Chapter 19
Darcy
The night before my wedding, Bingley attempted to get me drunk.
His method lacked subtlety. He had a bottle of cognac brought to Netherfield’s library, along with two glasses and enough good cheer for three men. Then he filled my glass before I had even agreed to drink.
“To tomorrow,” he declared.
“We are unlikely to avoid it.”
“You could appear more enthusiastic.”
I looked at the clock.
“Twelve hours until the ceremony.”
“Eleven hours and fifty-eight minutes, if you keep staring at it like that.”
I took a sip solely to give him something quieter to do. He settled across from me, legs stretched toward the fire, with the quiet satisfaction of a man married two weeks and already convinced he possessed vast marital expertise.
“You are worried,” he said.
“No.”
“Darcy, you have shuffled the same papers three times, corrected a letter that had no errors, and asked my valet whether the church might disappear during the night.”
“I asked whether the rain might make the road impassable.”
“You would have had the entire parish transported to Pemberley if the answer had been yes.”
I set down my glass.
“Elizabeth changed her mind once.”
“She will not change it tomorrow.”
“She has the right.”
Bingley regarded me with a patience I probably deserved.
“She accepted you freely. She has faced down Wickham, her mother, Lady Catherine, and half of Meryton. What more should she do to convince you?”
“Nothing.”
“Then why do you look as though you are waiting for a servant to arrive with a letter calling off the engagement?”
Because I had received such a gift without ever fully believing that happiness could be granted me without condition.
Because I had begun our story by supposing that my rank, my fortune, and the intensity of my affection would suffice to make my suit desirable.
Because I had then discovered that Elizabeth had been prepared to sacrifice her life for me, and that knowledge had left within me a mistrust of any consent that worked in my favor.
“I do not want her to wake tomorrow regretting that she chose me,” I said.
Bingley leaned forward.
“Jane told me that Elizabeth has been counting the days since the date was set.”
I looked up.
“She said that?”
“Jane perceived it. Which is worth more than any declaration from anyone else.”
I thought of Elizabeth in the pavilion, her cheeks flushed, telling me that two weeks and five days remained. The memory of her hand guiding mine to her breast made me take a second sip of cognac.
Bingley followed my gesture with a smile.
“Ah. A worry of a different nature.”
“I have no idea what you mean.”
“Naturally.”
“Charles.”
He raised his hands.
“I shall ask no questions. I shall merely remind you that a wife is not a fragile creature who must be protected from every emotion. Jane hates it when I ask her ten times a day if she is tired.”
“Miss Bennet is too gentle to say so.”
“Mrs. Bingley told me quite clearly yesterday morning.”
I could not suppress a smile.
“Marriage is developing your discernment.”
“Above all, it is developing my ability to recognize the moment when a woman is about to throw a cushion at me.”
He refilled our glasses, less generously this time.
“You will make her happy, Darcy.”
“I hope so.”
“No. You will work to make her happy, she will work to make you bearable, and you will quarrel when neither of you succeeds perfectly. That is more reliable than hope.”
I looked at him.
“Since when have you become wise?”
“Since I married Jane. All the credit belongs to her.”
A quiet knock at the door interrupted our conversation. Georgiana entered, an envelope in her hand.
My heart clenched at once.
“A servant from Longbourn just brought it,” she said.
Bingley stood up.
“I'll leave the brother and sister to their secrets.”
He squeezed my shoulder as he passed, then left the room.
Georgiana handed me the letter. Elizabeth's handwriting covered the address.
“I think it's a good letter,” my sister said.
“How could you possibly know that?”
“The servant was smiling.”
I broke the seal.
My dear Fitzwilliam,
Jane insists that a reasonable fiancé sleeps the night before his wedding. Since you have never shown a consistent inclination toward what is reasonable where I am concerned, I fear you will spend the night imagining every reason that might prevent me from arriving at the church.
I therefore inform you that my dress is ready, that my mother has given enough instructions to see three weddings through, and that my father has hidden the keys to his carriage to deny me any possibility of escape. Above all, I am certain.
I promise you neither a docility you do not desire nor a perfection I do not possess. I promise to speak to you when I am afraid, to contradict you when I believe you are wrong, and to remember that your silence does not mean indifference. Tomorrow, I will come to you because I want to.
Try to sleep, then. I would like to marry a man capable of staying awake during the ceremony.
Elizabeth
I reread the letter.
“Well?” Georgiana asked.
I folded the sheet carefully.
“The servant was right.”
She smiled, then came to sit beside me.
“Mama would have liked Elizabeth.”
Emotion made it difficult to respond.
“Yes.”
“I don't remember much of her. Mostly her perfume and the way she played with my hair. But I think she would have been happy that you're marrying someone who makes you laugh.”
I took my sister's hand.
“Elizabeth already loves you.”
“I know.”
Her simple certainty touched me. Georgiana had long lived in fear of being tolerated rather than loved. Elizabeth had needed only a few meetings to show her that she had a place in our lives—one that depended neither on her fortune nor on her brother.
“Will you be at Pemberley often?” she asked.
“It will be our principal residence.”
“I meant… You won't always send me off to London with Mrs. Annesley?”
I turned toward her.
“Why would I do that?”
“You'll be married. Perhaps you'll wish to be alone.”
The fear in her voice gripped my heart.
“Georgiana, Pemberley is your home. My marriage will not drive you from it. It gives you a sister, not a replacement.”
Her eyes shone.
“Elizabeth said the same thing.”
“When?”
“Yesterday. She wrote to ask if I wanted to choose the flowers for my room with her. She said she wouldn't change anything without asking me.”
I lowered my eyes to the letter in my hand.
Every gesture Elizabeth made did what her declaration had not yet managed: it built before me proof of a shared future. She was not merely agreeing to live with me. She was taking care of what was most precious to me.
“Are you crying?” Georgiana asked.
“No.”
“Fitzwilliam.”
“Barely.”
She rested her head against my shoulder as she had when she was a child.
We stayed like that for a moment.
Later, after she left, I reread Elizabeth's letter a third time. Then I composed my response.
My dear Elizabeth,
Your father may keep the keys. If you attempted to flee, I would follow you on foot, which would create a spectacle unworthy of the church and probably very entertaining for your family.
I believe you.
I do not always know yet how to silence my fears, but I promise not to substitute them for your word. Tomorrow, I will wait for you without supposing that your freedom threatens my happiness. It is the condition of it.
I will sleep, since you command it. I cannot promise not to count the hours.
Fitzwilliam
I had the note sent to Longbourn, then went up to my room.
Bingley was right: I could not protect Elizabeth from every emotion. Nor could I guarantee that our marriage would be free of mistakes. I could only offer her truth, a listening ear, and the willingness to make amends when my pride took over again.
I placed her letter on the table beside my bed.
I hardly slept at all.
At dawn, no rain fell. The road to the church remained passable. No message arrived calling off the wedding. Bingley entered my room with a triumphant expression and informed me that the world had survived the night.
When I finally stood beside the altar, I stopped looking at the door.
Then it opened.
Elizabeth appeared on her father’s arm.
She raised her eyes to mine and smiled.
I understood then that I had been waiting for her long before Hunsford, without knowing that a woman could see me with such clarity and still choose to come to me.
She walked toward me freely.
And every step she took was a gift.