“Have you considered telling Lady Elizabeth the truth?”
“To what end? She would demand justice regardless of the consequences. She does not think things through at times but acts more directly. It can be an admirable quality but in this case I do not know that it would serve us. Besides, I do not know where Wickham is. Even if I spoke up, half of Meryton believes Wickham was made up.” Darcy shook his head. “I cannot expect her to value the life of an old man she has never met over her own vindication.”
“Perhaps you underestimate her compassion.”
“Perhaps I understand that she already believes me a coward. Learning that my uncertainty was calculated rather than genuine would only confirm her worst opinion of my character.”
Bingley nodded slowly. “A terrible burden to carry into marriage.”
“Indeed. Though I confess, knowing I no longer bear it entirely alone provides some comfort.” Darcy managed a slight smile. “Speaking of your own situation—have you had opportunity to examine Ashworth Manor closely?”
“Not yet. I planned to ride over this afternoon, actually.”
“I know the property well. Would you welcome company? I could point out particular advantages and potential concerns.”
“That would be most helpful, thank you.” Bingley’s expression brightened. “Caroline has been quite insistent about the superiority of the house itself, but I confess I would value your opinion on the practical aspects.”
“The drainage is excellent, and the home farm is well-maintained. Mrs Ashworth’s late husband was meticulous about improvements.” Darcy felt grateful for the shift to less fraught topics. “When do you hope to take possession?”
“Within the fortnight, if terms can be agreed. Which would place my removal just before your wedding—rather fitting timing, all things considered.”
As they made arrangements for their afternoon expedition, Darcy reflected on the strange comfort of shared confidences. For the first time since that terrible night, he felt marginally less alone with his impossible choices.
The fundamental problems remained unchanged, but perhaps shared burdens might prove more bearable than solitary ones.
It was not much, but it would have to be enough.
Chapter Fifteen
Elizabeth
The November morning held a bitter chill that seemed to seep through the very stones of St. Michael’s Church. Elizabeth stood at the altar in her mother’s ivory silk. The seamstress had worked miracles to alter it in mere days, yet Elizabeth felt as though she were wearing a costume for a play she had never auditioned for.
Beside her, Darcy stood rigid in his best coat, his face a mask of composure that revealed nothing of his thoughts. They had not spoken since entering the church, had barely acknowledged each other’s presence.
“Dearly beloved,” the rector began, his voice echoing in the small space, “we are gathered together here in the sight of God…”
Elizabeth’s attention drifted from the familiar words to the faces watching from the pews. Her family occupied the front rows—Mama dabbing at her eyes with a lace handkerchief that did nothing to disguise her nervous anxiety. Jane caught her eye and offered an encouraging smile that Elizabeth could not bring herself to return.
Behind them sat the neighbourhood’s finest, drawn by curiosity as much as courtesy. Mrs Long leaned close to Mrs Lawrence, their whispered conversation hidden behind painted fans. Sir William Lucas beamed with the satisfaction of witnessing such momentous events, whilst Charlotte sat beside him with downcast eyes.
“Fitzwilliam Darcy, wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife…”
The words washed over Elizabeth like water over stone. She had dreamed of her wedding day since childhood, imagined herself radiant with joy as she pledged her heart to a man who adored her. Instead, she stood here seething with anger that threatened to choke her, bound to a man who had failed her when courage was most needed.
Yet even as fury burned in her chest, doubt gnawed at its edges. Had she truly seen Wickham clearly that night? The more she reflected upon it, the less certain she became. The poor light, her terror, the confusion of the moment—perhaps her mind had filled in details that memory could not provide.
But Darcy had been there. Darcy had seen everything. And Darcy claimed uncertainty where she expected confirmation.
“Lady Elizabeth Bennet, wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband…”
“I will,” she said, the words scraping her throat like broken glass.
The ceremony proceeded per protocol. They exchanged rings—a simple gold band that felt foreign and cold upon her finger. At the end of the ceremony, they merely stood facing each other whilst the rector pronounced them man and wife. No tender embrace sealed their union, no joy marked the moment. Only duty, performed before watching eyes that missed nothing.
The wedding breakfast at Netherfield proved an exercise in endurance. Elizabeth moved through the receiving line as though she were a sleepwalker, accepting congratulations shedid not want for a marriage she had never chosen. Lady Ashworth complimented her gown whilst studying her face for signs of distress. Mr Peterson declared Darcy a fortunate man whilst his wife whispered behind her fan to Mrs Young.
“Cousin Elizabeth,” Mr Collins approached with characteristic deference. “What a blessed occasion this is. Though I confess the circumstances leading to such haste were rather… unfortunate.”
