“He knows only what Aunt Gardiner wrote to them—whatItold her to write. That you proposed to me, but not what happened afterwards.”
Only then did a smile appear on Darcy’s face, for in a way, in the midst of the entire situation, Elizabeth had aligned herself with him—standing together, side by side—and had not deemed it necessary to share every detail with her family, as she typically would.
“Please, summon Mr Bennet to me,” he said with newfound confidence, and Elizabeth nodded as she left the room.
∞∞∞
Elizabeth opened the door to the library without haste as though attempting to delay the moment she would face her father.
But he was already waiting for her, standing, and the concern etched upon his face made her place a hand on her chest as if to steady her heart’s wild rhythm.
“Papa!”
“Elizabeth!” Mr Bennet replied, studying her closely. His concern for her was palpable, his worry etched on his face. He only addressed her in that manner when he was upset, and Elizabeth tried to smile. Mr Bennet looked her over from head to toe in a desperate attempt to comprehend what was happening to her.
She still wore the pearls at her neck, and her elegant gown, that she had donned in haste, was far removed from his daughter’s usual attire in the morning. The letters from Mrs Gardiner and Jane had stirred up nothing but a storm within him, offering no clarity. The entire situation was absurd, and Elizabeth’s silence had become yet another source of worry. Mrs Bennet, as always unaware of reality, delighted in the event itself; what lay behind the marriage held no interest for her.The journey to London had been the hardest moment of his life, unable to imagine how Elizabeth, his most rational and intelligent daughter, had found herself in such a situation—one that, despite the account he had read in Mrs Gardiner’s letter, seemed utterly preposterous.
“Mr Darcy would like to talk to you—”
“Stop this nonsense. I want to speak to you first, then decide whether I wish to speak to him.”
Elizabeth invited him to sit, suddenly composed despite the crisis brewing in the room. Yet not even her father, the one person with unquestionable authority over her, could sway her from her resolve. In a few hours, she would become Fitzwilliam’s wife and do all that he had asked of her, her determination unwavering.
Calmly, she recounted the same story that she and Fitzwilliam had repeated almost verbatim—the proposal in Kent, his accident, and their decision to marry hastily.
“This is absurd, Elizabeth. How can you marry a man you barely know in a matter of days… A man you have never mentioned loving?”
“Did you not advise me to first find a man and then fall in love with him?” she asked, looking at her father as she often did when presenting a plan she knew would not be quickly approved. “That is precisely what I did. I found a man who loves me, who asked me to be his wife, and—”
“And who may abandon you before you are even married!”
“He maydie, Papa,” she said with a pain that startled even her, as tears sprang unbidden to her eyes. For the first time, standing before her father, she considered the possibility that the man she had sought, following his advice, might have the power to make her love him. But then, how could she endure his absence? She had accepted a partnership, but suddenly, it nolonger felt merely material. He had offered her his love, but until that moment, she had been certain her feelings were confined to affection and care.
“What is it, Lizzy?” Mr Bennet asked, moved.
“I am marrying him, Papa, in three hours, and all I can tell you is that I agreed to become his wife, believing that the life he would offer me after…his departure would be enough.”
“But now you are unsure,” Mr Bennet murmured, rising to embrace her as he understood what was going on in his adored daughter’s mind…and suspected what she felt even without her knowing. But in that strange situation, not knowing she was also in love with him could be a blessing.
“Will the marriage take place?” Elizabeth asked, suddenly fearful yet attuned to the reality of the day, momentarily forgetting all their torment.
“If that is what you wish and Mr Darcy convinces me, then yes, the marriage will take place,” Mr Bennet said, and she smiled, reassured.
“I accompanied the Duke of Nantwich to the Archbishop. The licence has been procured, but it is merely a piece of paper—one that can always be torn up.”
“It will not be!” Elizabeth replied, and at that moment, her father saw all he needed to see. Elizabeth loved Mr Darcy and was ready to accept with courage whatever fate had in store for her.
“Take me to him,” he said. Elizabeth was still herself, unchanged, and her path, however difficult, was meant for her. And no matter what the man had offered her, she was in love with him, even if she did not know it yet.
∞∞∞
When they entered Darcy’s room, Elizabeth glanced about, unable to comprehend how it could have changed so much in so little time.
The bed had vanished, and two armchairs stood in the centre of the room. In one sat Darcy, dressed in a coat with a blanket draped over his legs. What shocked her most, however, was his face. It was as though she no longer knew him; she had never seen this man before—the man who would become her husband in just a few hours.
Elizabeth looked at him. An epiphany took place in a moment, like all incredible realisations; a single glance was enough for her to understand that what she felt was love. The love she had always dreamt of, the love she had sometimes searched for and, in time, had come to await her, was there, in her heart, for the man who was soon to be her husband. A happiness beyond compare enveloped her, but it lasted only for a fleeting moment, for it was immediately replaced by a brutal pain. He was the man she loved, the husband she had longed for, yet he would never be her man.
She leant against her father, who, looking at her, understood everything she carried in her soul. Then, Mr Bennet turned to Darcy, struggling to master his turmoil, but he had to remain strong in that room.
