If Mrs. Bennet’s manners were not so often agitated, Darcy would have discredited her explanation that instant. He looked over his shoulder where Bingley stood beside the vicar.
The clergyman nodded. “It is early yet. There is sufficient time to perform the ceremony.”
Darcy ought to join Bingley, but he was nearer the entrance doors. He just needed to see Elizabeth. One look to allay the dread churning in his stomach.
Miss Bingley’s sharp whisper to her sister, Mrs. Hurst, reached Darcy in the aisle where he stood directly beside them. “Perhaps Miss Eliza had a change of heart.”
Darcy’s jaw clenched. He did not envy Miss Bennet her sisters-in-law. He had hoped they would not be present, but it appeared that Miss Bingley would holdout hope until there was no more to be had, and Mrs. Hurst would encourage her.
Mrs. Hurst mumbled, “She is as flighty as Mrs. Wickham.”
He forced his shoulders to relax and exhaled slowly. He was marrying the woman he loved — Elizabeth — and that was that. She was worth the attachment he would have to endure. Yes, Wickham would be his brother, but nothing of value ever came without a cost, and Elizabeth was as precious as Wickham was worthless.
Darcy grimaced at the memory. He had had to drag that ingrate to his London parish with a common license and, with the girl’s uncle also serving as a witness, stand behind Wickham until their inked signatures dried in the register.
One disaster averted and effectively patched over. The Bennets’ reputation saved.
The smile on Elizabeth’s face, the tenderness with which she had regarded Darcy from that moment on had made his exertions worth the sacrifice. It went beyond gratitude, beyond obligation. Elizabeth was too strong-willed, her mind too firm, to agree to marry him for anything less than the deepest love. Miss Bingley’s spite was borne from jealousy.
Mrs. Bennet looked over her shoulder at the doors closed behind her, then back at him. She occupied all the space she possibly could in the middle of the aisle, preventing him from taking another step forward. Sheprobably feared he would bolt at the first hint of complication, that if she blinked or breathed wrong, her house of cards would collapse.
Darcy could have reassured her, but he had not yet learned how to converse with the matron without provoking her nerves or his impatience. He would learn, but today his aim was to marry Elizabeth, and every second that ticked by without her beside him was a second wasted. He stepped forward, but Mrs. Bennet refused to budge.
“Mr. Darcy, you cannot see the bride before the wedding! It is not done!”
A foolish custom if ever there was one.
She shoved his arm, pushing him away. “Now, you go and stand by Mr. Bingley, and allow me to see to Lizzy’s gown. Just a few more minutes is all we require.”
He was tempted to pick his soon-to-be mother-in-law up and move her out of his way, but he did not suppose that would foster good feeling between them. Elizabeth had teased him for his skeptical tendency. And so, he followed the direction of Mrs. Bennet’s nudges back down the length of the aisle and resumed his place beside Bingley, ignoring his misgivings.
CHAPTER 7
Elizabeth blinked, her vision blurred. Voices echoed through a hazy fog. A face loomed in front of her, and she recognized the pungent scent of her father’s pipe tobacco.
“Lizzy? Lizzy, wake up, dear girl.”
What had happened? Elizabeth tried to speak, but her words stuck together, escaping in a moan. She tried to sit up, but her limbs did not respond.
She felt her father slip his arm under her head and, very gently, he helped her to sit.
Elizabeth’s heartbeat pulsated, pounding up to her skull. She winced against the brightness of the sun. Pressing her fingers against her temple, she winced when they met with tender, rising flesh.
An injury. Had she hit her head? How?
Papa sat beside her, his arm wrapped around her shoulders, holding her to him on a grassy knoll on theside of the road. The carriage sat twisted and unmoving on the lane, the axle on the side of the coach where Elizabeth sat broken and littered over the compact dirt.
The evidence was before her — they had been in a carriage accident — but she could not connect the pieces. “What happened?” she asked.
Her father held up his hand, tucking his fingers into his palm. “How many do you see?”
She gave him a face. “Three.”
“What is your name?” he pressed.
She humored him with a reply. “Elizabeth Bennet.”
“What is my name?”
