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In the dining room, Mr Elliot had not attempted to drink Mr Gardiner under the table on his last night as a free man. Instead, he had stared into the fire for some time, nervously sipping his port until he worked up enough Dutch courage to start a rather awkward conversation. Into the sporadic monologue that Mr Gardiner had pursued in the hope of touching upon some topic that might animate the distracted clergyman’s interest, Mr Elliot suddenly dropped:

“Mr Gardiner, as you are no doubt aware, universities are surrounded by houses of ill-repute.”

Mr Gardiner raised his eyebrow. “Are they? Having not been to university I was not aware.”

“Yes, they are.”

Mr Gardiner pursed his lips and nodded sagely. “Mr Elliot, you have revised my ideas of scholars.”

Mr Elliot took a deep breath. “Being destined for the church and having no prospects, I thought it best not to indulge in forbidden fruit, nor to participate in any braggart conversations of congress. So, could you tell me, as a husband, just what am I supposed to do?”

Mr Gardiner looked at Mr Elliot in mounting horror, astonished that there could be a man of thirty who had not yet learned what the majority of boys had discovered, at least in theory, by twelve.

“Ah!” he said, taking a gulp of wine and carefully considering his words for some time. “I presume you have experienced feelings for my niece and that... you have wished to kiss her?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever kissed her?”

“Well, yes,” admitted the clergyman, blushing. “I have taken the liberty of kissing her hand on several occasions since we became engaged.”

“But not her lips?”

“No.”

Mr Gardiner pulled his handkerchief from his pocket to mop his brow before proceeding cautiously.

“And when you kissed my niece’s hand, did your... errh... anatomy respond accordingly?”

Mr Elliot blushed beet red. “Yes,” he said, stumbling over his words to add helpfully: “and, of course, living in the country I could not help but observe the animals in the field.”

Considerably relieved, Mr Gardiner smiled and nodded. “There you are then!” he said jovially, taking another sip of wine. “Much the same!”

Mr Elliot frowned. He had hoped for a bit more information from a happily married man and father. After staring into the fire and listening to its comforting crackling for some time, he decided to try again: “Is it normal to take off all of one’s clothes?”

Mr Gardiner spluttered. “Excuse me,” he said wiping the wine from the corner of his mouth. “I coughed just as I was swallowing. Ah... yes, in the summer; but in the winter... well, nightshirts and nightgowns are very convenient to keep the shoulders warm.”

Mr Elliot considered this and nodded. “Is it true that the lady must always be supine?”

Nettled at the clergyman’s continued pursuit of these embarrassing questions, Mr Gardiner was very tempted to retort that as a man of the cloth, Mr Elliot should know more of the subject than someone who operated an import/export business, but he restrained himself and answered more philosophically: “Well, each to his own, but I expect most modern couples let their own feelings guide their actions. Surely all is permitted in the marriage bed?”

Mr Elliot did not think this was entirely consistent with the church’s position, so to speak, but was nonetheless comforted that his bride’s nearest male relative was of that opinion. It certainly gave Mr Elliot some scope to make mistakes. Rather than continue the uncomfortable discussion, the curate decided to do as he had been instructed and let his feelings be his guide.

Relieved that Mr Elliot appeared to have given up the topic, Mr Gardiner turned the conversation to recent events in the village, and they finished their wine in agreeable nothings.

Begging Mr Gardiner good evening, Mr Elliot sent the ladies his apologies and went off to apprise the new curate of a few minutiae that had escaped his attention during his earlier induction.

Meanwhile, Mary arrived back in her old bedchamber rather overwhelmed by her induction which, thankfully for the couple, had involved far more illuminating descriptions of what was involved in conjugal relations; even, embarrassingly, causing Mrs Bennet to wax poetic. Having taken over Jane and Elizabeth’s bedchamber upon their departure to London, Mary had relinquished it to its former occupants for the night, returning to the dressing room she had previously slept in for her last night at Longbourn. She had called this windowless cell her own from the time she had asserted her wish for independence from the adjacent bedchamber shared with Kitty and Lydia at the age of ten. There was only so much prattle and giggling one could endure after lights out.

In the privacy of her tiny room, Mary unwrapped Jane’s second brown paper package to discover another creation in the same net as the veil, and like it, carefully rolled to prevent its creasing. A little puzzled as to why she would need a second veil, Mary laid out the beautifully embroidered net on her bed only to discover that despite its transparency, it had sleeves. Her next thought was that it was an overdress for an evening gown, but finally the recent conversation that had made her ears burn clicked. She realised that Jane had embroidered her an indecent nightgown. Mary’s first impulse was to hide her sister’s gift under the floorboards and never think of it again. But recalling that it was her duty to please her husband in whatever way he wished, she carefully rolled the gown up again and stored it at the bottom of her trunk. Although Mr Elliot was a clergyman, she realised that he had lusts like any other man. The way he had stroked and squeezed her hands as they sat together in the parlour whenever Mrs Bennet permitted them to be alone left her in no doubt of that. Mary fell asleep thinking of Mr Elliot’s large white hands with their smooth skin and long white fingers and dreamed of them running over her body.

The day of the wedding was sunny, cold and crisp. The bleak prospect of the previous day had been banished overnight by a gusty wind that had blown itself out before sunrise. In the church at Longbourn, Mary looked radiant as Mr Gardiner escorted her down the aisle. The village women all commented on how she had grown in beauty since the squire’s passing, rivalling her elder sisters. How they could determine this through Jane’s beautiful veil was questionable. But there was certainly one man who would have deemed it the sterling truth. Mr Elliot’s hands were shaking as he put back Mary’s veil. A small sigh escaped his mouth as he contemplated his lovely bride.

Mr Collins performed the service competently, much to the relief of his relatives, although there was a near miss involving the new curate and a vase of flowers arranged by Charlotte. A disaster was averted only by Mr Gardiner’s quick reflexes. The parishioners were mercifully spared the immediate knowledge of the sad decline in the standard of their spiritual shepherds thanks to the formulaic incantations of the Book of Common Prayer. The first Sunday sermon written by Mr Collins and delivered by Mr Creevey would soon set them right.

Mr Elliot, his eyes shining, went through the ceremony in a haze. He felt he was dreaming; his feet seemed to barely touch the ground. Nor was much sense to be had from the groom during the wedding breakfast. As everyone congratulated him, he smiled and nodded at them like the village idiot. At ten o’clock, the time came for the happy couple to depart in the post-chaise that had been hired from Meryton. The pair aimed to make Basingstoke by the evening before continuing their journey to their estate near Bruton on the morrow. Sitting beside his wife, clasping her left hand with his right, Mr Elliot waved goodbye to the small leave-taking party who had left the festivities to follow the couple to the carriage for their departure. The group included Mr and Mrs Gardiner, the two eldest Bennets dressed in grey silk, and their mother who had added black edging to a very striking white brocade skirt and caraco she had worn in her youth.

As the door of the carriage closed, a sash window of the parlour flew up.