2. The New Mrs. Darcy
CHAPTER TWO
THE NEW MRS. DARCY
Thursday dawned with a brilliance that seemed almost deliberately cheerful, the sort of April sky that made a man question its motives.
No gentleman required blue skies to conduct necessary business, yet Hertfordshire had arrayed itself in the sort of brilliance that ought to have been reserved for lovers and luncheons on the lawn.
Instead, Darcy stood beneath the water-stained ceiling of Bennet’s library, awaiting a bride who, by all rights, might have preferred him consigned to the nearest well.
Everything was in order, save for the bride.
He could hear the commotion upstairs and the servants running up and down.
The middle sister pounded on an out-of-tune pianoforte, turning a light sonatina into a dirge.
Mr. Bennet lay propped in his chair, eyes closed, breathing with a wet, labored rattle.
Darcy checked his pocket watch and unfolded the special license.
Mr. Blythewood, his attorney, stood by the window with the practiced blankness of a man paid never to observe a scandal; Mr. Philips, the Bennet solicitor, flipped through a pamphlet.
Mercifully, the stacks of damp books had been cleared, and the sunny weather ensured his vows would not be said to the rhythmic plop of water hitting a washbasin.
He placed the license beside the curate’s prayer book, nodding to the clergyman, who seemed to be praying for a swift conclusion.
“You will forgive me, Mr. Darcy,” Mr. Bennet murmured, eyes still shuttered. “I find I am saving my strength for the part where I weep with relief.”
What did Bennet expect his soon-to-be son to say to him?
He had already assured them of solvency.
The London physician had been summoned in due haste.
He was in no mood for jesting, and he doubted he could send off any daughter with the casual disregard Mr. Bennet seemed to demonstrate toward his offspring.
“Bennet, are you well?” Mr. Philips looked over solicitously.
“I am rather enjoying the spectacle,” Mr. Bennet replied. “I never expected any of my daughters to wed, and in such splendor. My library, my deathbed, and my daughter’s wedding, all in a hundred odd square feet. There is an economy in it I cannot help but admire.”
Darcy inclined his head and said nothing, for any reply would only dignify Bennet’s irreverence.
However peculiar the circumstances, this remained a marriage, and Elizabeth had offered herself with a generosity he had not foreseen.
The same Elizabeth, who had once refused the heir of Longbourn with such arch independence, now stood prepared to bind herself for the sake of a motherless child and her family’s uncertain future.
He looked toward the door, and it opened to the sound of rustling muslin.
Elizabeth entered, and Darcy’s breath caught despite his resolve. She met his gaze resolutely, like he knew she would. Her steps were steady, and other than the color in her cheeks, a very light tinge, she was as composed as he had expected, and maybe more than he would have desired.
Her pale gown, though worn, had been redeemed by new lace at the throat and a ribbon of woven silk beneath the bosom.
Jane hovered at her side, brow furrowed, her anxious gaze flitting from Darcy to her father to the curate.
She appeared unwell, and he wondered, perhaps uncharitably, how she would have responded had he chosen her.
As it was, Elizabeth had appeared, and he bowed to her as her mother and sisters crowded into the room, all dressed in their Sunday finery.
“Mr. Darcy?” The curate consulted his prayer book. “If you are ready, sir.”
Taking her hand, which trembled, he and Elizabeth recited the words that had bound Englishmen and women together for centuries. He promised to love and cherish her, all the while suspecting himself a fraud before God and the assembled Bennets.
Perhaps she, too, was guilty. Her responses rang out, steady and clear, for all the room to hear: I will; to love, honor, and obey.
He had spent the preceding autumn watching her refuse to be docile for anyone.
The smooth ease of her vows did not fit the woman he knew.
She turned her head while the curate searched for the ring, caught him staring, and arched one brow—a silent inquiry as to why he found the transaction he had dictated so absorbing.
There she was—his Elizabeth, ever the observer of irony, with no patience for the absurd as the curate, in tones fit for a cathedral, pronounced them Mr. and Mrs. Darcy.
The rings were exchanged, the deed accomplished, and not a kiss to mark the occasion.
Elizabeth did not look at him but crossed the room to her father’s chair and knelt, her face level with his.
“Well, Papa, you see what comes of leaving your investments to chance. Your least manageable daughter married before noon, with not so much as a wedding breakfast to show for it. I hope you are ashamed of yourself.”
“Bitterly,” her father replied.
“You are not to take advantage of my absence,” she said, her voice light, though the slight tremor beneath the words betrayed her.
“I shall write you a great quantity of impertinent letters, and you are to answer every one. You are most particularly forbidden to die while I am in Derbyshire. I should never forgive the discourtesy.”
“I shall do my best to be inconvenient,” Mr. Bennet said, “and live.”
She kissed his forehead—a small, swift thing—and Darcy looked away toward the window and that insolent blue sky, wishing he had not seen it.
Then she turned to her mother, and Darcy found himself wishing the sky would cloud over entirely.
Everyone in Meryton found Mrs. Bennet a trial, and indeed, Darcy himself had remarked to Bingley about the cost, should he find himself married to Jane.
It had been a constant irritant, and here Elizabeth was, taking both of her mother’s hands in hers, speaking to her in a low, calming voice, reassuring her flighty mother, while Mrs. Bennet nodded like a child being told that the dark held nothing to fear.
The curate placed the special license on the desk and dipped the quill. Darcy signed, the solicitors signed, and the curate signed. All that remained was Elizabeth’s signature.
But Elizabeth would not be hurried from her sisters, who crowded around her, clamoring for invitations, visits, balls, and letters.
The younger girls enveloped her in a flurry of embraces, and then Jane Bennet came and held her sister tightly, as if she did not wish to release her.
Over Elizabeth’s shoulder, Darcy saw the elder sister’s lips move, close at her ear, three or four words, no more—and saw Elizabeth grow very still.
When they parted, neither would meet the other’s gaze.
Mrs. Bennet announced they would all descend upon Pemberley before the leaves fell, and, for once, no one dared contradict her.
The curate reminded Elizabeth that she must sign the registry, and Darcy watched as she dipped the quill and wrote her name for the very last time as Elizabeth Rose Bennet.
It was later than he liked. If they were to reach the first change of horses by dinner, they could not stand about being wept over indefinitely.
Four days to Derbyshire; he had written ahead for fires and hot bricks at every halt, for the spring nights ran cold in the north, and she was not used to such travel.
He had attended to all of it because he was a man who attended to those who were valuable to him.
He returned the watch to his pocket and offered his wife his arm, and she took it.
“Mrs. Darcy,” said the curate, trying out the new name, and Elizabeth’s fingers tightened on Darcy’s arm a fraction, there and gone.
He wasn’t sure why her touch was gratifying as he thanked the curate and led his new wife from the library, marveling at how easily he had obtained her, and how little he knew what to do with his prize.
Her family stood at the door, waving to see her out.
Elizabeth kissed her mother once more and promised with a brightness that did not deceive Darcy that she was the most fortunate of women, and they should none of them want for anything ever again.
Then she stepped toward the carriage without looking back.
Darcy handed her in and followed, the footman shutting the door.
She sat very straight, her gaze fixed on the window as the carriage moved. The fine day slid by, hedgerows greening and the indecent sunshine following them as if determined to remind her of what she was leaving behind.
Darcy looked out his own window, away from her. He reminded himself of the boy, and of the woman now in the ground who had taught him the price of feeling too much. He would be a good husband; he would be generous, faithful, and just. But he would not give her the one thing that could be withheld.
She would be a good mother to the boy, and that was more than he had any right to ask.