourgh and the daughter of an earl!
She deserved only the very finest luxuries!
She should be staying at Pemberley in comfort and grandeur!
Lady Catherine huffed as she scowled at the handful of rooftops that made up this insignificant little village.
This was ludicrous, unbelievable. It was absolutely beyond the pale for Darcy to have treated her so shamefully.
She was his aunt, and his elder! He should scrupulously have rendered her every courtesy and observance! Instead, he had … he had…!
She cringed again at the memory of her mortification the previous day.
Rather than receiving her with penitence and remorse, meekly listening to her strictures, and accepting her wisdom with gratitude, the insubordinate boy had ordered her thrown out!
He had even gone so far as to order his servants to lay hands on her and fling her from the house!
Such behavior towards his aunt, a woman whom he should naturally reverence, was absolutely unforgivable, and so she would tell him as soon as possible!
The door to the private parlor opened, and one of the inn’s maids entered with her nephew at her heels, with Mr. Collins trailing afterward like a wayward duckling.
Lady Catherine halted in front of the fire, the better to enjoy the warmth of the flames, and waited until both men had entered and the maid had retreated, closing the door behind her.
“Well, Darcy,” she said, lifting her chin, “are you here to apologize for your dreadful behavior?”
Darcy stared at her coldly, and after a painfully long silence, Mr. Collins said, “Lady Catherine, I wish to assure you that I only came here today to see whether I could serve you in some way. I, that is, whatever you wish for me to do…”
“Mr. Collins,” Lady Catherine said impatiently, “I need to speak to my nephew privately. There is a common room downstairs; go there and wait for me to summon you for instructions.”
“As you wish,” Mr. Collins replied, bobbing his head and retreating in haste. Again, the door opened and closed, leaving aunt and nephew alone.
“Well, young man,” Lady Catherine snarled. “What do you have to say for yourself? How dare you treat me in such a dreadful way? How dare you…”
“Lady Catherine,” Darcy interrupted. “I assure you that I have no intention of apologizing. You insulted my dear wife, and I will not permit anyone in my house to do such a thing.”
“Your wife,” Lady Catherine hissed. “Your mother must be turning in her grave. All she wanted was for you to marry Anne, and instead you have cast my daughter aside in favor of a mere country gentleman’s daughter.”
Her natural inclination was to use more vicious words to describe Elizabeth Darcy, but in spite of her pride in her own sincerity and frankness, she found herself somewhat cowed by her nephew, who had shown no hesitation the previous day in acting drastically.
The reality was that the young fool was in love, and men in love often did ridiculous things.
“I do not know what my mother wanted,” Darcy said, “but she has passed on to her reward, and I have decided to pursue my own happiness in marriage over duty. Anne and I are not well suited, Lady Catherine, though I know you refused to ever see it. We are both too quiet.”
“Nonsense! You are both well-refined and genteel! You would have been very comfortable together.”
“It matters not, because I made my choice, and I will never regret it. Elizabeth is my wife, and she is now mistress of Pemberley. I will not permit you to cross the threshold of my door, since I know you are entirely incapable of being courteous to my bride. I suggest that you return to Kent, but you are free to stay and enjoy the many wonders of Lambton if you like.”
Lady Catherine stared at her nephew intently.
She had known Fitzwilliam since he was a boy and had always been confident in her own ability to bend the master of Pemberley to her will.
Given the set of her nephew’s jaw and his behavior the previous day, it appeared that, as incredible as it seemed, she had been wrong about that.
“I will leave,” she said with a glare, “but I will stop in London and speak to your uncle Matlock. Perhaps he will help you come to your senses!”
Darcy shrugged. “You may speak to him, of course, but I am confident my uncle has the wisdom to accept my decision for what it is.”
She clamped her lips and ground her teeth. The sad reality was that Matlock might well decide not to interfere with Darcy’s ridiculous wedding, but she still harbored some hope that her brother would be able to convince her nephew to annul the marriage.
***
Chapel at Pemberley
A Few Days Later
22nd February 1812
Excitement and joy filled Elizabeth like hot cider on a cold day, warding off the chill of the small stone chapel quite as well as her woolen dress was doing.
She was very fond of this dress, and had spent the past few days adding ivory embroidery and lace to the high collar and sleeves.
A cap of matching lace covered her dark hair, for though they were now having a church ceremony to ward off unpleasant rumors, she was already a married matron.
Around her shoulders was draped a gift from her husband; a silk shawl from Norwich, woven in the celebrated turn-over style with ornate gold and green patterns edging the lovely cream body of the shawl.
Mr. Bennet, the only other person waiting in the cold little vestibule, was not quite so well-dressed as his daughter, but nonetheless he looked eminently respectable in a hastily sourced coat and tails.
There was no conversation between the bride and her father; relations between them remained strained, cool and polite and no more.
They had tried, over the past two days, to reach some sort of truce, meeting in the library ever and anon for desultory discussion.
Shakespeare had provided a reasonably safe topic for the estranged father and daughter, but even the great playwright had grown stale.
Mr. Bennet hid it well, but Elizabeth knew that he was still angry with her for, as he saw it, ‘winning’ their contest of wills.
She was, she supposed, grateful that he had given his blessing to the match, under duress as it might be.
She had been fully aware for some time that he did not fully appreciate her, but she had not realized the depth of his disdain and utter lack of care for her.
That trust was broken for good and all; she would never again believe he held her best interests in his heart or mind.
It did not ultimately matter because Elizabeth was no longer her father's responsibility.
She was married now, to the best and dearest man in the world, and she knew that Fitzwilliam would always love and treasure her.
Darcy had proven over and over that he would prioritize her care and well-being, most recently being the very previous day, when his solicitor had arrived at Pemberley to closet himself for hours with Darcy and Mr. Bennet.
As a lady, Elizabeth could not be privy to that meeting, and Mr. Bennet certainly was not going to share its contents with her, but her dear Fitzwilliam had done so.
Having wed at Gretna Green, Darcy was under no obligation to make marriage settlements.
Such arrangements traditionally came before the banns were called and the ceremony performed.
The very idea of potentially leaving his wife destitute, however, horrified him.
He could afford to be lavishly generous, and he had been.
If some freak accident or terrible tragedy robbed Elizabeth of her husband, she would be an extremely wealthy and well-cared-for widow.
The very thought made her heart quail. Elizabeth did not want to contemplate even briefly a future without the man she had come to love so dearly.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
Today was a happy day, and she had no wish to sully it with fanciful fears.
A moment, and another breath, and a silent prayer winged heavenward that she and Fitzwilliam might have a long and fulfilling life together, and she turned towards the doors leading into the sanctuary in anticipation.
She was right on cue. Music began, ethereally audible beyond the heavy oak doors, and her father walked up beside her and offered his arm. “Well, Elizabeth, shall we?”
She placed her gloved hand on his arm as servants inside the sanctuary swung the doors open.
Elizabeth and her father stepped forward and proceeded regally up the aisle.
The sanctuary was, somehow, even colder than the vestibule, but Elizabeth barely noticed.
Up in the pews near the front, Mrs. Reynolds was dabbing happy tears from her eyes, seated beside the butler and Darcy’s valet and Annette.
Mrs. Gregson sat next to Georgiana with Mrs. Annesley beyond, all three of them wreathed in joyous smiles.
The smile which drew Elizabeth’s full attention, however, was transforming the face of her husband, awaiting her by the altar.
She smiled back, so widely that her face hurt, and restrained herself with an effort from running down to meet him.
It took only a few more seconds that seemed an eternity, and Mr. Bennet was transferring her hand from his arm to Fitzwilliam’s outstretched hand.
The couple shared a smile and turned to the aged parson, who was peering at them rheumily and fondly. Mr. Sinclair gave a little cough, glanced at the open book on the lectern, and began in a reedy voice.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered today…”