Elizabeth faced the assembled party, taking it all in. Jane, tearful and radiant; Mary, joyful; the Gardiners, loving and steady; Georgiana, practically vibrating with happiness; Richard grinning broadly; Lady Sefton, Mrs. Drummond-Burrell, and Lady Cowper appearing satisfied, as if they were singularly responsible for the happy occasion; Lord and Lady Matlock, side by side, Lady Matlock still dabbing her handkerchief to her eyes while Lord Matlock wore the expression of a man who had been correct all along and was too well bred to say so; and Bingley, who gave Elizabeth a look of such genuine, uncomplicated delight that she laughed aloud.
It was, Darcy thought, the finest sound he had ever heard.
He tucked her hand into his arm and leant down. “I love you, Mrs. Darcy.”
Elizabeth’s expression radiated love.
“Not as much as I love you, Mr. Darcy.”
And they walked together out of the chapel and into their life.
The day after the wedding,the announcement appeared inThe Times:
Married, on the 17th of December, at Matlock Chapel, Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley, Derbyshire, to Miss ElizabethBennet, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Bennet of Longbourn, Hertfordshire.
In his study at Longbourn, Mr. Bennet read the notice once. Then again. Then a third time, as though repetition might somehow alter the words or soften their meaning.
He set the paper down and removed his spectacles, pressing his fingers to his eyes. The fire crackled in the grate. Outside, he could hear Mrs. Bennet’s voice carrying from the drawing room, telling Lady Lucas gossip about Mary and Mr. Collins. She had declared it nearly as good as having Lizzy married to him.
Nearly.So, she had not yet seen the newspaper.
Mr. Bennet sat alone in the silence of his library. He was, by his own assessment, a man of keen intelligence and limited application. A man who had spent the better part of twenty years retreating to this room rather than engaging with the consequences of his choices. He had always told himself this was harmless, that his detachment was a form of wisdom. That his wit was a reasonable substitute for effort.
The memory of the Netherfield ball returned with the force of a physical blow.
He had sought Darcy out deliberately. He could admit that with the newspaper open on his desk, he could no longer hide from himself. He had seen a proud man intently observing his favorite daughter and had decided to exercise his cleverness at that proud man’s expense. He had told Darcy about the betrothal. He had made his little joke, delivered his set-down, and walked away to the card room, satisfied with himself.
He handed Darcy the motive. He told the man—who Bennet now understood with painful clarity was alreadyin love with Elizabeth—that she was being forced to marry another. And then he had retired to play cards while his daughter’s future was being decided by a man completely unrelated to him.
He had done this. Not Mrs. Bennet, whose foolishness had provided the occasion. Not the entail, which had provided the anxiety. Not Mr. Collins, who had provided the threat. Him. His pride. His careless, clever tongue. His preference for the witty remark over the responsible action.
He had disliked Darcy for his pride without once acknowledging his own. He had dismissed him as cold and arrogant without crediting the intelligence and feeling that had apparently been there all along, waiting to be recognized. Elizabeth had seen it. Of course, she had. She had always been the cleverest of them all.
He picked up the newspaper again and read the notice once more.
Mr. and Mrs. Fitzwilliam Darcy.He dreaded informing his wife since she would wail her joy at having a daughter married. Ten thousand a year.
He set the paper down, folded his hands, and allowed himself one small, genuine smile.
Whatever else he had done wrong—and the list was considerable—he had produced Elizabeth. He had raised her, however imperfectly, into the woman who had been clever enough and brave enough and good enough to capture the heart of a man like Mr. Darcy.
That, at least, he could claim. It would have to be enough.
One week after their wedding,Darcy found his wife in their library.
He paused under the lintel, looking at her. Elizabeth sat curled in the chair by the fire—her chair now, as naturally as though it had always been so—her feet tucked beneath her and a letter open in her lap. The dark waves of her hair gleamed in the afternoon light. A small smile played at the corner of her mouth as she read.
He had spent twenty-eight years in this library at Darcy House without once thinking it lacked anything. He understood how very wrong he had been.
“From Mary?” he asked, coming to sit across from her.
“Yes.” Elizabeth folded the letter with the satisfied air of someone who had received precisely the news she hoped for. “She is well. Very well, it seems.”
“And Mr. Collins?”
Elizabeth’s smile widened. “Apparently, most pleased with your aunt’s changes to Mary’s hair and the colors she chose for her wardrobe.” She giggled. “When she stepped out of Mr. Bingley’s carriage, Mama failed to recognize her own daughter.”
Darcy raised an eyebrow. “It was a remarkable transformation.”
