Chapter Text
The autumn sky on either side of the chapel roof was cloud-coloured, and it was a sky of two minds: sullen, but stubborn. As was the bridegroom. Elizabeth, who prided herself on her faculty of discernment and had longed to exert it in the previous forty-eight hours – the duration of her engagement – now found it useless. That Mr. Darcy was displeased was evident, for he was leveling his gaze at the Michaelmas daisies in her hands and, to judge by his cloudy complexion, not liking what he saw.
"Miss Elizabeth."
(A bow.)
"Mr. Darcy."
(A curtsy.)
"Your father" (Mr. Darcy’s eyes now moved to the premises within the Rosings chapel) "has given me to understand that, by his own terms, he will not be marching you to the altar."
"Not quite," said Elizabeth. "The terms were mine, though he complied with them readily. We may not, sir, have another opportunity to talk before the deed is done, and ‘twere well (to your aunt’s mind) it was done quickly."
Mr. Darcy flinched darkly. A gentleman born and bred, he must have known her MacBeth quote for what it was, though he did not take it up. Nor did he deny Lady Catherine’s wish to have her engagement with the Bennets, lock, stock and musket wedding, over within the briefest delay.
Instead...
"And it shall be so," said he coldly. "My aunt de Bourgh saw fit to attend on your family and, through an unhappy combination of cards, ratafia and your mother’s... " (here, Mr. Darcy bit his lip) "... persuasiveness, to wager my hand at Quadrille. Against, I should say, my strictest warnings. She lost; I am yours; let me, by all means, pay the forfeit at the altar. I am a man of my word, however little it was consulted in this matter, and you need not doubt that I shall make you a winner in effect."
"Hold, sir!" And Elizabeth, tossing the posy aside, grabbed her reticule. "To insult me may be your gambit. But I beg leave" - she had coloured, and now shook with a passion of feeling - "to think myself no less offended by the cards. They, at least, owe me reparation."
She now took out a deck of cards, which the gentleman could only look at with a nonplussed eye.
"You… do not wish to step to the altar?"
"Only if I lose this hand," Elizabeth replied, as she settled herself on the chapel steps. Before her, in the chapel’s yard, the tombstones lay in the open grass; keeping each other loose company, like the cards which Elizabeth now fanned out on the stone. She raised her chin, meeting her intended’s eyes with defiance. As for Mr Darcy, he still looked exceedingly puzzled.
"And then I shall keep my tears to salt my broth. Come, sir! and be gay: I am told that I am quite improved at vingt-et-un."
It is a longstanding jest among the respectable and informed, that a wedding breakfast should either be a very small or a very large affair. If the one, it will grant the newly-weds a shorter time in which to endure the scrutiny of the gathering; if the other, the boon of privacy found in early and unnoticed disappearance.
Mr. Darcy’s nuptials were neither one nor the other. The company was scarce, but the banquet most refined, although not near so warm-hearted as might have been thought to befit a wedding. It consisted of cold veal in aspic, cold ham ditto, chilled white wine, fruits glacés and white currant ice which Lady Catherine’s cook had apparently decreed fit for the occasion, perhaps as a revenge for being told at eight that (a) her mistress would be home at noon of the same, (b) with a party of six, (c) including a bride.
Such cold comfort was not of a nature to raise Elizabeth’s spirits. She touched her lips to her congealed spoon, shivered, and walked to the nearest corner of the living-room so as not to stand in the way of cheers. Lady Catherine had exceeded herself in keeping the wedding a family matter. But it did involve one loud clergyman, now being most persistent in his complimentary strain. The same that had suddenly, and very provokingly, opened the chapel door in order to inquire after the bride and groom, and stepped right on Elizabeth’s queen of spades.
There had been no putting off the vows, then, not when Mr. Collins had made his sortie flanked by a nerve-amok’d Mrs. Bennet.
"Come, come, Lizzy." And now her father was seeking her out, his concern for her ill-screened by his wryness of tone. "Marrying in haste may be our family trait, but is it not early yet for repentance?"
They looked at each other, shrewd in their mutual love.
"It seems a little hard, sir, that I should be gambled away to disprove a proverb."
"Well, you know your mother. When it comes to you and matrimony - better soon than Saint Never's day."
"But you, sir –"
"Lizzy, I put my foot down. Trust me, child, I did. But it couldn't be expected to quash Her Ladyship."
"Who could?" exclaimed the new Mrs. Darcy; then, in lower tones, "Not Darcy, to be sure, and yet he seems not a man who would suffer to be made a fool. It is all so extraordinary. Why would he let her interfere thus far, and turn him into a gaming counter? What can he possibly think will come of this?"
"Perhaps he hoped for the worst and prepared for the best." Her father, whimsical as ever, had gone back to disproving proverbs. "He did have forty-eight hours to know you, my love."
"And I him, and still feel unprepared. What am I to –"
"Put the gift horse under a magnifying glass, Lizzy. Hopefully - " But Mr. Darcy, apparently recalled to his duties as a married man, had joined their party.
"Are you fond of horses?" he asked Mrs. Darcy. The abrupt inquiry had her start before she could recollect herself. Mr. Darcy flushed uneasily, as far down as his billowing necktie would allow him, but carried on. "Pemberley's stables will, of course, be at your disposal."
"I am never so happy as when I walk." Her answer had come quickly - so quickly, indeed, that Elizabeth felt the need to amend it. "But I return thanks for your thought, and double them for your acting on it."
"Thus settling my point." And the elder of the two gentlemen smiled. "As I was telling your wife, sir – all good things come to a beginning."
Elizabeth's first wifely duty did find her unprepared, but willing. For no sooner had she set foot in Pemberley, and been paraded through a double row of servants, that their commander-in-chief, one Mrs. Reynolds, murmured, "Tea will be in the library, my lady."
Elizabeth gave her a grateful smile. Having not partaken of the wine, punch, eau rougie, and such refreshments as had been provided earlier, she now found herself, as all young ladies do who make a point of abstaining from a public meal, in favour of a private sip. Yet with the sip came Mr. Darcy, and Elizabeth braced herself for him, and the pot, which turned out to be china and twice as heavy as her mother’s. Tea, like her wedding, was to be solemnized. She took a breath; turned to her fully lawful husband; and, keeping the pot between them, asked, "Do you care for weak tea or strong tea?"
"A dangerous question," said he, "for the answer may ruin me in your opinion. Ladies are apt to see signs and portents in our every taste. Strong will speak of an obstinate temper, and weak of a lack of any. Should I say mild?"
If this was banter, it came out in such a stiff delivery that Elizabeth, still wrestling the old and majestic Sèvres, could only reply, "I may be a weak hand at providing it. My sister Jane dispenses tea at our home."
Thoughts of our home and Jane hosting its tea-table brought a jolt of homesickness. Elizabeth poured, careful not to fill his cup to the rim, and willed her mood away while he bowed and took the cup from her hand. She expected him to drink and rise at once, but instead he said, "And are you all very varied in your tastes?"
"Oh, indeed." Elizabeth found herself warming to her subject, even as she poured for herself. "I myself am an indifferent drinker. But my sister Lydia will have the first bloom of the pot, while Mother can only endure the palest brew. Kitty wants cream last and lemon first, and Mary is one for green tea and lecturing the pot." The talk had animated her, and, before she knew, she had picked up a Bath bun from the plate. "But Jane sees to every whim and leaves us all at ease. I have been very fortunate to have her -"
She could not finish her sentence, and, suddenly sated, laid her spoon across the empty cup. This sign did not escape Mr Darcy's notice. He rose and excused himself, saying that Mrs. Reynolds would see to her needs. There was nothing left for Elizabeth but to watch him depart, though she was surprised when he paused at the door.
"Ease is not my forte, Miss -" (the speaker paused, uncertain as to the best way of address) "- but I would not have you speak of your sister in the past. At least, accept my strong and unchangeable opinion" (stiffly, yet not unkindly) "that she will be welcome any time that she chooses to visit here."
Another pause.
Another bow.
"I have greatly enjoyed our tea."
She could hardly echo this. But as he strode out of the room, she found her spirits mysteriously revived, and, being left with more appetite than gloom, applied herself once more to the buns.
That same night found Elizabeth alone. It was clear that Mr Darcy thought ill of being a husband in anything but name, and had accordingly confined himself to the Master's bedroom. Only a door separated his from Elizabeth's night quarters, but eleven came and went with no knock to its wood panels – no noise, indeed, but the soft chime of a mantle clock.
She was thus at leisure to examine her position. While she could not pretend to find it agreeable, it had so far proved less of a trial than a hazard. Granted, Mr Darcy was an enigma. A gentleman who had been all pride on the church steps and all mortification at the altar ("I dare say I must"), yet had sensed her own plight and answered it with tea and sympathy. To say nothing of a third Darcy, who had retired hours before sunlight, leaving it to his servants to light the bride’s candle and wish her good night. That Darcy had not improved upon acquaintance, and the prospect of sharing even a token marriage with such a Harlequin gave Elizabeth no pleasure.
Unable to find sleep in a strange bed, she rose and threw a shawl around her shoulders. Her candle was still lit and she longed for a book. How foolish, she chided herself, to have spent a whole hour in Pemberley’s library and not possessed herself of one! Still, she could find her way back to it. There was only a staircase to brave, and the harvest moon shone full at this time of year. Holding her candle before her, she took a step to the door, then two –; laid her hand on the knob –; turned it, and found herself facing Mr. Darcy in the corridor - his face a livid patch above his dressing-gown, and his hair uncharacteristically tousled.
Elizabeth, while still a maid, was no green girl when it came to the dark. But this vision was enough to draw a cry from her.
"Sir!"
"Where were you going?"
His voice was sharp: a stimulant for Elizabeth, who rallied her spirits and answered, "I felt in no mood for sleep, and thought a turn outside -"
"This will not do." Mr. Darcy spoke with agitation, though he now appeared to recollect himself. "I beg your pardon. But I cannot have you ramble thus in my house at night - I must insist that you stay in your room."
On being spoken to so rudely, Elizabeth's own temper now deserted her, leaving her in a position to match his words, if not his violence. "Pardon me," she said, "for thinking that myself, along with my sister, had been made welcome in your house."
Mr. Darcy did not budge, but the candlelight caught the faint colour on his cheeks.
"You are," said he curtly, "if you grant me leave to make you safe as well."
He looked as unyielding as ever to let her pass, and Elizabeth, swayed by shock and incredulity, had no repartee for his. All she could do was to repudiate her faith in his better parts, nay, in his common humanity, when he raised his hand –
- and put her candle out.