CHAPTER FIFTY
Two Brides Leave Netherfield
Near sunset, the carriages were brought around.
Jane and Bingley would remain at Netherfield after a short journey to the coast. Elizabeth and Darcy would leave for London the following morning, but they would spend the wedding night at a small estate house belonging to the Matlocks less than an hour away, giving both couples some privacy from a household still full of relations.
Mrs. Bennet had cried herself into exhaustion. She stood in the entrance hall holding Jane’s hands. “You will come tomorrow before you leave?”
“Yes, Mama.”
“And write from the coast?”
“Yes.”
“And Charles, you will make sure she does not take cold.”
Bingley answered solemnly, “I will guard her from every breeze.”
Jane smiled.
Mrs. Bennet turned to Elizabeth. “Derbyshire is colder.”
“Mama.”
“It is north.”
“I have coats.”
“Not enough.”
Darcy said, “Pemberley has fires, Mrs. Bennet.”
She looked at him. “See that it does.”
“Yes, madam.”
Elizabeth laughed. Mr. Bennet embraced Jane first.
Then Elizabeth. This time he did not joke. “Write to me.”
“I will.”
“Not only to your mother.”
“I know.”
“Tell me what you are reading.”
“Yes.”
“And whether Pemberley’s library is truly as fine as he claims.”
Darcy, behind her, said, “It is.”
Mr. Bennet looked past Elizabeth. “I shall judge for myself.”
“You will be welcome.” Elizabeth drew back from her father.
His eyes were wet.
She kissed his cheek. “Thank you, Papa.”
“For what?”
“For letting me decide.”
Mr. Bennet looked at Darcy. “I am glad you decided as you did.”
“So am I.”
The younger sisters came next. Mary hugged Elizabeth carefully, then Jane.
Kitty cried without restraint. Lydia cried and talked at the same time. “La, Lizzy, you must write everything about Pemberley, and Georgiana says there is a pond, and if you do not invite me by summer I shall come anyway, and Jane, I shall be at Netherfield constantly, so you cannot miss me—”
“An excellent threat,” Bingley said.
Lydia hugged him too. Then she went to Darcy. For one second both looked uncertain. Lydia solved it by throwing her arms around him. Darcy staggered half a step.
“Leg!” Elizabeth cried.
“Oh!” Lydia released him. “I forgot.”
“I noticed.”
“Did I hurt you?”
“No.”
She looked up at him. “You kept the fox?”
“Yes.”
“Truly?”
“It is in my luggage.”
Lydia beamed. Darcy touched her shoulder. “Write to Georgiana.”
“I will.”
“And listen to your father.”
Her face fell.
“And your mother.”
“Must I?”
“Yes.”
“La, marriage has made you bossier.”
Elizabeth said, “That was not marriage.”
Everyone laughed. Outside, the late sun gilded the wet road. The first carriage belonged to Bingley. He handed Jane in, then turned to wave at the crowd before climbing after her. Caroline stood near the steps.
Jane leaned toward the open carriage window. “Goodbye, Caroline.”
Caroline stepped closer. “Goodbye, Jane.”
A small pause. Then Caroline added, “Sister.”
Jane’s smile warmed. The carriage rolled away beneath another shower of petals Lydia had apparently hidden for the purpose. Bingley leaned out the window laughing. Jane pulled him back by the coat.
Then it was Darcy and Elizabeth.
He offered his hand.
She took it. Before stepping into the carriage, Elizabeth looked back at Longbourn’s gathered family—at Mrs. Bennet waving a handkerchief, Mr. Bennet standing with one hand on her shoulder, Jane’s carriage disappearing down the drive, her sisters clustered together, the Matlocks beside Georgiana and Richard.
Everything had changed.
Nothing had been erased.
She climbed in.
Darcy followed.
The door closed. For a moment neither spoke. The carriage began to move. Elizabeth looked at her husband.
“Husband,” she said experimentally.
Darcy’s expression softened. “Wife.”
“That is very strange.”
“Yes.”
“Do you regret it?”
“Ask me when you have criticized Pemberley’s library.”
“I intend to begin immediately.”
“I know.”
She smiled.
Darcy took her hand.
After a moment he said, “There is something I have never understood.”
“That narrows nothing.”
“In the lane.”
Elizabeth groaned. “Must we revisit it on our wedding day?”
“You said yes.”
“To stop you moving.”
“I know that now. But why did you stay beside me when the wagon came? You could have walked back to Longbourn.”
Elizabeth considered. “Your hand was cold.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is.”
He waited.
She sighed. “You were frightened.”
Darcy went still.
“You tried not to show it,” she continued. “You were proud even half-dead. But every time the wagon moved, you held my hand harder.”
“I do not remember.”
“I do.”
Darcy looked down at their joined hands. Elizabeth’s voice softened. “I did not like you then. Not much. But I could not leave you frightened and alone merely because you had insulted me at an assembly.”
He lifted her hand to his lips. “That,” he said, “is when I should have known you would ruin me.”
“Improve you.”
“Debatable.”
She laughed. The carriage turned from the main drive onto the narrow road beyond Netherfield. A movement in the hedge caught Elizabeth’s eye. A fox stepped briefly into the field.
She sat forward. “What is it?” Darcy asked.
She pointed. The fox stood in the winter grass, red against brown earth, watching the carriage pass.
Darcy saw it. They looked at each other.
Elizabeth began to laugh.
Darcy did too. The fox vanished into the hedge.
“Still unlucky?” Elizabeth asked.
Darcy brought her hand to his mouth again. “No.”
Outside, bells from Meryton carried faintly across the fields, celebrating two marriages made possible by choices both wise and foolish, by truth spoken late, by pride bent rather than broken, and by one frightened horse on a muddy Hertfordshire lane.
Inside the carriage, Elizabeth Bennet Darcy leaned against her husband’s shoulder. Fitzwilliam Darcy rested his cheek against her hair. Neither of them knew what arguments, joys, mistakes, children, losses, journeys, and ordinary mornings waited beyond that road.
For once, they did not need to know.
They had learned enough to begin.