Page 35

“Tomorrow!” his Elizabeth said, plainly surprised. “I thought we had decided upon Friday. I know Mrs Reynolds has been planning a wedding breakfast for after the ceremony. It might upset those plans.”

“We can still have the breakfast on Friday if you like. I do not care what day the breakfast takes place.”

Elizabeth gave him a keen look. “You wish for our marriage to be an accomplished fact by the time your aunt arrives.”

“Yes. So much of her complaint about my marriage—which, by the way, she would have protested regardless of my bride—is rendered useless by the wedding having already taken place. I care little for anything she has to say about it, and nothing will ever change my mind. I simply feel there will be much less chance that I am required to banish her from Pemberley or even break with her entirely if she does not say the worst of what she will be thinking.”

Elizabeth winced. “She will hate me.”

Darcy placed his arm around his betrothed and drew her more closely to him. “As possibly you have already noticed, charm is in short supply within my family lines. She will hate the idea of you, or indeed anyone other than Anne, as my wife. Her opinions matter little to me. But she is my dear mother’s sister, and I would like to avoid a permanent rift, if possible.”

“Then we shall marry tomorrow,” she agreed.

He tilted her chin up, so that he could kiss her properly. He spoke no more than the truth; he did wish to avoid at least half of his aunt’s displeasure. Nevertheless, the idea of marrying the woman of his dreams in a matter of hours instead of days filled him with joy.

Elizabeth had always supposed that her wedding day would be full of excitement and nerves. The excitement was there, of course. The nerves, however, were entirely absent. She had stayed up rather late, finishing the embroidery on the gown that she now wore; Mrs Bennet had fussed over the changes to the breakfast menu, based upon what they could have ready in time. Mrs Reynolds, that rock of sense and sagacity, handled both the change in plans and Elizabeth’s mother with finesse and diplomacy.

And now she was here in Lambton’s lovely little chapel, its ornamentation hand-carved a century past with the delicacy of true artistry, surrounded only by family—Jane, standing up with her, with Colonel Fitzwilliam, who attended Darcy—and facing her bridegroom and the next part of her life with an eagerness she had seldom known. The vicar read the words that so recently she had heard him voice at Jane and Bingley’s ceremony.

“…If any man do allege and declare any impediment, why they may not be coupled together in Matrimony, by God’s Law, or the Laws of this Realm—” Mr Bradley began.

The chapel’s tall doors were suddenly, dramatically flung open.

“I do allege,” shrieked a feminine voice from that entrance. The lady stood silhouetted against the sun at her back so that her face was mostly in shadow, but Elizabeth would never forget that voice—even though it was pitched several degrees higher than she remembered from Rosings Park in Kent. “Stop this immediately! I declare an impediment! The most fundamental impediment of all! Mr Darcy is engaged to my daughter!”

The small congregation of onlookers turned to her with nearly identical expressions of shock and dismay.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Darcy muttered. “Excuse me for a very few moments, Elizabeth. I shall have her removed. Fitzwilliam, fetch Burns,” he said, naming his house steward—a man capable of dealing with flood, famine, or foolish relations. He glanced at the vicar. “Mr Bradley, remain where you are, if you please. This is all nonsense.”

“Perhaps we ought to delay the rest of the ceremony,” the elderly vicar replied, glancing at Elizabeth apologetically. “An engagement is not a true impediment, but of course one wishes to protect your bride’s reputation and your standing, sir.”

Lady Catherine advanced farther into the chapel’s interior. “That is right and proper,” she said approvingly to the vicar. “Darcy was intended for my daughter from the cradle—it was the favourite wish⁠—”

“Mother!” a new voice called sharply; Anne de Bourgh appeared in the open doorway. “What do you think you are about?”

The older woman turned to her daughter. “I am defending your rights, Anne. Go back to the house. I have the situation well in hand.”

“No, you do not. I swear, Mother, if you do not turn around and walk away right this moment, I will never speak to you again!”

“You are hysterical, you obstinate, ungrateful child, and do not know what you say. I have come here with the resolution of carrying my purpose, and I will not be dissuaded from it.”

Mrs Bennet lunged forward from her pew—ready, Elizabeth feared, to strike Lady Catherine with her parasol. Mr Bennet seized his wife and forcibly obliged her to return to her seat, as Miss de Bourgh marched towards them.

“I am neither hysterical nor a child nor betrothed to Darcy,” Miss de Bourgh cried. “My fortune is within my own power. If you do not leave with me immediately, I shall know how to act. With the assistance of Mr and Mrs Darcy, I will set up my household as far away from you as I can go, and you may expect never to be received by any of us or their friends ever again, if you wilfully refuse me now. Look at me, Mother. Look at me! Do I lie?” Her eyes blazed, her colour was high, her hands clenched into fists; indeed, she appeared as vigorous as when she had confronted Elizabeth with accusations of extortion; Elizabeth thought her quite improved over her former appearance at Rosings. “Tell her, Darcy. Do I lie?”

Darcy stepped forward, his fury plain to see. “There is no engagement. There never has been. I am not responsible for your refusal to listen to either of us. Your daughter speaks truly. Go with her. Do it! Now!”

Lady Catherine looked from one to the other of them, as if searching for vulnerability; she did not find it in the equally fierce appearances of either. She gathered her skirts, chin in the air, and swept out of the chapel. Her daughter’s intense expression faded at once. Giving Darcy and Elizabeth a firm nod, she followed her mother out. Lydia giggled.

Darcy sighed, turning back to Mr Bradley. “You will continue, sir, if Miss Bennet is amenable.”

Elizabeth stepped closer to Darcy, holding out her hand. He took it. “I am.”

Mr Bradley drew a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his perspiring brow. Clearing his throat, he turned back to his prayer book. Evidently forgetting where in the ceremony they had been, he started back at the beginning.

“Dearly beloved,” he began again.

EPILOGUE