The waiting, however, was dreadful.
Elizabeth had once believed herself a patient person. This was proved false within the first week. The days stretched endlessly. Every call from Darcy felt too short, every parting too long, every necessary discussion of linen, settlements, servants, carriages, trunks, and gowns a conspiracy to prevent her from becoming his wife. And yet, when she later looked back upon those weeks, they seemed to have vanished like mist in morning sun.
The days had crept like weeks.
The weeks had flown like days.
And then, quite suddenly, she stood in the church at Meryton, her hand in Darcy’s, and heard herself make promises that settled upon her soul like home.
All of Darcy’s family had come.
Lord and Lady Matlock were present, the former solemn and dignified, the latter openly moved. Viscount Milton attended with his wife and shook Darcy’s hand with grave affection beforeturning to Elizabeth and assuring her that the family had needed her for years, whether they had known it or not. Richard stood near Darcy and behaved with admirable propriety until the very moment after the ceremony, when he murmured something that made Darcy’s mouth twitch despite his best efforts.
Even Lady Catherine de Bourgh came, accompanied by Miss Anne de Bourgh.
The grand woman had separated herself from her late sister’s family many years before, determined to preserve her daughter’s reputation, consequence, and eligibility from the shadow George Darcy had cast over his own name. Elizabeth had heard enough to understand there had been pain beneath the pride, and fear beneath the severity. As Rosings was only fifty miles from Longbourn, and as the earl had written both to encourage her attendance and to vouch for the respectable nature of his nephew and his nephew’s chosen bride, Lady Catherine had made the journey.
Her congratulations were stiff. Her gaze was searching. Her comments upon the size of the church, the quality of the breakfast, and the management of the Bennet household were delivered in a tone that suggested both judgment and restraint.
Elizabeth, who had already survived Wickham, the marriage settlements, her mother’s nerves, and three fittings of a gown whose sleeves had apparently been constructed by an enemy, found Lady Catherine rather less terrifying than advertised.
Miss de Bourgh was thin, pale, and quiet, but when Georgiana took her arm, she smiled. Elizabeth thought there might be hope there too, in time.
Jane wept through half the ceremony. Mrs. Bennet wept through all of it, loudly enough that Mr. Bennet was obliged to hand her his own handkerchief after hers became unequal to the task. Mary looked solemnly pleased. Kitty and Lydia whispered until a look from Richard silenced them both. Mr. Philips stoodwith Mrs. Philips, his face bright with pride, and when Elizabeth signed the register, he sniffed and pretended it was dust in the church.
Elizabeth Bennet.
She looked at the name for a moment before setting down the pen.
The last time.
When she turned, Darcy was watching her.
Not with triumph. Not possession. Not impatience.
With tenderness.
As if he understood that joy could still hold a farewell within it, and that even happy changes asked a little courage.
She smiled at him.
Then she signed the next paper as Elizabeth Darcy.
That, she found, required no courage at all.
The wedding breakfast passed in a blur of embraces, toasts, laughter, tears, and Mrs. Bennet’s repeated assurances that she had always known Elizabeth would marry very well, though perhaps notquiteso well, for who could have guessed? Mr. Bennet kissed Elizabeth’s forehead before she left and held her hands longer than was his habit.
“You have done well, Lizzy,” he said quietly.
She looked at him in surprise, for his voice was too serious for teasing.
“Thank you, Papa.”
His fingers tightened once around hers. “Be happy.”
“I mean to be.”
“Then I shall not spoil the occasion by offering advice.”
