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Richard gave the second-best proposal in history, and my friend, the ever-practical, ever-sensible, matter-of-fact, just-wants-her-own-home Charlotte, answered him with a joke… or more likely, her back did actually hurt and she just wanted to get it over with. Sometimes even I could not tell with Charlotte. I was slightly concerned until he stood in front of her with a look in his eyes so non-subtle and so obvious it was like the sun breaking through clouds. It was even so obvious Fitzwilliam and I could have recognised it.

I was most gratified when my ever-sensible friend returned the same look of love, which had perhaps just been snuffed and hidden by her fear. Since our little circle seemed to be entirely free of propriety, she followed the usual accepted protocol for a proposal acceptance by locking her arms around his neck and giving him a KISS TO END ALL KISSES. It was most amusing to see what my kiss must have looked like, and Charles actually took a step towards the couple quite gallantly, just in case Richard swooned. It would not do for a pregnant woman to have to save her intended from falling to the lane.

She finally said, “My back feels ever so much better now, but I am tired; so, Charles, I believe it is your turn.”

Fitzwilliam had to laugh at the look on Charles’ face. The man who faced down the worst brigands in St Giles looked decidedly nervous, and I thought he might faint himself, which might have damaged his reputation as a ruffian.

He had just seen the two best but probably most unorthodox proposals in history, and felt like he had to say something worthy, but the voice we heard next was surprising.

“YES!”

We all snapped around to look at Jane, who was standing there looking like the old serene lady from the Netherfield ball. We all knew she had acquired a fiery temper and a commanding tone over the past year, but this was the old sweet-tempered Jane… and I was certain she would stay that way forever, or at least until the next time she was crossed.

Charles was a bit flustered by that. “Might you be more specific, Miss Bennet?”

The ever-sweet Jane continued without a pause, “Yes, if you wish to call on me. Yes, if you wish to court me. Yes, if you wish to marry me in the parlour at Rosings when the archbishop gets here in—” She looked pointedly at Aunt Catherine and waited.

Aunt Catherine did not disappoint. “Tomorrow. He is in love with my cook, Mrs McCarthy… or in love with her strawberry scones anyway.”

We all just laughed at that.

Jane turned back to Charles. “—as I was saying, marry me in the parlour at Rosings, Monday morning at ten o’clock, right after Lizzy and Charlotte. Pick your poison, Charles, but do not ever call me Miss Bennet again. Henceforth, I am either ‘Jane’ or ‘Mrs Bingley’ to you.”

For perhaps the first time in the recorded history of England, Charles Bingley was entirely bereft of words. He was stunned into silence, completely incapable of making a single utterance, but since his silence included carrying a wiggling and squirming Jane-soon-to-be-Bingley in his arms towards his carriage that had been quietly brought down the lane, it was probably for the best. How he managed to kiss Jane while carrying her towards the carriage astonished us all; or at least it did until the rest of the lunkheads demonstrated the process on our own journeys in their arms to the Darcy coach.

Both of our men looked at Aunt Catherine to offer gentlemanly assistance, but she simply said, “Do not even think about it,” and stood up and went back to the coach with assistance from Mary and Kitty.

Did I ever tell you Mary and Kitty are my favourite sisters?

Scones

Jane

The most surprising thing about the fact that I practically dragged Charles to the altar by his hair, was that it was the least shocking part of the entire episode. In less than five months, our entire world was turned upside down, and all of our lives were changed almost beyond recognition. By the time I had saved Charles the trouble of making up a superfluous proposal, I imagine I was just like Lizzy: impatient to stake my claim; impatient to have my own share of happiness; not particularly in a mood to be denied or delayed or curtailed.

In a sentiment I would not learn for some time exactly matched my mother’s, I found that I had waited a year and a half for my boy to become a man, but I had never really forsaken him in my heart. I am not entirely certain I would have ever let anyone else in if things had not worked out as they had. Perhaps that is overly pessimistic, since I have found that all of us are much more resilient than we ever gave ourselves credit for, but at this point, it really matters not. I had what I wanted, and I was more than content with what I had. And of course, there was also the convenient fact that after St Giles, he probably would have stalked me like a madman if I had not accepted anyway.

After Easter services on Sunday, we enjoyed a leisurely afternoon with our beaus and sisters, the very last day of that chapter of our lives, before we started the next chapter on Monday morning.

The archbishop arrived Sunday afternoon. Apparently, Mrs McCarthy had added a few lines to indicate the relative availability of strawberry scones on Sunday luncheon and the near certainty of their disappearance, considering she planned on hosting at least two men that were nearly indistinguishable from wolves, at least with respect to scones. True to a man of his stature, being asked for three licences hardly caused him to even raise his eyebrows, though the fact that brother Fitzwilliam asked him in the middle of luncheon probably helped matters along. Within five minutes, the licences had been arranged, and the archbishop was well engaged in a much more important topic, which apparently included the relative availability of venison pie for supper.

As difficult as it was, I finally put my foot down and banished the gentlemen to billiards or port or whatever other manly pursuits they wish to engage in during the evening, because I felt it important to relieve all of my sisters of a certain bit of ignorance they had about the events of that spring. We could not go in good conscience to our grooms without a full accounting and full knowledge. I gathered them together, and began.

“Sisters, before we engage in this next phase of our lives, I believe you are all owed a few answers.”

Mary—naturally it was Mary—answered, “Such as exactly why you invited everybody at the parsonage to tea on a Saturday afternoon, hmmm? Or maybe you care to elaborate about why you had a screaming match with Father in November, and we found ourselves here two days later, hmmm?”

I might have blushed at those comments earlier in my life, but certainly was not inclined to do so now.

“Among other things, but pray, allow me to begin earlier in the story.”

All my sisters gathered around, with any semblance of occupation tossed aside like debris.

“It began last November, when Father came to make that ridiculous bargain with Lizzy!”

Lizzy flinched as if I had slapped her, and the rest of the ladies gave me their utmost attention, whilst alternately stealing glances at Lizzy. I knew this was terribly unfair to her, but I wanted to make absolutely certain that any tiny residual remnant of an idea about keeping that bargain was dead and buried. I would burn Longbourn to the ground myself before I let her sacrifice so much as a toenail for it. Of course, the original plan was moot with both her annulment and the death of Mr Collins, but who knew what else she might plan to save Longbourn. I also owed it to all of us to let her sisters know, in no uncertain terms, what she was willing to go through for their sakes. She would survive the embarrassment, though she would probably be mad as a wet hen for a while.

To her credit, Lizzy said nothing, and I continued.