He glanced through the open entrance door to the carriage which would convey him and Bingley to Longbourn’s chapel. The horses pawed impatiently. Darcy resumed pacing.
After another turn about the hall, he paused by the doors. Pulling out the ring he had selected especially for Elizabeth, he held it up to the morning sun, appreciating how the light gleamed crimson reflections off the polished garnets. Five glistening, red gemstones shaped into a forget-me-not encased with goldstretching around the band symbolized everything he had already promised in his heart to give Elizabeth: faithfulness, dependability, constancy, love, his very self.
He had fallen in love with her despite his best efforts to the contrary. Despite her better judgment, he thought with a chuckle. How proud he had been — insulting her, leaving her vulnerable to others’ self-serving lies, and demeaning everyone she held dear in a madcap declaration of his undying love. Of course, he had expected her to throw herself at his feet, grateful he would condescend to make an offer for her when he had so graciously overcome all the obstacles he had taken pains to enumerate. What a fool he had been.
Thank goodness their worst troubles were in the past, the valuable lessons learned and applied. It was easy — even for Darcy — to laugh at their faults now.
He had won Elizabeth’s heart, and he would cherish it all the more, knowing she gave her his hand in full understanding of his weaknesses (of which she was foremost). While Darcy was tempted to believe his lessons learned and his pride conquered, his character was too firmly formed to believe such deeply ingrained tendencies entirely subjugated. But he would always exert himself for Elizabeth.
He loved her so much. She demanded as much from him as he demanded from others, forcing him to soften his expectations and leaving more place in his heart for her. Would that she remained the same always.
Tucking the ring back into his pocket, he glanced again at his pocket watch.
Two minutes passed. With a grimace, he resumed his pacing.
Were it up to him, he would have applied for a common license and married Elizabeth weeks ago in a small, private ceremony. However, Elizabeth’s eyes had sparkled like flutes of champagne when Bingley had suggested a double wedding. Blast Bingley.
Darcy was not so cruel as to separate Elizabeth from her family before she was ready, and so he had been forced to develop patience as he waited for the banns to be read, contenting himself that he would not have to share her once they were wed. He had dutifully informed his family, his invitation lackluster in an attempt to discourage them from attending for that very reason. Otherwise, his relatives (except for his aunt Catherine) would descend on them and he would have to share Elizabeth, and he had waited long enough. Surely, a gentleman ought not be deprived of his wife after the ceremony and the wedding breakfast.
Soon, this same morning, he would give his name to Elizabeth. Mrs. Elizabeth Darcy. He would swear before God, her family, and friends that he would never part from her side from that day forward. He would love her and cherish her so long as they both lived. The blessed day had finally arrived, and Darcy was impatient to begin his life with the woman he adored.
He checked his pocket watch again and groaned. Ten minutes. The longest ten minutes of his life.
CHAPTER 3
George Wickham grimaced at his wife, as he often did. Why did she have to be so loud?
“Good morning, Lucas!” she exclaimed, her voice carrying across the square. Extracting her handkerchief, in case she had not drawn enough attention since they had descended from the coach at Meryton, she waved the white linen frantically at the gentleman whose name she had squealed.
The young lady with Mr. Lucas gripped him by the elbow and pulled him inside the haberdasher’s shop, pretending not to have heard the excited cries of Lydia Wickham.
Wickham imitated the lady’s example, gripped his wife’s arm, and tugged her along with him. “Come, Lydia, we do not have much time.”
She whined, “I do not understand why you cannot stay longer, George.” She ran her hand over her stomach.She was probably hungry. Again. She was always hungry.
Wickham’s own stomach churned. Would that he had never set eyes on Lydia Bennet.
Pouting out her bottom lip, she looked up through her eyelashes at him. “Why do you not stay with me, George? Surely, the regiment will understand.”
Releasing his clenched jaw, careful to soften his voice, Wickham said, “It pains me greatly, my love, but I am not one to doubt the wisdom of your doctor, and his suggestions for your nerves run contrary to the demands put upon me as an officer. I have leave long enough only to see you safely to your family and to return to my post.”
Her bottom lip protruded further.
Before she grated on his nerves and he, as a consequence, did something he might later regret, he held up his hand to prevent his wife from speaking. “The doctor insisted you must be in a calm setting, somewhere with fresh, country air. You know as well as I do that the miasma at the barracks is not suitable for your agitated nerves, nor is the company we must keep suitable to your needs.” He stopped walking, took her hands in his, and peered into her petulant eyes. Gently, he said, “I am only concerned for your welfare, my love. A brief spell with your family at quiet Longbourn will soon set you right, and by then, my regiment will be reassigned away from the factories and smoke. I have it on good authority we are headed to the coastnext.” He had heard no such thing, but he would do anything to appease Lydia and make his departure easier. “Salty breezes and all the sea bathing you could wish for. What think you of that, my love?”
The peevishness pinching her face weakened at the mention of the pleasures awaiting her. She wrapped her arm around his, holding him tightly. Possessively. It was all Wickham could do not to recoil.
Just a few minutes more.
“Of course, George, I ought to have known. You are always so good to me. It is only that I have not been apart from you since we were wed, and I cannot bear the thought of being separated for any length of time.”
He resumed walking along the road to Longbourn, leaving Lydia no choice but to stumble along beside him. She did not loosen her hold on his arm, though his pace was brisk. They were near Longbourn.
An approaching carriage set his heart racing. It could not yet be the cart he had arranged to convey her luggage to Longbourn. Slowly, as though he had not a care in the world, he glanced over his shoulder to see who it was and instantly relaxed. Just a farmer driving his cart. He raised his hand in greeting, ensuring the man a good look of his face. He needed to be seen, just not by the wrong people. He prayed all of them were at the wedding by now.
“You walk too fast, George.”
He snapped. “I would walk faster if you did not slow me down.”
