For a moment, Mrs Bennet merely looked about the nearly empty room, as though taking stock of what remained undone. Then she drew in a breath and began.
What followed Elizabeth could not have repeated with any certainty. There had been much said of duty—of propriety, of obligation, of what was owed to family and to society; several mentions of an heir—and Elizabeth, recognising the familiar cadence of the lecture, quickly resolved not to attend to it too closely. She nodded, she believed, in theproper places, and offered what responses were required of her, but for the most part allowed the words to pass over her without engaging with them.
At last, her mother concluded her speech—appearing nearly as ill at ease as Elizabeth herself—and quitted the room. Only a few minutes later, another knock sounded at the door, and her Aunt Gardiner was admitted.
“If you have come to speak to me about my duty as a wife, then Mama has already done so,” Elizabeth said, with deliberate composure and a hint of amusement. “But if your advice is likely to be more useful than bidding me lie still and pray he finishes quickly, I should be very glad to hear it.”
Mrs Gardiner laughed lightly at that, shaking her head. “Yes, what I have to say is somewhat more detailed than that. I shall not tell you everything—you and Mr Darcy must discover some things for yourselves—but I will say that there is pleasure to be found for both husband and wife in the marriage bed. Do not fear it, and allow your husband to guide you, at least at first.”
Elizabeth nodded, uncertain how best to reply. Her aunt spoke a while longer, and though Elizabeth did not answer much, she found that her words inspired far more confidence than her mother’s had done, had she listened to them.
Before long, her aunt took her leave, and Elizabeth was once again alone. Once, she might have expected Jane to remain with her on the night before her wedding, but that comfort had not been hers.
The memory of last night faded.
Elizabeth drew a quiet breath, her gaze lifting to the soft morning light as the present returned to her. In only a few short hours, she would be married to Fitzwilliam Darcy. It was astonishing, in many ways, how events had unfolded; she could not have imagined it the previous April, and yet, before long, she would be his wife.
Setting aside the unease of the previous evening, she rose and began to prepare for the day—her wedding day.
Far away in Hunsford,Charlotte Collins read a letter for the second time.
It had arrived the previous day, sent by her mother, and—most fortunately—her husband had been absent when it came. She had read it then in private, and taken care to keep it to herself, though she knew such a secret could not be maintained for long.
She had waited until the following morning to produce it openly—until her husband was at home, and until the hour by which the wedding in Hertfordshire must surely be over, and any attempt at interruption rendered useless.
When the morning post was brought in as they sat at breakfast, Mr Collins, observing a letter in her mother’s hand among the rest, immediately enquired after its contents.
Charlotte did not attempt to evade him. She took a moment to read it again, as though for the first time; then, giving a small gasp, and after only the briefest hesitation, placed the letter in his hands and allowed him to read it for himself.
After several moments, Mr Collins looked at her aghast. “Cousin Elizabeth is to marry Mr Darcy!” he cried. “It cannot be. No—Mr Darcy is engaged to Miss de Bourgh. Lady Catherine has spoken of the match on several occasions.”
“Mama writes that the rector in Meryton announced the wedding in church on Sunday. She does not mention the exact date, but it appears to be very soon.”
Charlotte knew that her mother had, in fact, named the day—though only in a smaller note enclosed within the letter—but she saw no advantage in sharing that particular detail. Indeed, she was certain it was best that neither her husband nor Lady Catherine should know it, and hadburnt the scrap of paper immediately upon reading it. She had considered doing the same with the entire letter, and waiting for Mr Darcy to write himself, but was uncertain how such a choice might be received if her mother later spoke of it.
“I must go speak to Lady Catherine at once.”
“Perhaps it is some sort of mistake?” Charlotte suggested.
“It must be; but even if it is a mistake, Lady Catherine ought to know,” he said. “She will do what she can to ensure that such a falsehood is universally denied, taking whatever steps are required to protect both her nephew’s reputation and that of her daughter.”
He hurried away, leaving his breakfast half finished, and hastened towards Rosings to inform Lady Catherine of what he termed a “travesty,” muttering to himself in agitated disbelief.
Charlotte merely watched him go. There was nothing she could do to stop him; yet she could not but feel a quiet satisfaction that her friend was to be so well married. Perhaps Lady Catherine would recognise the futility of interference—and, in any case, it was already too late.
A small part of her wished she might witness the great lady’s comeuppance, and she smiled, just slightly, at the thought of seeing her ladyship so thoroughly discomfited.
At ten o’clockin the morning, Elizabeth arrived at the church on her father’s arm; shortly before eleven, she quitted it leaning upon her husband’s. The register had been signed, the vows spoken, and Elizabeth Bennet was now Mrs Darcy. In some ways, the transformation felt at once momentous and strangely quiet; the whole matter had been accomplished in a handful of words, and yet those words altered the course of her life entirely.
As they stepped from the church, a small crowd had gathered, eager to witness their departure. Fitzwilliam drew her briefly into his arms and claimed a short kiss, heedless of the onlookers, before handing her intothe carriage that awaited them. By some means, he had secured an open carriage to convey them from the church to Longbourn for the wedding breakfast.
Once they were seated, he scattered the coins into the air in the customary fashion. The children from the village who had been waiting outside rushed forward at once, laughing and scrambling for the prize.
“Mrs Darcy,” he said quietly, as though testing the sound of it.
Elizabeth glanced at him, smiling. “You must not grow too fond of it, sir, or I shall expect you to use it always.”
Unable to resist, she turned to him with a look of mingled amusement and affection as the carriage set off.
