Elizabeth’s heart jumped into her throat, smothering her cry.
Papa leaned toward the window, reaching to lower the glass.
A deafening crack pierced the air, and before the echo throbbing in Elizabeth’s ears quieted, she was thrust to the side, her father’s shout the last sound she heard before blackness overcame her.
CHAPTER 5
Mother whacked her cane against the roof of the carriage, and Anne de Bourgh retreated deeper into her corner. She wished she could disappear. Wished she were somewhere else. Wished she were someone else.
“Do not dawdle! We must not be late,” her mother commanded.
Anne had no doubt the coachman heard her demands over the beat and jingle of the horses in their harness and the rumble of the shaking carriage. She heard the snap of his whip with his shouts, urging them onward.
She wished they would arrive too late, then nothing could be done.
Mother said she would never forgive Darcy for marrying another when he had been promised to Annesince birth. But Anne had never held any particular regard for her cousin and, therefore, had no desire to marry him for any reason other than to satisfy her mother.
Resting her head against the cushion, Anne closed her eyes and inhaled through her nose slowly, exhaling out her mouth, to control the nausea. Her mother would be unwilling to stop. Any delay would only add to her ill-humor. Mother was always in an ill-humor of late. More so than normal.
Anne wished she were at Rosings, at the bend in the stream beyond the grove where the water pooled and warmed and where she had watched tadpoles darting about with Patrick.
Her heart stirred the way it always did when she remembered those days. Days when her father was still alive and Patrick’s mother was charged with Anne’s care. Happier days.
Father had allowed Anne to play out of doors, had encouraged it. And Mrs. Gibbs had charged her youngest son, the youngest of her brood of ten and who was only a few years older than Anne, to ensure she did not come to any harm or get into too much mischief. Anne frowned. Nobody looking at her now would believe how she would turn up in the Rosings kitchen, her feet muddy, her dress torn, and her hair disheveled. Her father would pinch her chin and smile at her. “Did my little girl have an adventure today?” he would ask, and she delighted in reliving herexplorations and discoveries to eager ears while Cook and her assistant made her more presentable.
Patrick had shown her the joys of tying her skirts around her legs and taking off her shoes to wiggle her toes in the bed of the stream. To sit with her back facing the sun, letting it warm her through. Laying in sweet fields of freshly cut grass. Weaving crowns of daisies. Anne had worn the crowns he made her with pride, feeling every inch the princess. Papa had said she looked charming, beautiful. Mother had made her toss her crown into the fireplace. For days after, she blamed every insect daring enough to enter the house on Anne.
Where was Patrick now? Or, rather, Mr. Gibbs as she must think of him. Had he made his fortune? Was he married, with several children of his own? Anne’s heart squeezed, but she smiled despite the ache. Patrick would make an excellent father. He had been so patient with her, tracking ladybirds through the garden and making wishes on dandelions.
Her mother snorted angrily, waking Mrs. Jenkinson who had the remarkable ability to sleep in jostling, tumultuous conveyances.
Anne pulled open the shade.
“You will ruin your complexion,” her mother said, pulling the shade down.
Retreating into the pleasanter memories in the recesses of her mind, Anne pretended she lay in the grass gazing up at the puffy clouds changing shapes. The only enjoyment she was allowed now was herpony and cart. She lived for her daily drive. Papa had planned to teach her, but it was Patrick who had taken on the task after her father had died. He had taught her how to brush the horses after their exertion, a chore in which Anne indulged when her mother would not notice. The groomsman kept her secret.
What would Patrick and Papa think of the woman she had become? Pale, frail, excessively meek.
Anne swallowed hard, tears swelling behind her eyelids.
Mother thwacked the top of the carriage again.
Again, Anne prayed they would arrive too late.
CHAPTER 6
Darcy looked down the length of the aisle, holding his breath and willing the doors to open, allowing him a glimpse of his bride. From that day forth, he never meant to part from her.
But the Bennets were late.
He pulled the forget-me-not wedding ring out of his pocket, the whispers fading as he focused on the fastenings gripping the gemstones. The pews were packed with Elizabeth’s family and friends, Longbourn’s tenants, several of Bingley’s intimate acquaintances… Even Mr. Collins was present where Elizabeth was not.
While other brides had been known to increase the suspense of the occasion by appearing late, Elizabeth was neither so vain nor cruel. Some obstacle must have delayed her, some accident befallen her or one of her party.
With a nod at the vicar, Darcy stepped down the aisle, intent on resolving the evil keeping his Elizabeth from his side.
The door creaked open, and Mrs. Bennet scrambled to meet him. Her eyes squinted, her face flushed, and her general manner flustered. Addressing him as much as the assembled waiting, she smiled and said, “Our apologies for the delay. One of the brides has torn her gown, and it must be repaired before the service. We thank you for your presence on this glorious, blessed day … and your patience. Pray allow us a few minutes more.”
