Chapter 20
Twenty
Not long after breakfast was concluded, Elizabeth and Fitzwilliam set off for Meryton and their appointment with the rector.
Their sisters accompanied them on the walk—including Georgiana, who had shown particular eagerness at the prospect of a visit to the nearby village—and would call at the shops while the engaged couple went on to the church.
Mrs Annesley was with them, so Elizabeth did not worry about them, having sufficiently reassured Fitzwilliam that all would be well.
Elizabeth had known Mr Allen nearly all her life, and she greatly anticipated the meeting. That Fitzwilliam did not was equally clear; after the previous day’s service, he was convinced the rector meant to scold him further. She had attempted to reassure him more than once.
“He may be slightly more difficult than Papa, but only slightly, and for a very similar reason,” she had told him the day before, when he had again raised the subject.
“Mr Allen wishes to ensure my happiness, and he remembers you from last autumn. I do not think it will take you long to convince him that we are in love and truly wish to marry.”
Fitzwilliam had appeared content with that assurance, yet Elizabeth still felt a trace of his unease as they made their way into the village. She leant more closely into him, her hand tightening upon his arm, hoping in some small way to ease it.
At last they neared the churchyard, where the party would separate. “We will meet you near the bookshop when we are finished,” Elizabeth said. “Jane, Aunt Gardiner gave you her list of things needed for the wedding breakfast, did she not?”
Jane inclined her head, offering little in reply, and though it still troubled Elizabeth, she was determined her sister must resolve whatever weighed upon her in her own way. The previous evening, when Elizabeth had tried again to speak with her, Jane had claimed to be too tired.
Still, Elizabeth knew they carried several letters to be posted that morning, and she had seen Jane add one or two of her own to the pile. She wondered if one might be intended for Caroline Bingley, and though curiosity stirred, she would not press.
The two groups soon parted, and Elizabeth’s thoughts turned fully to Fitzwilliam.
Few words had passed between them, which she had not minded, but he halted just before they entered the churchyard.
The low stone wall lay just ahead, the narrow path leading towards the gate, and beyond it she could see the church door standing slightly ajar.
“I do not think I have said it often enough,” he murmured, bending his head so that his words reached her ear, his breath warm against her skin, “but I love you, Elizabeth—most completely, most fully. Before you, I had never imagined such an all-encompassing affection, and although I was miserable in the months between Hunsford and our meeting again at Pemberley, I believe they were necessary for our happiness. How can I be anything but happy now that I have you?”
Elizabeth lifted her free hand to his cheek.
“And I love you, dear Fitzwilliam,” she replied softly.
“I can scarcely imagine a better outcome from our meeting all those months ago, and the thought that in only two days we shall be married is more than I could ever have dreamed. I did not always love you as I do now, but I love you most dearly.”
He leant nearer, as though he had quite forgotten their surroundings. For a moment, Elizabeth forgot them as well. She knew they ought not—but she did not draw back.
The faint sound of movement from within the churchyard reached her just as his face drew closer still, and she had only the briefest instant to realise they were not alone.
The sharp clearing of a throat broke the moment, and they started apart.
“I suppose that gives me some assurance that this match is indeed a love match,” said Mr Allen, the Meryton rector, his voice grave, “but this is neither the time nor the place for such displays.”
Although his tone had been stern, when Elizabeth turned towards him she detected the faintest hint of a smile upon his lips, where he stood upon the steps of the church.
“I am pleased to see you again so soon, Miss Elizabeth, though I suspect your young man will carry you away from us before long.” He turned his attention to Fitzwilliam.
“Your estate is in Derbyshire, if I recall correctly. Come—both of you—so that we may discuss your nuptials: the ceremony itself, and perhaps the wisdom of the match. For though what I witnessed was not quite proper, it gives me a good deal of hope for you both.”
As he spoke, they moved forward together and soon stood before him. Elizabeth had to restrain a cry of indignation when he turned first to Fitzwilliam and said, “Are you quite certain you know precisely what you are undertaking with Miss Elizabeth? She will not be an easy wife.”
Elizabeth could not wholly suppress her amusement at his remark, though she endeavoured to appear properly indignant.
“Indeed, sir,” she said, turning to Mr Allen with a mock solemnity, “I believe it is rather I who ought to be asked such a question. As you will recall, Mr Darcy did not present himself so well upon his last visit here.”
Mr Allen’s brow lifted slightly, though the hint of amusement did not leave him.
“Is that so, Miss Elizabeth? But perhaps you forget how well I know you. I do not know Mr Darcy half so well, yet I can easily suppose that you have already led the gentleman on a merry chase—and that, once you are wed, you will continue to do so.”
Beside her, Fitzwilliam gave a short laugh, his hand tightening slightly upon her arm where it still rested.
“Oh, then I must beg to be fully informed of what my intended wife is capable of,” he said, with evident enjoyment.
“I can attest that your supposition is correct. The dear lady has made our courtship most eventful—and rather longer than I would have liked. Indeed, she kept me waiting an unconscionable length of time before accepting me, and this present haste to the altar is merely to ensure she cannot change her mind.”
Elizabeth turned to him at once. “You mistake the matter entirely,” she returned. “I accepted you as soon as you gave me proper cause to do so.”
“Ah,” Mr Allen said, folding his hands before him, “then I see that I must examine not only the lady’s constancy, but the gentleman’s conduct.”
“I assure you, sir,” Fitzwilliam replied, still smiling, “that I stand ready to answer for myself—though I cannot promise my account will be as favourable as Miss Elizabeth’s.”
Elizabeth shook her head, though her smile lingered. “You may depend upon it, sir, that I shall offer a very different account.”
“Then I look forward to hearing both,” Mr Allen said. “Come—if your affections are as well settled as you claim, we may proceed to the more practical matters.”
When Elizabeth at last retired for the night, she felt the full weight of the long day. Their meeting with the rector—though it had begun with a degree of awkwardness—had ended remarkably well, and before the hour was over, Mr Allen had offered his hearty approval of the match.
That business concluded, they had found their sisters in Meryton and spent some time visiting the shops before returning to Longbourn.
Elizabeth had been pleasantly surprised to discover that the dressmaker possessed a partially completed gown which, with a few alterations, could be ready for her the following day.
The thought of wearing a new dress for her wedding pleased her more than she had expected; and, while Fitzwilliam had been engaged at the bookshop, she had taken the opportunity to speak privately with the woman and order another garment, one intended for a far more intimate purpose.
The remainder of the day had passed in a blur of small occupations and hushed conversation, yet now, alone in her room, the stillness felt almost unreal after so much activity.
At last, she drew from her pocket the letter Fitzwilliam had pressed into her hand just before taking his leave that evening.
“Something to replace that other hideous letter,” he had said, bowing low over her hand and pressing a lingering kiss to it.
The memory brought a faint smile to her lips as she turned the letter over in her hands.
She had no intention of ever destroying the other, regardless of what she might have implied to Fitzwilliam; for that letter had led to her understanding.
Without it, they would not be where they now stood, so near to being wed.
She broke the seal and began to read.
Sunday, 9 August 1812
Dearest loveliest Elizabeth,
Earlier this evening we jested that the only letter I had ever written to you was that unfortunate one following my ill-fated proposal. When I reflect upon my state of mind at that time, I can scarcely comprehend that we now stand on the brink of marriage.
I find that I cannot retire without committing a few of my present thoughts to paper.
Although I had the pleasure of being with you only hours ago, and have enjoyed your company almost constantly since meeting again at Pemberley, I am no longer content to confine my expressions of affection to those moments we share.
Tomorrow we are to wait upon Mr Allen, and although I have endeavoured to appear easy on the subject, I cannot wholly deny a degree of apprehension given what he said to me this morning.
That any man should presume to judge me worthy of you is something I might once have resented; now, I can only wish to satisfy him, as I must wish to satisfy all who have your happiness at heart.
If he finds me wanting, I cannot say he is mistaken—but I hope he will at least allow that I am determined to improve.
You have already done more for me than I can properly express.
When I consider what I was, and what I might still have been had you not spoken with such honesty, I am struck with a gratitude that must attend me for the rest of my life.
That you should now love me is a happiness I do not deserve, though I shall endeavour, in every possible way, to prove myself worthy of it.
In less than two days’ time, I shall be permitted to call you my wife. The nearness of that moment makes each hour feel slower than the last—I wish for time to proceed with swiftness, and I can scarcely bear any delay or anything that keeps me from you.
You once endured a letter from me which I would willingly reclaim, were it possible. I can only hope that this may serve as a more pleasing substitute—one written without the arrogance that once guided my pen, and with nothing but affection and respect to recommend it.
Sleep well, my dearest Elizabeth. May tomorrow bring you no uneasiness, and may I conduct myself in such a manner as to give you no cause for it. I trust I shall find an opportunity to place this letter in your hands, for I would have it stand in place of the former.
I remain, now and always,
Yours, most faithfully and most devotedly,
Fitzwilliam Darcy
Elizabeth carefully folded the letter and placed it within her trunk, among her other valued correspondence and journals.
She had not unpacked since arriving home a few days before, removing only what she required, while each evening she devoted a few minutes to sorting and packing the rest of her belongings into her travelling trunk, along with another that had been brought down for the purpose.
The second was larger and would be sent on to Pemberley, to remain there, while the other would accompany her on their wedding journey.
There was something strangely sobering in the task.
With each item she folded and set aside, she felt more keenly that she was not merely preparing for a simple journey, but taking leave of one life in order to begin another.
Familiar things, long in her possession, were now arranged with care not for this room, but for a place that was to be hers in a very different sense.
It was bittersweet—there was excitement in the thought of what lay ahead, yet also a pang in leaving behind all that had long been familiar.
And yet, as she closed the lid of the trunk, Elizabeth could not doubt that she went forward into this new life willingly, and with a happiness that more than reconciled her to the change.