“I’m sorry sir. The family has gone to the church for the wedding.”
His heart moved to his throat, so that he almost could not speak. “Miss Elizabeth?” he choked out.
“Yes, sir.”
“How long ago?”
“Not long. Perhaps half an hour.”
Without another word, he turned on his heel and raced back to Plunder.
Before he was even half the way to Meryton’s churchyard, it began to rain. Darcy could not care.
Perhaps he was mad. Of course he was mad. It did not matter; he only was sure of one thing: he must try. For the rest of his life, he would hate himself if he did not. He might anyway, for delaying—he ought to have made for Longbourn the moment his aunt had read him the news of a betrothal. Instead, he had done as Bingley accused, as had become his habit: arrogant dismissal, putting off life, refusing to risk his heart.
The words spoken from the dance floor at Netherfield filtered through his mind. At the time, he had only fixed on his annoyance with Elizabeth’s interest in Wickham, instead of the obvious solution. Why had he never made Wickham’s character known to these people? He need not have said much—he had a vast selection of stories displaying the churl’s dishonesty, none of them betraying his sister.
Neither had he any high moral ground for despising her family; just as Colonel Fitzwilliam pointed out, his own was as flawed as anyone’s. Why in heaven’s name had he worried what the earl would think? It was his own father whose good opinion he wished to honour—and his excellent father would have adored Elizabeth. He also knew that his father would have trusted him—and he could trust himself—to make whatever sacrifices were necessary to see Georgiana taken care of and his tenants as well. As he had been reminded too many times lately, fortune was not everything.
As he thundered down the road, a particularly virulent gust of wind sent his hat sailing, but he had not a moment to spare toretrieve it. With a sinking feeling, he realised that when it came to Elizabeth Bennet, he hadalwaysfixed his attention on the wrong things, chasing distractions, ambitions, and fears.
Now it might be—probablywas—too late.
CHAPTER FIVE
Darcy leapt off Plunder, tossing the reins over the churchyard gate. In a few quick strides he was up the steps and flinging open the church doors.
He spared no attention for those filling the first pews; his gaze was entirely fixed upon the small gathering of people before the nave, facing the vicar—including a dark-haired woman in blue silk, and a hulking man—Collins, he was certain—in black clothing. His sudden arrival did not at all prevent the ancient clergyman from the ceremonial speech already in progress.
“…wilt thou have this Man to thy wedded Husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou?—”
“She will not! Elizabeth, no, please!” he gasped, forgetting, in his panic, even proper forms of address. “Marry me, instead, I beg you!”
Time froze, as bride and groom simultaneously spun towards the interruption.
To his utter, complete, and total mortification, the bride wasnotElizabeth Bennet. Rather, Miss Charlotte Lucas stared back at him in buck-toothed amazement. Elizabeth, he noticed at last and far too late, was seated on a pew at the front with nearlyevery member of her family, equivalent looks of incredulity and wonder on their faces. Meryton’s vicar frowned his disapproval. Miss Lydia giggled, and time restarted.
He abruptly became aware of his position in the middle of a church, hatless, his neckcloth soaking and ruined, his greatcoat dripping on the aisle floor, disrupting a wedding. He flushed.
“I—I apologise,” he managed, straightening, adopting the pose of offended dignity he had used so many times when falsely accused of Wickham’s misbehaviours. “There was a misunderstanding. Please forgive me the interruption.” He followed his apology with a brief bow, and made the swiftest exit he could without breaking into a run.
He let himself into the adjacent graveyard via a rusted iron gate. The rain had stopped, at least—not that it mattered in the slightest; he could hardly appear any stupider. A conveniently placed bench, out of sight of anything except a large monument erected to some long dead, much beloved rector, served as a good enough place to bask in humiliation. He leant forward, resting his forearms on his knees, staring at the ground while trying to absorb what had just occurred.
The leading citizenry of Meryton had just witnessed what had to be the most inane, ridiculous proposal of marriage in the history of inane, ridiculous proposals.At least Elizabeth isnotmarrying William Collins today, he reminded himself. Although neither was there much guarantee she would consider yet another proposal from another great fool. Never had he felt so idiotic.
At the sound of approaching footsteps, he did not look up, hoping whomever it might be would simply continue on their way. However, the steps paused beside him, and then the sound of rustling fabric and the creaking bench told him that the person was now seated beside him. In his peripheral vision, he saw a dark woollen coat—but peeking from its edge was the emerald green he had noticed Elizabeth wearing. He ought to have stood at her approach, he realised—but what was one more blunder in a morning which already included so many?
“Mr Darcy,” she began, when he said nothing.
“I was rather hoping you would believe I had departed for a destination unknown,” he muttered.
“Yes, well, I did not think you would leave your fine horse here to fend for himself.”
“Ah. Of course.” He took a deep breath. “I apologise for the, um, scene in the church. I am certain I embarrassed you, as well as myself.”
“As to that, I was surprised, certainly.”
“Again, I am sorry.” Silence ensued, while a list of all the ways he had offended her, or likely offended her, unrolled like a scroll in his mind.
