Chapter 23
Twenty-Three
The morning of the wedding dawned bright and clear, the early light slipping through the curtains with a softness that might, on another day, have put Elizabeth at ease. Instead, she lay for a moment longer than usual, her thoughts turning—inevitably—to the evening before.
After Jane had left her, her mother had not been long in finding her. Mrs Bennet entered with purpose, scolding her at once for hiding herself away when there was so much to be done—though what, precisely, Elizabeth ought to have been doing, she did not say.
For a moment, Mrs Bennet merely looked about the nearly empty room, as though taking stock of what remained undone. Then she drew in a breath and began.
What followed Elizabeth could not have repeated with any certainty.
There had been much said of duty—of propriety, of obligation, of what was owed to family and to society; several mentions of an heir—and Elizabeth, recognising the familiar cadence of the lecture, quickly resolved not to attend to it too closely.
She nodded, she believed, in the proper places, and offered what responses were required of her, but for the most part allowed the words to pass over her without engaging with them.
At last, her mother concluded her speech—appearing nearly as ill at ease as Elizabeth herself—and quitted the room. Only a few minutes later, another knock sounded at the door, and her Aunt Gardiner was admitted.
“If you have come to speak to me about my duty as a wife, then Mama has already done so,” Elizabeth said, with deliberate composure and a hint of amusement. “But if your advice is likely to be more useful than bidding me lie still and pray he finishes quickly, I should be very glad to hear it.”
Mrs Gardiner laughed lightly at that, shaking her head.
“Yes, what I have to say is somewhat more detailed than that. I shall not tell you everything—you and Mr Darcy must discover some things for yourselves—but I will say that there is pleasure to be found for both husband and wife in the marriage bed. Do not fear it, and allow your husband to guide you, at least at first.”
Elizabeth nodded, uncertain how best to reply. Her aunt spoke a while longer, and though Elizabeth did not answer much, she found that her words inspired far more confidence than her mother’s had done, had she listened to them.
Before long, her aunt took her leave, and Elizabeth was once again alone. Once, she might have expected Jane to remain with her on the night before her wedding, but that comfort had not been hers.
The memory of last night faded.
Elizabeth drew a quiet breath, her gaze lifting to the soft morning light as the present returned to her.
In only a few short hours, she would be married to Fitzwilliam Darcy.
It was astonishing, in many ways, how events had unfolded; she could not have imagined it the previous April, and yet, before long, she would be his wife.
Setting aside the unease of the previous evening, she rose and began to prepare for the day—her wedding day.
Far away in Hunsford, Charlotte Collins read a letter for the second time.
It had arrived the previous day, sent by her mother, and—most fortunately—her husband had been absent when it came. She had read it then in private, and taken care to keep it to herself, though she knew such a secret could not be maintained for long.
She had waited until the following morning to produce it openly—until her husband was at home, and until the hour by which the wedding in Hertfordshire must surely be over, and any attempt at interruption rendered useless.
When the morning post was brought in as they sat at breakfast, Mr Collins, observing a letter in her mother’s hand among the rest, immediately enquired after its contents.
Charlotte did not attempt to evade him. She took a moment to read it again, as though for the first time; then, giving a small gasp, and after only the briefest hesitation, placed the letter in his hands and allowed him to read it for himself.
After several moments, Mr Collins looked at her aghast. “Cousin Elizabeth is to marry Mr Darcy!” he cried. “It cannot be. No—Mr Darcy is engaged to Miss de Bourgh. Lady Catherine has spoken of the match on several occasions.”
“Mama writes that the rector in Meryton announced the wedding in church on Sunday. She does not mention the exact date, but it appears to be very soon.”
Charlotte knew that her mother had, in fact, named the day—though only in a smaller note enclosed within the letter—but she saw no advantage in sharing that particular detail.
Indeed, she was certain it was best that neither her husband nor Lady Catherine should know it, and had burnt the scrap of paper immediately upon reading it.
She had considered doing the same with the entire letter, and waiting for Mr Darcy to write himself, but was uncertain how such a choice might be received if her mother later spoke of it.
“I must go speak to Lady Catherine at once.”
“Perhaps it is some sort of mistake?” Charlotte suggested.
“It must be; but even if it is a mistake, Lady Catherine ought to know,” he said. “She will do what she can to ensure that such a falsehood is universally denied, taking whatever steps are required to protect both her nephew’s reputation and that of her daughter.”
He hurried away, leaving his breakfast half finished, and hastened towards Rosings to inform Lady Catherine of what he termed a “travesty,” muttering to himself in agitated disbelief.
Charlotte merely watched him go. There was nothing she could do to stop him; yet she could not but feel a quiet satisfaction that her friend was to be so well married. Perhaps Lady Catherine would recognise the futility of interference—and, in any case, it was already too late.
A small part of her wished she might witness the great lady’s comeuppance, and she smiled, just slightly, at the thought of seeing her ladyship so thoroughly discomfited.
At ten o’clock in the morning, Elizabeth arrived at the church on her father’s arm; shortly before eleven, she quitted it leaning upon her husband’s.
The register had been signed, the vows spoken, and Elizabeth Bennet was now Mrs Darcy.
In some ways, the transformation felt at once momentous and strangely quiet; the whole matter had been accomplished in a handful of words, and yet those words altered the course of her life entirely.
As they stepped from the church, a small crowd had gathered, eager to witness their departure.
Fitzwilliam drew her briefly into his arms and claimed a short kiss, heedless of the onlookers, before handing her into the carriage that awaited them.
By some means, he had secured an open carriage to convey them from the church to Longbourn for the wedding breakfast.
Once they were seated, he scattered the coins into the air in the customary fashion. The children from the village who had been waiting outside rushed forward at once, laughing and scrambling for the prize.
“Mrs Darcy,” he said quietly, as though testing the sound of it.
Elizabeth glanced at him, smiling. “You must not grow too fond of it, sir, or I shall expect you to use it always.”
Unable to resist, she turned to him with a look of mingled amusement and affection as the carriage set off.
The newly married couple arrived at Longbourn after the rest of the guests, their carriage having taken a circuitous route.
Elizabeth supposed the coachman had been instructed not to look back at them, or else her husband—how delightful it was to call him that—had decided it did not matter, at least on this day.
Upon entering the house, they were greeted by well-wishers from both her family and his. She spent several minutes speaking with Georgiana before turning to Colonel Fitzwilliam.
“Fitzwilliam told me he had written to you, but as of yesterday, when he left us, he had not heard from you,” Elizabeth said to the gentleman, who was dressed in civilian clothes.
She wondered whether her husband had warned him of her youngest sisters’ particular fondness for officers.
“I was never so surprised as I was when we signed the register and you handed me the pen.” Elizabeth laughed at herself.
“In truth, I scarcely knew who was present, other than Fitzwilliam, and of course, Mr Allen.”
“I thought it best to arrive before I was missed too much,” Colonel Fitzwilliam returned with a grin. “My letters from Darcy are always interesting, but I confess to some shock in reading this particular one. I hurried to Hertfordshire to ensure my cousin had not gone mad.”
Elizabeth laughed, but as her gaze settled on her husband, she perceived that he was not quite so sanguine at his cousin’s lightly mocking words. Softening her tone—but not entirely suppressing her amusement—she said,
“When my uncle first informed me that our journey must be curtailed, and that we should go no farther than Derbyshire this summer, I was quite put out to be denied the trip to the Lakes. I little suspected that Derbyshire itself would prove so… unexpectedly advantageous.”
Letting her attention drift to the colonel, she continued, a teasing note entering her voice once again, “Nor had I any idea that within a few weeks I should be married to the best man I have ever known, and destined to revisit it as the wife of the very best of men. And now—” her expression brightened as she glanced back at her husband—“I am to have the Lakes as well, for he means to take me there on our wedding trip. I find I have lost nothing after all.”
A quiet warmth passed between them as he met her glance, his countenance softened by unmistakable tenderness.
She had never seen him so entirely content, and there was a private satisfaction in knowing she had been the cause of it.
Her pleasure deepened as she recognised the look, her own happiness reflected in his face.
“And I,” he replied, his eyes fixed upon Elizabeth, and she suspected he was no longer attending in the least to his cousin, “had little expectation that, by riding ahead of my party to consult my steward on a matter of business, I should be afforded the opportunity to speak with Miss Elizabeth Bennet—or that, in doing so, I should prove so fortunate as to persuade her to become my wife.”
It seemed to Elizabeth that he might have kissed her then, as though he had quite forgotten where they were, but the approach of her father obliged him to forbear. She could not deny that the possibility had thrilled her, though she supposed it was just as well that he did not.
“Well, sir, you will take my daughter away from her home this day,” Mr Bennet said to Darcy, extending his hand with a look that retained a trace of his usual sardonic humour.
“I suppose I must resign her, although I cannot pretend it is done without some reluctance. Indeed, her leaving seems to herald the departure of most of the rest as well, and before long only Jane will remain at home.”
Fitzwilliam nodded his head in acknowledgement.
“You may rely upon me, sir, to make Elizabeth as happy as it is in my power to do. As for the others, I am glad that your resolution regarding Miss Lydia has been maintained, and that Miss Mary and Miss Kitty will have the advantage of proper instruction at their respective destinations. I cannot deny that my sister will benefit greatly from Miss Mary’s presence at Pemberley. ”
“Very well, sir,” Mr Bennet said, his gaze moving about the room as he accounted for his daughters, and Elizabeth, following it, realised that all but Lydia were present.
Lydia had complained loudly that morning about the gown she had been required to wear, refusing to put it on, and had been confined to her room as a consequence.
Elizabeth had wondered whether she might create a disturbance during the wedding breakfast, but, to her relief, she had remained quiet thus far.
“It seems that you will have your way in this as well. I have had a letter from the school you recommended, and Lydia has been accepted. When your carriage arrives on the morrow, we will begin the journey to Staffordshire. We should arrive by Saturday, and, after spending the Sabbath there, I will return.”
“Good,” Fitzwilliam said, and Elizabeth watched as her father drifted away after a few more words were exchanged.
Elizabeth and Fitzwilliam then made their way about the room, speaking with those in attendance.
When her husband drew out his watch and quietly informed her that it was noon, Elizabeth slipped upstairs to change into her travelling gown.
Mrs Gardiner joined her to assist, and they had just finished when Jane entered the room.
Jane hesitated a moment, as though uncertain of her welcome, before stepping forward.
“Lizzy,” she said, her hands twisting in front of her, “I hope that one day you will forgive me for foolishly believing anything Caroline Bingley said, and for ever doubting what I knew of you. Truly, I cannot account for it, but I ought not to have done so. I know that you are now married and will soon be gone, and I hope that, one day, you might invite me to Pemberley, and that we may be friends again.”
“Jane, I shall never cease to love you, but I was hurt by your disbelief,” Elizabeth said gently.
“Of course you will always be welcome at Pemberley, or any of my new homes, although we shall not return to Pemberley for some weeks yet. Still, let us not dwell on it today. This is a happy day, and I would have you happy for me.”
“I am, Lizzy,” Jane said, drawing her into an embrace. “Be happy. Your husband is a good man, and he appears to love you very much.”
“He does, Jane, and I love him just as dearly,” Elizabeth returned.
“I hope that one day you may be as happily married. In a few months—perhaps even next season—you must join me in London, and we shall introduce you to a number of worthy gentlemen who, I promise you, are not encumbered by disagreeable sisters.”
Elizabeth held Jane close for a moment before releasing her. There would be time enough, she hoped, to mend what had been strained between them.
When she descended the stairs once more, Fitzwilliam was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs.
He offered her his arm without a word, and she accepted it with quiet certainty of the path before her. After a few final words to the Gardiners, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and their sisters, they left the house—and with it, the last remnants of her former life.