There was, perhaps, a fractional lessening of the coldness in Mr Darcy’s eyes, a glimmer of something that might, with considerable charity and a hopeful imagination, be construed as grudging understanding.
“I am not insensible to your meaning, sir,” Mr Darcy said eventually. He let the statement hang in the air, a concession offered but not elaborated upon. Then, as if to reassert control over the proceedings and steer them away from such unwelcome territory, he turned to the Lord Magister. “If there are no further personal matters to discuss, my lord, are we concluded here? I have many matters of business awaiting my attention.”
“We are concluded for the present, Mr Darcy,” the Lord Magister declared, “The legal documents and the binding magical contracts will be drawn up by the Arcane Office with all due haste. They will require your seals of assent before the week is out.”
And so it was done.
CHAPTER THREE
The week leading up to her wedding was, for Elizabeth, a trying time. Her days were spent in the fruitless planning of elaborate escapes, a private rebellion against a fate she knew was already sealed.
For Mrs Bennet, however, this same period was one of ecstatic, almost hysterical activity.
“Married! My Lizzy, married! To Mr Darcy of Pemberley!” she would exclaim at least twenty times a day, to anyone who would listen – and many who would rather not. Her considerable persuasive talents were now focused on convincing all of Meryton that this was the most brilliant match in the history of Hertfordshire. “Ten thousand a year, at the very least! Lizzy, my dearest, you have fallen on your feet, however mysteriously and unexpectedly this all came about!” She conveniently glossed over the coercion, the lack of courtship, and her daughter’s visible misery.
Elizabeth had requested the quietest, most unobtrusive ceremony possible. Her family, the essential witnesses, the requisite Arcane Office officials to oversee and validate themagical binding, and absolutely nothing more. No fuss, no flowers.
Mrs Bennet, however, remained in possession of a unique talent for interpreting directives in a manner most suited to her own desires. “Quietest possible,” in her lexicon, apparently translated to “of course, my dear, the guests will be instructed to keep their voices down during the ceremony, but that hardly precludes inviting all of them!”
Invitations were dispatched to every respectable family within a half-day’s distance, and several beyond. All were summoned to bear witness to Longbourn’s astonishing triumph.
“Do not be so difficult, Lizzy!” Mrs Bennet declared, efficiently fending off Elizabeth’s protests with a wave of her hand, “How is a quiet wedding to be of any use to your sisters? It is a mother's sacred duty to think of these things, even if you do not!”
The days passed with alarming speed, and in the early afternoon before her wedding, Elizabeth found herself sitting alone in the room she would share with Jane for one final night. Piles of hastily folded clothing and a few cherished books lay scattered on the bed, evidence of her reluctant preparations for a future she had not chosen, a future that felt more like a sentence than a new beginning. Tomorrow, she would no longer be Miss Elizabeth Bennet of Longbourn, but Mrs Darcy of Pemberley.
Lost in the miserable contemplation of her future, Elizabeth was startled as the door banged inward without preamble. Her youngest sister, a whirlwind of bright ribbons and even brighter spirits, bounced into the room.
“Lizzy! How long you have been hiding!” Lydia exclaimed, perching on the edge of the bed. “Mama is in a positive frenzy, you know. She says the flowers for the church pews are entirely the wrong shade of blue – not nearly grand enough for a Darcy wedding, apparently – and she’s sent Kitty off to Meryton to seeif the shops have anything more colourful. Though why anyone would care about the pew flowers I simply cannot imagine!”
“With Mama so capably managing the floral front, I am free to attend to lesser matters,” Elizabeth said, with a wry smile.
“Oh,Lizzy! But truly,” Lydia shifted on the bed, leaning in so their heads were nearly touching, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Is he not the most handsome man you have ever seen? Mr Darcy, I mean. So tall! So distinguished! And those eyes!”
“He is indeed tall. It gives him an excellent vantage point from which to look down upon the rest of us.”
This time, her slight bitterness was not entirely lost on Lydia, whose brow furrowed in genuine confusion. “How can you speak so severely when you have captured such a prize? He is handsome and so very rich, and you will be mistress of a grand estate. And the first of us to marry,” she added, her own expression souring at the thought. “Were I you, I would be planning my first grand ball at Pemberley, not moping in this old room!”
Elizabeth felt a surge of affection so strong that she momentarily forgot her own misery. A true smile, sad and fond, replaced the wry one. She would miss Lydia terribly. Her sister could be thoughtless and incorrigible, but she was also passionate and loyal, and fiercely, fiercely determined.
It would be useless to try to make her understand. Lydia lived in a different world, a world untouched by the true, terrifying realities. A world where a handsome face and a grand estate were, indeed, the only things that truly mattered.
And preserving that innocence, for her dear youngest sister, and so many others…that was what this all was for.
“Come,” Elizabeth said, standing and linking arms with her sister, “A man of ten thousand a year will surely expect his wifeto be adorned in something finer than her gloomy thoughts. Pray, help me choose my ribbons.”
Lydia squealed. “Wear the white, Lizzy, I absolutely insist upon it! Then your new red ribbons will be available for me to borrow. Captain Carter finds red so very dashing. You cannot care, I know — as Mrs Darcy, you’ll be able to buy whatever you want anyway!”
The wedding day dawned cheerless and drizzling, the weather perfectly mirroring Elizabeth’s mood. Longbourn was in an uproar of unprecedented proportions. Mrs Bennet, her face flushed with triumphant excitement, directed a whirlwind of last-minute, largely unnecessary preparations.
Elizabeth endured the ritual of being dressed by a tearful, sympathetic Jane. The gown, a simple yet elegant cream-coloured silk (no doubt at Mr Darcy’s considerable expense), felt more like a suffocating shroud than a bride’s finery.
The Meryton church, despite its modest size, was packed to the rafters. The air was thick with the scent of damp wood, flowers, and the collective curiosity of the local gentry. Mrs Bennet preened in the front pew, occasionally dabbing at her eyes with a lace handkerchief. Lydia and Kitty, bedecked in an excess of ribbons, giggled and whispered behind their hands, awed by the unexpected grandeur of the occasion.
And Mr Darcy…
Mr Darcy stood at the altar, his bearing as unyielding as a pillar of marble. He looked like a man about to face a firing squad armed with nothing more than his pride. At his side, Mr Bingley was his complete opposite, practically vibrating withcheerful goodwill, offering his friend a supportive, if slightly baffled, smile that went entirely unreturned.
When Elizabeth, pale but resolute, reached his side, conducted by a visibly unhappy Mr Bennet, Mr Darcy did not look at her. He did not acknowledge her presence with so much as a flicker of an eyelash. His eyes were fixed on the imposing figure of Lord Magister Theron, who stood before them in ceremonial robes.
