And then, they looked at each other, while Mamma finally burst into tears and chortled at the top of her voice, and Lydia was already complaining that she was surely tall enough to manage a two-year-old, and Mary offered the dry, unbidden observation that it was better to marry than to burn.
Elizabeth could only give Darcy a wet smile, blinking back tears she had no right to shed, born of reasons she could never explain, not even to Charlotte Lucas. Darcy did not smile in return, and she found, upon reflection, that she preferred it—for a man who could offer a pleasantry at such a moment would have been entirely absurd.
Rising to his feet, he released her hand, bowed, and turned to her father. “Mr. Bennet, my solicitor shall attend you. I have come prepared with a special license, and we shall be wed on Thursday. Mrs. Darcy will want for nothing. My carriages shall be arranged to ensure her every comfort.”
“Thank you, Mr. Darcy,” her father wheezed from the pillows. He coughed, then turned his fever-bright eyes toward Elizabeth. “Godspeed, child. Godspeed.”
“Miss Elizabeth?” Darcy queried as he stood with his hand upon the door. “Will you require additional arrangements?”
“No, Mr. Darcy, I shall be prepared.”
If he found her eagerness strange, he gave no sign, bowing stiffly to her weeping mother and her stunned sisters before stepping out into the rain. The study, once filled with his formidable presence, now felt overwhelmingly small, as if the walls had closed in upon those who remained behind, their future now significantly altered.
CHAPTER TWO
THE NEW MRS. DARCY
Thursday dawnedwith a brilliance that seemed almost deliberately cheerful, the sort of April sky that made a man question its motives.
No gentleman required blue skies to conduct necessary business, yet Hertfordshire had arrayed itself in the sort of brilliance that ought to have been reserved for lovers and luncheons on the lawn. Instead, Darcy stood beneath the water-stained ceiling of Bennet’s library, awaiting a bride who, by all rights, might have preferred him consigned to the nearest well.
Everything was in order, save for the bride. He could hear the commotion upstairs and the servants running up and down. The middle sister pounded on an out-of-tune pianoforte, turning a light sonatina into a dirge. Mr. Bennet lay propped in his chair, eyes closed, breathing with a wet, labored rattle.
Darcy checked his pocket watch and unfolded the special license. Mr. Blythewood, his attorney, stood by the window with the practiced blankness of a man paid never to observe a scandal; Mr. Philips, the Bennet solicitor, flipped through a pamphlet. Mercifully, the stacks of damp books had been cleared, and the sunny weather ensured his vows would not be said to the rhythmic plop of water hitting a washbasin.
He placed the license beside the curate’s prayer book, nodding to the clergyman, who seemed to be praying for a swift conclusion.
“You will forgive me, Mr. Darcy,” Mr. Bennet murmured, eyes still shuttered. “I find I am saving my strength for the part where I weep with relief.”
What did Bennet expect his soon-to-be son to say to him? He had already assured them of solvency. The London physician had been summoned in due haste. He was in no mood for jesting, and he doubted he could send off any daughter with the casual disregard Mr. Bennet seemed to demonstrate toward his offspring.
“Bennet, are you well?” Mr. Philips looked over solicitously.
“I am rather enjoying the spectacle,” Mr. Bennet replied. “I never expected any of my daughters to wed, and in such splendor. My library, my deathbed, and my daughter’s wedding, all in a hundred odd square feet. There is an economy in it I cannot help but admire.”
Darcy inclined his head and said nothing, for any reply would only dignify Bennet’s irreverence. However peculiar the circumstances, this remained a marriage, and Elizabeth had offered herself with a generosity he had not foreseen. The same Elizabeth, who had once refused the heir of Longbourn with such arch independence, now stood prepared to bind herself for the sake of a motherless child and her family’s uncertain future.
He looked toward the door, and it opened to the sound of rustling muslin.
Elizabeth entered, and Darcy’s breath caught despite his resolve. She met his gaze resolutely, like he knew she would. Her steps were steady, and other than the color in her cheeks, a very light tinge, she was as composed as he had expected, and maybe more than he would have desired.
Her pale gown, though worn, had been redeemed by new lace at the throat and a ribbon of woven silk beneath the bosom. Jane hovered at her side, brow furrowed, her anxious gaze flitting from Darcy to her father to the curate. She appeared unwell, and he wondered, perhaps uncharitably, how she would have responded had he chosen her.
As it was, Elizabeth had appeared, and he bowed to her as her mother and sisters crowded into the room, all dressed in their Sunday finery.
“Mr. Darcy?” The curate consulted his prayer book. “If you are ready, sir.”
Taking her hand, which trembled, he and Elizabeth recited the words that had bound Englishmen and women together for centuries. He promised to love and cherish her, all the while suspecting himself a fraud before God and the assembled Bennets.
Perhaps she, too, was guilty. Her responses rang out, steady and clear, for all the room to hear:I will; to love, honor, and obey.
He had spent the preceding autumn watching her refuse to be docile for anyone. The smooth ease of her vows did not fit the woman he knew. She turned her head while the curate searched for the ring, caught him staring, and arched one brow—a silent inquiry as to why he found the transaction he had dictated so absorbing.
There she was—his Elizabeth, ever the observer of irony, with no patience for the absurd as the curate, in tones fit for a cathedral, pronounced them Mr. and Mrs. Darcy.
The rings were exchanged, the deed accomplished, and not a kiss to mark the occasion.
Elizabeth did not look at him but crossed the room to her father’s chair and knelt, her face level with his. “Well, Papa, you see what comes of leaving your investments to chance.Your least manageable daughter married before noon, with not so much as a wedding breakfast to show for it. I hope you are ashamed of yourself.”
