Chapter 13
It was still a few hours until dawn. Elizabeth watched the slow lightening of the sky. Thursday. It was Thursday; the fifth day of December. Eight days complete had passed since she had come back to Longbourn after the ball. And today, she would marry Mr Darcy.
Shivering, she pulled the blankets higher round her shoulders, and closed her eyes, praying she could get at least a short period of sleep — she would need all the rest she could get to deal with the day.
Once she had accepted the need to marry, she had assumed she would have several weeks to prepare herself for the ordeal, perhaps even after Christmas. Her eyes filled with tears; she dearly wished to talk to Aunt Gardiner.
But it was not to be. Mr Darcy had been able to avoid the usual delays and obtain a special licence.
Of course he had. He had decreed he wanted nothing more than to go to Pemberley, and the need to arrive before the Sunday meant that the marriage would be today, and after a night at Netherfield — she shivered again; her wedding night — they would leave early tomorrow morning and travel north.
Colonel Fitzwilliam had called on Papa yesterday and they had taken time to discuss the matter. Elizabeth had not been asked her opinion, but Papa had called her through to his book room when they had finished and told her of the decision.
She was angry with herself that tears had come to her eyes and the colonel had seen them. At least she had been able to blink them away.
“But, sir, I have not even seen Mr Darcy since the … the ball. Ought I not to have the chance to speak to him before the ceremony?”
“Lizzy,” Papa interrupted. “You must marry for your sake and that of your sisters; you know that. What good would it do to delay the day further?” He reached over and squeezed her hand.
“Any delay will mean waiting another week because of the travel issues, and Mr Darcy and the colonel are desirous of preventing the scandal reaching London. You must understand they need to protect Miss Darcy, too.”
Elizabeth looked down. “There is no time to obtain Christmas gifts for my family, no time to call on my friends to say farewell …”
“Your friends are staying away from you, my dear.” Papa had looked at her with sympathy. “I have hope that after the marriage, you will find that you can build bridges by corresponding with Miss Lucas and your other friends.”
Elizabeth rolled over. She could not sleep, and going over and over the previous day in her mind was not calming her at all.
Glancing at the clock, she rang the bell; perhaps Sarah would be kind enough to bring her a cup of tea.
Then it would be time to bathe, and dress in her best morning gown.
Her lips tightened; there had been no time to even change the ribbons or add lace to it.
As she wandered round her room, farewelling her childhood, she ran her hands over her books, her clothes, her lap desk and favourite pen.
Mrs Hill had promised to pack everything for her while the wedding party were at Netherfield, and her trunk would be sent over in time to be loaded onto the luggage coach bound for Pemberley.
It was time. Elizabeth embraced her younger sisters, tears in her eyes. And Mama. But Mama was more concerned with being refused the opportunity to attend the triumph of her second daughter marrying a wealthy man.
“Oh, Mr Bennet! You can see I am dressed for the occasion. There can be no need to forbid a mother to …”
“Mrs Bennet.” Papa’s lips were tight. “I have already informed you that there is to be no congregation. The colonel will be standing up with Mr Darcy, and Jane is doing the same for Elizabeth. I will be there to give my daughter’s hand, and the colonel and I will be witnesses for the register.
No one else will attend. Not even the Bingleys will be there, and it is their home! ”
“Perhaps I will stay here, then.” Elizabeth tried to sound light and teasing. “Since you have not mentioned that I will be there!” But her attempt at humour fell flat, and she dispiritedly climbed into her father’s coach for the last time.
How she wished she had written to her aunt when this thing had first happened. Then there would have been time for a reply from the person she needed to hear from most in all the world.
Jane squeezed her hand. “I am here, Lizzy. And I will write every day.”
The coach drew up outside Netherfield. Elizabeth glanced at the side of the steps where she had stood in the darkness on the night of the ball and trembled. While she could not regret being there to assist a man in trouble, she wished, oh, how she wished that events had not transpired as they had.
Papa handed her out of the carriage, and she and Jane climbed the steps on their father’s arms. Colonel Fitzwilliam was waiting for them and greeted them soberly. “Let me escort you upstairs, ladies, Mr Bennet.”
The house seemed quiet, almost as if it was in mourning, and Elizabeth wondered irrelevantly why Miss Bingley wasn’t attempting to take charge of the event, although she was happy the woman was not in evidence.
But she was surprised that Mr Bingley was not here to greet Jane.
After all, she was not ruined because Elizabeth was marrying his friend.
She waited quietly, holding hands with Jane, in a small parlour, and listened to what she could as Colonel Fitzwilliam and Papa crossed the room and talked to another man she didn’t know, who kept his voice low.
“He is sitting in the right place, Colonel. And he is fit to stand for the ceremony, although I would charge you to stand close by in case of need.”
Elizabeth turned away, and unbuttoned her pelisse, casting it onto the couch, and topping it with her bonnet and gloves. It appeared there was no one else to help her.
“Oh, Lizzy!” Jane’s whisper sounded dismayed, as she, too, removed her outer garments. “It is as if you are …”
“… superfluous; useful only to utter ‘I do,’ and be forgotten the next moment.” Elizabeth shrugged. “Even Papa seems to think I’m no longer of any importance.” The sting of tears was not very far away.
But then Papa was there, offering his arm. He looked at her face, and his brow creased. “What is the matter, Lizzy?”
“What is the matter!” she hissed. “What do you think is the matter?” She blinked the tears away. “I am very tempted to say I will not in the service! I am an afterthought, not wanted; only here to say ‘I do’ and then be discarded, not thought of again!”
“Oh, my dear!” Papa embraced her, pressing her head onto his shoulder. “Take the time you need, Lizzy, and gather yourself. You are the most courageous woman I know. You will be able to make a good life for yourself. Pemberley is supposedly very beautiful and your settlement is generous.”
She snorted. “How would I know? You haven’t even shown it to me!” Her anger ought to be directed to Mr Darcy, but Papa was here to rail against.
“Miss Elizabeth,” the voice was quiet. “I apologise for speaking when we have not been introduced, but I have taken the liberty of pouring you a glass of water.”
She lifted her head from Papa’s shoulder. He turned to her. “Lizzy, this is Sir Charles Withinshaw. He is the Darcy family physician in town.”
She dipped a brief curtsy to his bow, but she was not inclined to be polite to anyone today. He held out the glass but she shook her head. He had probably dosed it with laudanum or something.
“Thank you. I am sorry to appear suspicious, but perhaps I can pour my own.” She would certainly not wish to be drugged to take her vows.
He looked surprised, but then he smiled very slightly. “It is an honour to meet you, Miss Elizabeth, and I look forward to getting to know you better in the future. I understand you are unhappy, but Mr Darcy is a good man, and only needs a little time to recover fully from his injuries.”
She looked at him steadily. “His cousin says it is possible he will always be of uncertain temper.”
The physician looked rather uncomfortable. “It is too early to be despondent, madam.”
There were raised voices from the next room. No — a raised voice. Loud, impatient, unused to waiting. Another voice, quieter — that would be Colonel Fitzwilliam, she supposed, trying to calm the angry Mr Darcy. Or perhaps it was the clergyman.
She looked steadily at the physician. “Perhaps it is Mr Darcy who needs your sedatives, Sir Charles.” She turned away to Jane and took her hands; it seemed she was the only person here who was thinking of Elizabeth.
But perhaps it would be worse if she made her about-to-be husband wait too long. A few more minutes and she would feel stronger.
As Elizabeth entered the next room on a relieved Papa’s arm, she saw Mr Darcy begin to lever himself to his feet using the back of a chair in front of him, probably placed there for that purpose.
Her heart softened just a little at the sight of him.
He was pale and gaunt, even after only a week, and the yellowing stain of bruises around his eyes and nose was evidence of the pain he had been suffering over the last week.
There were lines of pain deeply etched around his face, as well as evidence of partly healed cuts.
Despite it all, he was clean-shaven and finely dressed. As her father led her closer, she could hear his hoarse, rapid breathing, and she reminded herself of what he had suffered. Perhaps his temper could be understood, although none of it was her fault.
Old Mr Stephenson, the vicar of Meryton parish, was there to conduct the service and he gave her a sympathetic smile, before glancing at Mr Darcy, who grunted.
Lovely.
The vicar opened his prayer book. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered …” but Elizabeth stopped listening. She gazed straight ahead, determined not to cry. A white cloth was laid over an occasional table, and she could see the register and a sheet of paper, presumably the special licence.
The colonel’s bright red uniform coat was visible just past the soberly suited Mr Darcy. She knew Jane stood behind her — she had not even a posy of flowers to hand the sister attending her, but she could feel her sister’s support flowing to her.
No support from Papa. He was also staring grimly straight ahead. Elizabeth was sorry that he could not be strong for her.
The exchange of vows passed in a blur. Elizabeth was concentrating more on keeping her tears in check.
When she and Jane had imagined their wedding days — only for the deepest love — she had never, never, dreamed she would one day be taking part in a travesty like this, knowing that the vows were merely words. Lies.
Then the man who was to have all power over her in the future was taking her left hand and pushing a ring onto her finger. She looked down.
A very plain, worn ring. Was it an heirloom? No, it could not be, it was a cheap ring — thin, brassy, and humiliatingly plain.
She swallowed. It showed exactly what he thought of her, and his anger at having to go through a marriage he did not want.
Well, she did not want it, either. She would not feel sorry for him. Even if he had suffered, a gentleman would have kept a better countenance and behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner!
She dropped her hand down at her side, wishing through a mist of her own anger that she could tear the ring off and throw it at his feet. Then she could walk out of Netherfield. Without signing the register, her marriage would not be final.
A smothered sob from behind her gave her pause. Jane.
Jane and Mary. This was for them, this sacrifice. They knew it, but Papa didn’t seem to be acknowledging it. If she had refused from the beginning, he might have had to do something.
She sighed because she knew how indolent he was; her sisters would be ruined if she did not make this sacrifice.
Pen in hand, she hesitated over the register, her vision too blurred with unshed tears to see it clearly. She clenched her jaw at a sound of impatience from Mr Darcy, looming beside her, and hastily signed the book.
It was done. Irrevocable.