Page 76 of Elizabeth and Mrs. Bennet

“The question is not that they are forbidden to marry, but whether such a marriage would be annulled by the ecclesiastical court because of affinity; that is, that they have the same kindred.

I began sobbing, my head leaning into Fitzwilliam. Gently, he stroked my hair.

“Ahem,” Mr. Philips paused while I restored some semblance of decorum. “Being a mere country solicitor, I wrote to a colleague, Mr. Chaffers, in London, who specialises in such law. I received, only this morning, his reply.”

The chapel went exceedingly quiet; even I stilled my sobs to listen to Mr. Chaffers’s words. “He writes that the law treats marriage as a civil contract. Notwithstanding the opinion of the church, the jurist Blackstone says a marriage is good and valid, at the time of making, if the couple were willing to contract, able to contract, and did contract in the proper forms required by law.”

“So, whatever does he mean? I read Blackstone’s Commentaries at Cambridge—never understood the man!” Lord Matlock glared at Mr. Philips, who waved away the earl’s interruption.

“All in good time, my lord. Where was I? If Elizabeth and Darcy were to marry before their parents, then their marriage would stand, in spite of their becoming brother and sister. At the time of contract, there would be no impediment—its validity determined at the moment they say their vows. Therefore, under civil law, their marriage remains valid. Furthermore, on the same grounds, the ecclesiastical courts would not entertain a suit for nullity.”

He chuckled, a rare thing for my uncle. “It would seem, in the church’s view, that the sin of fornication—which is the case when a consummated marriage is annulled—is more abhorrent than the sin of affinity.”

I felt Darcy’s warmth; I blushed, thinking of his body pressed against mine. Hope flared—then died. Surely, the ceremony must continue once Mr. Smythe had determined there was no lawful cause preventing Mama’s and George Darcy’s marriage? While cause enough, our love—Fitzwilliam’s love—was insufficient to stay the ceremony.

“Mr. Smythe, would you agree to a slight pause?” Mr. Darcy gave Mama’s hand a squeeze. “I understand, sir, that you baptised Miss Bennet. Do you recall her full name?”

“Of course, Elizabeth Frances Bennet. Why so?”

“I have a habit of taking two copies of any document—in case one is lost. I asked the clerk of the Bishop to make another full copy of the common licence. It seems, however, he made an error.”

Mr. Darcy retrieved a carefully folded paper from his pocket, impressed with the episcopal seal. He handed the document to Mr. Smythe.

“You see, sir, it has been made out to Frances Bennet and George Darcy, being the legal names of Elizabeth Frances Bennet and Fitzwilliam George Darcy—though, as I said, by some mischance, he made a slight clerical error, writing only one of their Christian names on the licence. But, you must agree, it is a duly attested licence for their marriage.”

Mr. Smythe chuckled, carefully scrutinising the wording and seal. “Quite in order, Mr. Darcy. Perhaps, my lord, for the avoidance of doubt, you could also verify the names and seal?”

He gave the licence to Lord Matlock, who smirked. “All is as it should be. Lady Matlock and I will stand as witness.”

I had never swooned in my life—if tumbling down Scawfell Pike was not swooning—merely Newtonian Mechanicks. Darcy caught me before I fell onto the stone floor; his hands about my waist, lifting me to my feet.

Mama grasped my arms. “Oh, Elizabeth, you silly, silly girl; you should have told me.”

“No, Mama, I couldn’t spoil your happiness—George Darcy is a fine man. Almost as lovely as my Fitzwilliam.”

We swapped places. She stood up with me, and George Darcy with his son, Fitzwilliam. Mr. Smythe began anew the wedding ceremony, and in less time than I had thought possible, Fitzwilliam and I were married. We were careful to record not just the date of our marriage in the registry, but also the time: five minutes after eleven o’clock—Mama and Mr. Darcy were married just fifteen minutes later.

A cheer went up when Mrs. and Mr. Darcy stepped from the church into the lane. Was it for Frances and George Darcy, or for Fitzwilliam and me? Waiting for us were the villagers, cottagers, tenants, and all our dear friends from Meryton. They had come to celebrate one wedding, and discovered two.

I heard Lydia giggling, skipping ahead with Kitty. Mary took my hand. ‘I’m so happy for you, Lizzy. Fitzwilliam is so very, very beautiful—how could I ever have thought him merely comely?’

* * *

Chapter 30

Darcy House

The library of Darcy House held a copy of Johnson’s Dictionary—I had been mothered, sistered, and brothered—but there was no word that fully described the myriad of attentions I received from my husband, my dearest Fitzwilliam. From the moment we stepped into the carriage—the beginning of our life together—there was not a single thing about him I would wish to change—even his teasing, certainly not his flattery.

The wedding breakfast at Netherfield Park was all excited chatter and the beginnings of gossip that would spread from Meryton like the ripples on a pond. How was it, our neighbours asked, that Elizabeth Bennet had married Fitzwilliam Darcy, when the wedding was for Frances Bennet and George Darcy? The story was told so many times that by its conclusion it was agreed that Darcy had broken down the chapel door, carried me over his shoulder, and demanded that we be married—that he would not release me until it was done! Oh the poor man, the snide looks and smirks he received. But, as always, he would smile his secret smile, take my hand in his, and give me an ever-so-proper kiss on the cheek.

Some thought the better scandal was that I was his sister, though acknowledged that we were so only through affinity, not by blood. But salaciousness was never wont to verify fact—yet I saw more than one person surreptitiously consult the Table of Kindred and Affinity in the Book of Common Prayer to determine whether marriage of step-siblings was prohibited. Some compared our marriage to that of the almost-siblings, Emma and Mr. Knightley, in the recently published book by A Lady; others, of a more prurient mind, to Lord Byron’s incestuous relationship with his half-sister.

I hugged Mama, Jane hugged me, Aunt Madelaine wept tears of joy, Aunt Hattie was ecstatic, and Uncle Philips took me aside, telling me that ever since I had revealed my love for Fitzwilliam, he had spent countless nights searching through his law books to find a way so that both I and my mother could marry.

“Oh, you are the best of uncles!” I cried and laughed, and hugged the poor man, who blushed and turned pink with embarrassment.

“Only for you, my dear,” he replied. “For without your assistance, I’m sure the wallpaper in the parlour would be peonies and twisting vines, rather than the restful pastels you helped choose—or was it Kitty?” He gave me such a tender look, so full of love, that I could only hug him once more before hurrying away, lest my tears dampen his starched cravat.