Chapter 36
CERTAIN FELICITY
D arcy waited at the window in Netherfield’s saloon, too focused to concentrate on any of the chatter behind him.
Bingley made a remark about his poor company, but he only smiled vaguely.
Miss Bingley said something teasing, and he ignored it entirely, for a carriage had pulled through the gates, and he was already halfway out of the door.
He met Elizabeth’s eye through the carriage window and could barely constrain the exultation that threatened to spread itself stupidly all over his face.
With impatience he hoped did not show, he handed Jane down and offered his congratulations on her engagement.
Then he took Elizabeth’s hand and without a word, but with a look that he trusted she understood perfectly, pulled her away from the house, towards the formal gardens.
He took her as far out of view as his endurance allowed, which was probably not as far as propriety would have preferred, then tugged her hand to bring them face to face.
He almost crowed at the eagerness with which she welcomed him.
Need drove him forward, walking her backwards several steps before her ardour caught up, and she pressed herself with equal force against him.
Her passion was exhilarating, her soft warmth beneath his hands, intoxicating.
This was his life now—this woman, this passion, this unfettered joy!
This was why he had raced back at her beck and call, for what man would not gladly submit to this ecstasy?
“You did not mind that I wrote, then?” she whispered.
“It was the finest letter any man, past or present, has ever received. I have been out of my senses since I read it.” He kissed her again, briefly, but with considerably less reserve, to demonstrate it.
“Are you sure you are ready to leave Longbourn, though? I would not like you to regret the haste.”
“More than ready.”
He inhaled deeply, relieved to hear her confirm that which doubt had whispered might be but the impetuous outpourings of frustration. “That is fortunate, for I brought some things with me that would have been entirely wasted had you changed your mind.”
“What things?”
“Come. I shall show you.”
Elizabeth’s delight upon finding Georgiana and Fitzwilliam in the saloon was gratifying indeed.
Darcy did not expect that she would comprehend the significance of Linseagh’s coming too, but he was grateful for both his cousins’—and, by extension, Lord and Lady Matlock’s—choosing to stand by him in the face of Lady Catherine’s opposition.
Darcy introduced them and stepped back slightly to allow them to become acquainted.
“Nice of you to join us,” said Bingley wryly, appearing at Darcy’s side.
“We had something to settle in private before we spoke to anybody else,” he replied quietly.
“And pray, what was so important it could not wait?”
“What else?” Fitzwilliam interposed, sidling up to join them. “That thing pressing a hole in his pocket, of course.”
Bingley made a choking sound. Darcy levelled a baleful glare at his cousin, but Fitzwilliam only grinned devilishly and tapped Darcy’s jacket, causing the folded paper in his inside breast pocket to rustle.
“You might as well tell him, Darcy. He must be wondering why you have dragged us all here with you.”
“I am, rather,” Bingley agreed. “Not that you are not all most welcome.”
Darcy did not have time to prevent Fitzwilliam from blurting, “We have come for the wedding.”
The rest of the room quieted, all eyes turned on them in surprise—except Elizabeth’s, which shone with happiness.
“The wedding?” Bingley replied, his smile become somewhat fixed. “How long are you planning to stay?”
“I do not know. What say you, Darcy—a day or two?”
“A day or two? What—”
“Keep up, Bingley! That is what’s in his pocket. A marriage licence.”
Darcy moved closer to Elizabeth and said quietly, “That is the other thing I brought with me.”
“You are going to marry by licence?” Bingley asked. He looked unduly perturbed. “When?”
“Hopefully, within the week.”
“Upon my word, that is soon. Jane and I had a November wedding in mind.”
Darcy knew not why this should be relevant. He understood better when Elizabeth addressed her sister, who looked even more disturbed than Bingley.
“You will not mind too much, will you, Jane? It would have been wonderful to stand up together, but Darcy is needed at Pemberley. He cannot keep travelling between here and there to see me. It makes much more sense for me to be there with him. We shall come back for your wedding.”
“Of course,” Jane replied with no conviction at all, and frowning at her sister in a manner that suggested she had more than a few qualms.
“It was very good of you to come all this way for the sake of just a few days, Miss Darcy,” Miss Bingley said.
“I would not have missed my brother’s wedding for the world.” There was a hint of rebuke in Georgiana’s answer that banished the sneer from Miss Bingley’s face, for which Darcy silently congratulated her.
His sister’s delight when he told her of his engagement had been deeply touching.
She had perceived his recent sadness, it seemed, and was overjoyed to see him happy at last—and with Elizabeth in particular, who was apparently, ‘by far and away the nicest of all the ladies she had thought might one day be her sister.’ He had not asked who else she had considered to be a contender, but if Miss Bingley was one, she need not have been worried.
“Besides,” Fitzwilliam said, “it will not be a few days for us, will it, Georgiana? Darcy and Miss Elizabeth might be scooting back up to Pemberley, but we three are off to London for a spell. Thought we might take in a few plays, perhaps enjoy a few exhibitions. Whatever takes our fancy while the happy couple enjoy some well-deserved time alone.”
Elizabeth squeezed Darcy’s arm. “That is excessively kind of everyone,” she whispered when he bent closer, “but your sister should not have to leave her home on my account.”
“It is only for a week or so.”
“Even so, it is not necessary.”
“Yes, it is. Unless you wish to share the journey home with her.”
He was diverted to see the blush that danced briefly across her cheeks once she took his meaning, and not a little encouraged when she made no further argument and walked, with a coy smile, to speak to Georgiana.
Miss Bingley stepped immediately into her place. “Charles tells me Mrs Reynolds has left your employment, Mr Darcy. I hope it had nothing to do with her dislike of Miss Eliza.”
Darcy fixed her with an incredulous glare. “Excuse me?”
“Caroline, desist at once!” Bingley hissed.
“No, I insist. What is your meaning, madam?” Darcy made no effort to constrain his displeasure, and Miss Bingley floundered in the face of it.
“Only that my maid mentioned Miss Eliza seemed to be in disfavour with your housekeeper while we were there last month. But I…I know nothing more than that. Forgive me, I ought not to have mentioned it.”
“No,” he said darkly, and turned his back on her.
He could hear Bingley admonishing her in hushed tones behind him, but he found he was less angry with Miss Bingley than he was with Mrs Reynolds.
That the woman had plotted against him was bad enough.
That she had spoken openly against Elizabeth amongst the other servants, exposing her to God knew what rancour and dissent in her new home, was entirely another.
Not that it would be tolerated. He would sooner dismiss the entire household and start from scratch before he subjected Elizabeth to any unpleasantness of that sort.
“Is something the matter?” Linseagh enquired quietly.
“I have just been reminded of what awaits me at Pemberley.”
His cousin cast a quick, quizzical look in Elizabeth’s direction. “I must say, I think what awaits you at Pemberley now is a darned sight pleasanter than that scowl implies.”
Fitzwilliam grinned. “Careful, Brother. He will have you out on the lawn at sunrise if you say much more.”
Their teasing ran long, but since it mostly consisted of praise for Elizabeth, Darcy gave no complaint and instead allowed it to rally him back into good humour.
A delightful hour was passed before Elizabeth and her sister were required to return home.
Darcy rode alongside their carriage to Longbourn, where he and Elizabeth petitioned Mr Bennet together.
Notwithstanding that they had his permission to wed, prudence demanded that, after Lydia’s misadventure, he be allowed to sanction the licence.
It was more a courtesy than a true entreaty, but it would place a necessary distinction between Darcy’s conduct and Wickham’s.
Mr Bennet turned out not to be the problem; it was his wife who threw up all manner of obstacles to their plan.
Elizabeth privately expressed her vexation at it until it became clear her mother’s resistance was born more of affection than obstinacy, how far away she would be at Pemberley becoming an oft-repeated lament.
When there were no objections left, Mrs Bennet appealed to Darcy directly to take care of ‘her sweetest Lizzy’.
He gave his word. It was the easiest promise he had ever made.
The only other objection came, surprisingly, from Bingley.
“Are you quite certain Lizzy is happy with all this haste, Darcy?” he asked after dinner the next day.
The ladies had withdrawn, but not before Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst had bored the whole table with talk of the many obligations and invitations they felt must be honoured before their brother could even contemplate saying his vows.
“Are you sure Miss Bennet is happy with all this delay?” Fitzwilliam replied. “Anyone would think your sisters are attempting to defer your nuptials for so long you forget you said you would marry her in the first place.”
“Oh, they probably are,” Bingley replied.
“They are never content with whatever makes me happy. But a November wedding suits Jane and me well. So I must ask you again, Darcy, are you sure Lizzy is not feeling rushed? Apparently, you are not even granting her the comfort of your house in town on your wedding night.”
“That would rather defeat the object of marrying in haste so that we might return to Pemberley.”
“I suppose, but would one night make that much difference?”
“My London housekeeper is presently en route to Pemberley. We deemed it more sensible not to open the house again.” He sipped his drink and tried not to be provoked by his friend’s prying. “Are there any other of my plans for which you would like me to account?”
Bingley winced contritely. “Her sister is concerned that she has agreed to all this only to please you.”
Darcy could not help but smile. “You may tell Jane not to concern herself. Marrying quickly was Elizabeth’s idea.”
After a brief pause of obvious surprise, Bingley chuckled lightly. “In that case, I propose a toast to your certain felicity, my friend.”
Darcy accepted the toast, as he accepted a swathe of others over the next few days, both before and on the day of his wedding, though he was not truly interested in anyone’s approbation by then.
He wanted only to take Elizabeth home, and even the blessedly short time he had to wait to do it was too long for his liking.
* * *
It was on a crisp, sunny morning in early October that Darcy and Elizabeth drove away from Meryton as husband and wife.
For a good while after the carriage passed out of view of their friends and family, Darcy simply held Elizabeth.
She had removed her bonnet and nestled against him beneath the travel blanket without a word.
He marvelled at the way she had fitted herself against him, her form sinuously aligned with his and not a stitch of daylight between them.
She had hooked her foot over his shin to hold herself in situ.
It was artlessly done, and effective, but achingly arousing.
Her hair smelled of perfumed soap, and he treasured this new freedom to cleave her to him for long enough to heed it.
He savoured the easy familiarity that existed between them—a stark and exquisite contrast to the awkwardness that had marred so much of their acquaintance.
He pressed a kiss to the top of her head and said a silent prayer of thanks.
She took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
“You are not too sad to be leaving, I hope,” he said softly.
“I am not sad at all. I shall miss Jane dearly, but I am so happy, it will be an age before I notice.”
“I cannot tell you how well I like to hear you say you are happy.”
“Are you?”
“Happy does not do justice to what I feel. I thought this day would never come.”
“As did I—it seemed to take forever.”
“And yet Bingley asked me whether you felt rushed into marrying.”
“Jane asked me the same.”
Elizabeth was toying with the buttons on his waistcoat. Innocently, he knew. Still.
“She does not know that you wrote to me?”
She glanced up at him, revealing a heightened colour to her countenance. “No.”
“Or that you were impatient for me to make you my wife?”
She neither answered nor looked up this time. Her hand had stilled and now rested, flat, on his stomach.
He slid his hand over hers, caressing her wrist with his thumb. “There are more ways to interpret what you wrote than just an exchange of vows.”
She moved slightly—a shrug, or a nod, or some other vague acknowledgement that was not a denial, and which made Darcy altogether too hot for the blanket.
“Did you mean… that ?”
“I do not know,” she said in a hushed voice that was barely audible over the thundering of the carriage’s wheels. “I did not not mean it. I do want to be with you at Pemberley. But I suppose I…”
“Yes?”
“Well, I…I want to be with you .”
He exhaled heavily, and brought his hand to cradle her face, tilting it until she was looking at him. “God, not as much as I want to be with you.”
Her eyes flashed, and she cocked her head by the smallest degree as though bestowing a challenge, and that was Darcy’s undoing.
Thereafter, the inside of his carriage became the stage for the fiery, transcendent prelude to the denouement that followed that night, and the next, so that by the time they reached Pemberley, Elizabeth was his wife in every conceivable way.