Chapter 29 #2
My mind wandered. Each minute seemed like an hour. Mama was radiant; truly, she was a beautiful woman, certainly come into her prime. Jane was sitting beside Aunt Hattie, tears in their eyes, that Mama had found another man to love her, to admire and comfort her…
“…both in prosperity, and adversity.”
George Darcy looked at his bride with such affection. I had seen that look before—this morning, when Fitzwilliam held me in his embrace; by the lake at Pemberley; at Wastwater—at a dozen places from the first moment I had laid eyes on this beautiful, handsome, comely man.
“…if any man can shew any just cause why they may not lawfully be joined so together, let him now speak, or else hereafter forever hold his peace.” Mr. Smythe paused, looking up from his text, smiling benevolently at those gathered in the church.
My breath caught—my heart warring with my love for Fitzwilliam and my duty to secure Mama’s happiness.
‘Lizzy, you must! Say something! You cannot let them go through with it.’ Lydia was whispering, pulling at my arm.
Hush, Lydia, this is not the place.
‘But you love Fitzwilliam! We all know it. If Mama marries his father, you never can.’ Oh, Kitty, that is my heart. But I love Mama too much.
‘But Lizzy, he is the most beautiful man,’ Mary’s voice was so very soft. ‘You must speak.’
And what would you have me say? That I would sacrifice my mother’s happiness for my own?
Lydia stamped her foot. ‘But what of your own happiness? Are you to give it up forever? For a law, for a custom, for—for—’
For my mother’s peace. For her hope of comfort, of security, of a companion in her later years. Do not ask me to rob her of that, Lydia.
‘What of true love, Lizzy?’
True love is not selfish, Mary. If I have learned anything, it is that.
‘But is it not selfish, in its way, to let Mama marry and ruin your own happiness, and Fitzwilliam’s?’ Oh, Kitty, please desist, you break my heart.
Fitzwilliam was staring at me—had he heard my muttering?
‘You must speak, Lizzy! Mr. Smythe has called for it! If ever there were a just cause, this is it!’ Was it Lydia or Kitty who had spoken? My mind was in such turmoil.
Mama took my hand, gazing at me uncertainly. “Oh, Lizzy, please dearest—you must tell me, tell all of us what troubles you.”
“I cannot. To stand up now, before all these people, and shame you? To declare your marriage wrong, because I—Oh! Because I am weak, because I cannot let go of my own attachment? No. I would never forgive myself.”
“Wrong… I do not understand.” Mama stepped back, her countenance furrowed in consternation. There was a rustle of unease. Jane clutched Aunt Hattie’s hand; Aunt Madelaine, that of Uncle Edward.
At that moment, Mr. Philips stepped forward. “I believe I can shed light on Elizabeth’s distress. Forgive me, my dear,” he said, looking at me with great concern, “I must break my promise to you.”
“No, no! Please, you assured me!” I glared at him, shaking my head.
Darcy, unnoticed, was standing beside me. “Elizabeth, let your uncle speak.”
Uncle Philips’s voice filled the chapel, echoing off the cracked stone walls and ancient oak beams that spanned the nave.
“Let me come to the point. Elizabeth and Fitzwilliam have made the cardinal error of falling in love.
It is not up to me to question their hearts, however disruptive they are of this assembly.
When Fanny and George marry, their children become brother and sister—ineligible to marry under either ecclesiastical or civil law; that is the case for our dear couple.
“The question is not that they are forbidden to marry, but whether such a marriage would be annulled by the ecclesiastical court because of affinity; that is, that they have the same kindred.
I began sobbing, my head leaning into Fitzwilliam. Gently, he stroked my hair.
“Ahem,” Mr. Philips paused while I restored some semblance of decorum. “Being a mere country solicitor, I wrote to a colleague, Mr. Chaffers, in London, who specialises in such law. I received, only this morning, his reply.”
The chapel went exceedingly quiet; even I stilled my sobs to listen to Mr. Chaffers’s words.
“He writes that the law treats marriage as a civil contract. Notwithstanding the opinion of the church, the jurist Blackstone says a marriage is good and valid, at the time of making, if the couple were willing to contract, able to contract, and did contract in the proper forms required by law.”
“So, whatever does he mean? I read Blackstone’s Commentaries at Cambridge—never understood the man!” Lord Matlock glared at Mr. Philips, who waved away the earl’s interruption.
“All in good time, my lord. Where was I? If Elizabeth and Darcy were to marry before their parents, then their marriage would stand, in spite of their becoming brother and sister. At the time of contract, there would be no impediment—its validity determined at the moment they say their vows. Therefore, under civil law, their marriage remains valid. Furthermore, on the same grounds, the ecclesiastical courts would not entertain a suit for nullity.”
He chuckled, a rare thing for my uncle. “It would seem, in the church’s view, that the sin of fornication—which is the case when a consummated marriage is annulled—is more abhorrent than the sin of affinity.”
I felt Darcy’s warmth; I blushed, thinking of his body pressed against mine.
Hope flared—then died. Surely, the ceremony must continue once Mr. Smythe had determined there was no lawful cause preventing Mama’s and George Darcy’s marriage?
While cause enough, our love—Fitzwilliam’s love—was insufficient to stay the ceremony.
“Mr. Smythe, would you agree to a slight pause?” Mr. Darcy gave Mama’s hand a squeeze. “I understand, sir, that you baptised Miss Bennet. Do you recall her full name?”
“Of course, Elizabeth Frances Bennet. Why so?”
“I have a habit of taking two copies of any document—in case one is lost. I asked the clerk of the Bishop to make another full copy of the common licence. It seems, however, he made an error.”
Mr. Darcy retrieved a carefully folded paper from his pocket, impressed with the episcopal seal. He handed the document to Mr. Smythe.
“You see, sir, it has been made out to Frances Bennet and George Darcy, being the legal names of Elizabeth Frances Bennet and Fitzwilliam George Darcy—though, as I said, by some mischance, he made a slight clerical error, writing only one of their Christian names on the licence. But, you must agree, it is a duly attested licence for their marriage.”
Mr. Smythe chuckled, carefully scrutinising the wording and seal. “Quite in order, Mr. Darcy. Perhaps, my lord, for the avoidance of doubt, you could also verify the names and seal?”
He gave the licence to Lord Matlock, who smirked. “All is as it should be. Lady Matlock and I will stand as witness.”
I had never swooned in my life—if tumbling down Scawfell Pike was not swooning—merely Newtonian Mechanicks. Darcy caught me before I fell onto the stone floor; his hands about my waist, lifting me to my feet.
Mama grasped my arms. “Oh, Elizabeth, you silly, silly girl; you should have told me.”
“No, Mama, I couldn’t spoil your happiness—George Darcy is a fine man. Almost as lovely as my Fitzwilliam.”
We swapped places. She stood up with me, and George Darcy with his son, Fitzwilliam.
Mr. Smythe began anew the wedding ceremony, and in less time than I had thought possible, Fitzwilliam and I were married.
We were careful to record not just the date of our marriage in the registry, but also the time: five minutes after eleven o’clock—Mama and Mr. Darcy were married just fifteen minutes later.
A cheer went up when Mrs. and Mr. Darcy stepped from the church into the lane. Was it for Frances and George Darcy, or for Fitzwilliam and me? Waiting for us were the villagers, cottagers, tenants, and all our dear friends from Meryton. They had come to celebrate one wedding, and discovered two.
I heard Lydia giggling, skipping ahead with Kitty. Mary took my hand. ‘I’m so happy for you, Lizzy. Fitzwilliam is so very, very beautiful—how could I ever have thought him merely comely?’
* * *