“He is,” said Elizabeth, “the best of men. Though I will allow he requires some discovering.”
Mr. Bennet gave a short laugh and returned to his library. “Send Darcy to me,” he said, before closing the door. “I believe we must do these things properly. I shall quiz him as to the suitability of his library; if he answers satisfactorily, then I am likely to give him my consent.”
Which was, Elizabeth reflected, very nearly his highest form of approval.
Darcy, having written ahead, had been invited to stay at Netherfield, where Bingley, on Jane’s leaving London for Hertfordshire, had quickly followed. He declined an invitation to stay for dinner for he had much to discuss with Bingley, before setting out for London.
When her mother went up to her dressing-room at night, Elizabeth followed her, and made the important communication. Its effect was most extraordinary; for on first hearing it, Mrs. Bennet sat quite still, and unable to utter a syllable. She began at length to recover, to fidget about in her chair, get up, sit down again, wonder, and bless herself.
“Good gracious! Lord bless me! only think! dear me! Mr. Darcy! Who would have thought it! And is it really true? Oh! my sweetest Lizzy! how rich and how great you will be! What pin-money, what jewels, what carriages you will have! Such a charming man!—so handsome! so tall!”
Her face suddenly clouded. “Oh, Lizzy, what of that awful article in the Morning Post? I can scarcely visit without the gossip. Does Mr. Darcy know of it? Of course he does—and he still wishes to marry you?”
Elizabeth explained that Mr. Darcy’s uncle, Lord Matlock, had written a rebuttal in The Times, and that all was well; that Darcy had, in fact, been present at León, so knew the entire circumstances. That she dissembled slightly, was neither here nor there. At last, Mrs. Bennet settled in her mind that Elizabeth’s betrothal was safe, that Mr. Darcy would not withdraw his suit. All her enthusiasms returned.
“My dearest child,” she cried, “I can think of nothing else! Ten thousand a year, and very likely more! ’Tis as good as a Lord! And a special licence. You must and shall be married by a special licence. But my dearest love, tell me what dish Mr. Darcy is particularly fond of, that I may have it tomorrow.”
“Mr. Darcy returns to Town,” replied Elizabeth. “But I understand Mr. Bingley has returned to Netherfield. He is sure to call in the morning, if only to offer his congratulations. ’Tis certain he would accept a dinner invitation—you may wish to ask Jane what Mr. Bingley’s particular favourites are, for I am sure she already knows.”
* * *
Elizabeth stood before the glass in her mother’s dressing room while Jane fastened the last of the buttons. She tried not to think about the hundred eyes that would be watching her walk to the altar. She had been written about in the Morning Post. She had subsequently appeared in more creative though less reputable tabloids: a fortune-hunter, a schemer, a seductress, a traitoress, a collaborator, and—most creatively—a provincial enchantress of dubious virtue. The neighbourhood had read every word.
“You look beautiful,” Jane said softly.
Elizabeth smiled, and Jane squeezed her shoulder, and that was enough.
The Longbourn chapel had not seen a congregation like this in living memory. Pews that ordinarily held the family and perhaps a scattering of house servants were now pressed with the whole of Meryton society, arranged by some unspoken but perfectly understood hierarchy. Mrs. Long and her nieces had arrived early enough to claim the second row. The Lucases were directly behind them.
Mrs. Goulding sat with her husband, who had no particular interest in weddings, but had come nevertheless. Beside him sat his second son, Captain William Goulding, on special leave from the 95th Rifles. He had become, in fact, quite famous, having distinguished himself in the siege of Burgos. His eyes kept flicking to a young lady sitting in the front pew with herfamily. She had noticed him come in, had smiled, and, although they had been clandestinely exchanging letters for the past three months, had now realised, at that moment, that their epistolary love had transformed into something far more tangible and exciting.
Lord Matlock, because of his rank and Darcy being his nephew, sat at the front. He had arrived the previous evening with the Countess, had drunk two glasses of Mr. Bennet’s best claret, and had told his nephew that Miss Elizabeth struck him as precisely the sort of woman that Darcy needed—which was his way of saying he approved. Lady Matlock, seated beside him, with Georgiana on her other side, had been rather more direct. She had taken Elizabeth’s hands in both of hers the night before and said, simply, “My nephew is not easy to love. I am glad you managed it.”
Georgiana sat very straight, her gloved hands folded in her lap. She had been so happy these past weeks that she hardly knew herself. Fitzwilliam had smiled more in the last month than in the previous three years combined. Surreptitiously, she watched her new sisters sitting in the opposite pew. She saw Kitty’s glances at William Goulding. He was a good man, having shepherded her and Lydia across the Cantabrian Mountains, and then to Salamanca. She would introduce him to her uncle—patronage of an earl would greatly benefit his career.
Mr. Bennet walked his daughter down the aisle, determined for once in his life to show how proud he was. He had said very little to Elizabeth that morning. He had come to her room before breakfast, looked at her for a long moment, and said, “Darcy is a good man. I could not have parted with you, my Lizzy, to any one less worthy.” Then he had gone downstairs and eaten his toast in silence, and Elizabeth had stood in her doorway and loved him very much.
Darcy stood at the altar, and all capacity for rational thought deserted him the moment Elizabeth appeared at the far end of the aisle. Her gown was a simple muslin, a blue satin sash tied to accentuate her perfect figure. She was looking directly at him. That was the thing. Not at the assembled guests, not at the flowers, not at the floor as propriety might have suggested. At him. With that particular expression—half amusement, half something much warmer—that had undone him entirely the first time he saw it. Then, he had been an idiot, not for the first time. An extraordinary, spectacular idiot.
The service was not long. The clergyman, who had christened three of the Bennet girls, read the words with quiet solemnity. Darcy’s voice was steady. Elizabeth’s was too, though she had not been certain it would be.
When it was done, and the register signed, and the neighbourhood had seen everything it had come to see, Lord Matlock offered his arm to his Countess and remarked, in a low voice, that the girl had more composure than half the women he knew in London. Lady Matlock agreed. She also thought Elizabeth’s eyes were remarkable, but she kept that to herself.
Of course, Darcy already knew that Elizabeth’s eyes were remarkable; just one of many remarkable features of a very remarkable woman. He felt her hand clasping his. She stayed close, often returning to him when the press of the surrounding thoughts grew too much. Could any man ask for more? Now, as husband and wife, they could, without censure, hold hands whenever they wished.
* * *
Chapter 23
Madrid
Don Mateo stirred. “He comes,” he said softly.
A figure appeared at the far end of the alley, moving with the careless confidence of a man who believes the world owes him nothing but pleasure. Wickham. Even here, in this city of hunger and poverty, he wore clothes too fine, his boots shining, his hair curled as if he still expected to charm a fortune from some gullible widow. He was humming, of all things, some bawdy tune from a London playhouse.
Fitzwilliam stepped forward. “Mr. Williams?”
Wickham stopped, frowning. He didn’t recognise the voice. “You are from London, the Morning Post?”
