Mrs Bennet wept openly. Elizabeth allowed herself to be embraced by her sisters, her cheeks kissed and her arm squeezed gently. Even Lydia and Kitty managed appropriate felicitations between their excited chatter about the journey ahead.
They retired to the drawing room in Glenmont Hall afterwards for a modest wedding breakfast of tea, cakes and cold meats. Conversation flowed around Elizabeth whilst she maintained her composure through sheer force of will. She smiled when expected, responded when addressed and performed the role of bride while her thoughts spun elsewhere.
She felt displaced, as if she were observing herself from some great distance, watching a stranger navigate rituals she did not fully understand.
Could her husband be feeling the same inadequacies? She wondered, sneaking glances at his face as he sat next to her. She was searching for some indication that he felt equally adrift in these strange new circumstances.
But no. He appeared perfectly composed, perfectly everything a bridegroom ought to be. She alone seemed incapable of settling into her assigned role.
“I find my affairs in Ireland are now concluded,” Fitzwilliam announced once the initial flurry of felicitations had subsided. “I shall set off to England tomorrow, precisely to Matlock in Northern Derbyshire. My sister is there presently, along with my aunt and uncle. I intend to stop there before proceeding to my own estate.”
“How lovely for you,” Mrs Ahearn replied.
“Indeed. And I should be pleased to extend an invitation to the Bennet family to accompany us.” He spoke to the room at large, his tone cordial but matter-of-fact. It was almost as if he were offering to share a carriage ride rather than altering everyone’s plans fundamentally. “Matlock House isquite spacious. There would be no difficulty in accommodating you all for several days, should you wish to visit before returning to Hertfordshire.”
Elizabeth’s teacup froze halfway to her lips.
The invitation hung in the air, generous, unexpected, and unilateral. He had not consulted her before extending an invitation to her family, nor had he asked whether she felt ready to meet his relations. He had simply announced his decision as established fact, leaving no room for negotiation.
Mrs Bennet’s squeal of delight pierced the air. “Oh! How absolutely splendid! Of course, we accept, do we not, Mr Bennet?”
Mr Bennet glanced up from his plate with interest. “Matlock as in the Earl of Matlock?”
“My uncle,” Fitzwilliam confirmed.
“Ah. Yes. I understand he maintains an impressive library. Particularly strong in classical texts and early medieval manuscripts.” Mr Bennet’s expression brightened considerably. “I should be delighted to view it.”
“Then it is settled!” Mrs Bennet clapped her hands together. “We shall all go to Matlock. What an adventure! Lydia, Kitty, think of the society we shall encounter. An earl’s household!”
Lydia and Kitty erupted into enthusiastic speculation about potential suitors among the Derbyshire gentry. And even Jane and Mary looked pleased at the prospect.
But Elizabeth could not summon matching excitement. Was this what her marriage would be? Her husband making decisions, her following meekly along, her voice diminished until she became merely an echo of his will?
Perhaps she was being unreasonable and this was how matters proceeded in marriages such as theirs. The husband decided, the wife acquiesced. That was the natural order, was it not? Her mother had always deferred to her father in matters of consequence, or at least appeared to, when his preferences conflicted with hers.
Yet something within her recoiled from this easy capitulation. Even her father would not make the decision to travel without consulting her mother first.
She had harboured a quiet hope that they might return to Longbourn first. A few days in familiar surroundings to ruminate over what had occurred, to adjust to her new reality before facing Fitzwilliam’s relations and their inevitable scrutiny. Some time to prepare before stepping into a life she had not chosen.
That hope had just evaporated into thin air.
Longbourn meant safety, her own chamber and the paths she had walked since childhood. At Longbourn, she would be Elizabeth who happened to have married, rather than Mrs Darcy who must immediately perform her new role before a critical audience.
But Fitzwilliam had decided otherwise. And her family’s enthusiastic acceptance made objection impossible without appearing ungrateful and contrary.
“Lizzy?” Mary’s voice was low, meant for her ears only. “Are you well?”
“Quite well.” The lie tasted bitter. “Merely tired from the morning’s excitement.”
Mary’s sceptical look suggested she wanted to ask more questions, but she did not press the matter.
The wedding breakfast eventually concluded. Guests dispersed to attend to various tasks required for imminent departure. Fitzwilliam approached Elizabeth as the room emptied.
“Mrs Darcy. I thought perhaps you might prefer to travel to Castlewood Manor in my carriage rather than the hired conveyance with your family. It would afford us some privacy.”
Mrs Darcy. The title sat wrong and was ill-fitting. She was Elizabeth. She had always been Elizabeth. This new identity felt like a disguise she had not consented to wear.
She could not bear to be in close proximity to him yet. Not when everything still felt so raw and uncertain.
