Page 149 of The Difference of a Darcy
The pews were filling slowly. A few familiar voices murmured, the rustle of muslin and the scrape of shoes echoing faintly on the flagstones. He scarcely noticed them. His thoughts were turned inward—toward the woman who would soon walk through that door.
Elizabeth.
Even now, her name held a power over him that no title or fortune could rival. She had been the cause of his greatestdespair, and the source of his salvation. Because of her, he had learned to live.
He glanced toward the window, where the light struck the frost upon the glass. In the shimmer, he thought of another cold morning—a stream bordered by birch trees, her breath misting in the air, her hand reaching for his.
So much had changed since then. The ache of doubt had been replaced by peace. The world felt new, yet familiar, as though he had been allowed to live it properly at last.
He could still remember that Christmas day with startling clarity. Their arrival back at Hunsford, arm in arm, had sent ripples through the quiet parsonage like a stone through still water.
Mrs. Collins had recovered first, her practical nature swiftly overcoming surprise. After a single, startled gasp, she had smiled and offered sincere congratulations. Mr. Collins, however, had not borne the revelation with such composure. He had gone quite white, stammered something aboutMiss de Bourgh, and sunk heavily into the nearest chair, fanning himself with a handkerchief.
When speech returned, it came in a torrent—his patroness’ certain fury, the ruin of his own good name, the inconceivable audacity of such an engagement. Darcy had endured it in silence for perhaps a minute before advising the man, with as much restraint as he could muster, to hold his tongue—or have it held for him.
Unfortunately, the fool’s predictions of Lady Catherine’s reaction had been underestimated. Her outrage, when she learned of the engagement two hours after her parson did, had made even Collins’ theatrics appear mild. The memory of her voice still rang sharp in his mind—every syllable dripping with disbelief and condemnation. Her fury had been such that,for his own composure’s sake, he had been compelled to quit Rosings altogether.
Yet in a strange way, he owed her for that. For it allowed him to escort Elizabeth home to Longbourn without delay, there to seek her father’s permission properly.
The recollection of Elizabeth’s parents’ astonishment nearly drew a chuckle from him. Mr. Bennet’s shock, Mrs. Bennet’s absolute silence—he doubted he would ever see their like again. It was, he reflected, quite possibly the only time in Mrs. Bennet’s life that words had entirely failed her.
Mr. Bennet, suspecting some elaborate jest, had refused to take the matter seriously at first. It had taken Elizabeth the better part of an hour to persuade him otherwise—and longer still to secure his blessing.
Darcy’s grin deepened as he recalled her final argument: her declaration that, should her father persist in denying her, she would tell her mother at once that he had refused a husband with ten thousand a year and then run away to Gretna Green—leaving him to bear both his wife’s wrathandthe loss of his most sensible daughter.
Even now, the memory made his chest tighten with affection and amusement. How clever she was. How impossible not to love.
With effort, he forced the smile from his lips; it would hardly do to be caught grinning for no reason before the altar.
He smoothed a hand down his coat sleeve, scarcely believing the steadiness of it. He had thought once that this moment would never come, that she would never look upon him with anything but disdain. Yet here he stood, waiting for her.
The murmur of conversation quieted. Somewhere near the back, the door opened, and a breath of cold air drifted through the church.
He turned.
And all thought fled.
Elizabeth entered upon her father’s arm, radiant and serene, and Darcy’s breath stopped in his throat. The world and every sound in it seemed to fall away. There was only her—the living embodiment of every dream he had once dared to wish.
∞∞∞
Two hours later, Darcy found himself leaning back in his chair, his gaze drifting over the guests who had gathered at Longbourn for the wedding breakfast.
Across the room, Bingley was chuckling at something Jane Bennet had said. The sight of them together drew an involuntary smile from him; it was impossible not to be pleased by their happiness.
Although we must deal with my aunts and uncle, he thought to himself wryly, there are at least some good things about being back in our own world.
At Jane’s side, Mrs. Bennet was talking animatedly with the Gardiners, who had travelled from London for the occasion—even though they had only recently been at Longbourn for Christmas. He had not yet spoken much with them, but he looked forward to the opportunity. They seemed every bit as kind and sensible as they had been in that other life.
He let his eyes move around the table. Georgiana was there, bright and composed, listening to something Richard was saying. Her laughter rang out—light, unburdened—and his chest tightened with gratitude. She was free. Wickham was nothing more than a distant memory.
Darcy had seen to that.
As soon as he could tear himself from Elizabeth’s side at Longbourn, he had written an express to his man of businessin London, as well as another to his steward at Pemberley, ordering them to gather every note and obligation bearing Wickham’s name.
Those, combined with the debts he had already incurred in Meryton—debts Darcy had settled in full, though not the soldiers’ debts of honor, which were their own doing—were sufficient to see him confined to the debtor’s prison for the remainder of his life.
Even so, Darcy had to remind himself that this Wickham was notthatWickham, and it would be unjust to punish a man for sins he had not committed. But the knowledge did little to ease the instinctive bitterness that name still evoked, and Darcy determined to not allow the man free of his prison.
