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E lizabeth watched bemusedly as Miss Bingley quickly made her excuses and left the shop. Madame Ellofe seemed just as bewildered, though she did issue an apology on behalf of her client, stating that though she had sent every one of her customers a notice about her shop being closed for the day, she had not considered sending a note to Miss Bingley seeing as she was unaware that the lady was in London.

Elizabeth did not let her mind linger on the woman. She was a little curious if Mr. Bingley had accompanied his sister to London, and if he had, where he had left his courtship with Jane, but Lizzy was, perhaps understandably selfishly, more interested in her own upcoming nuptials. The dress she was wearing was one of Madame Ellofe’s latest creations, made with intricate Irish lace dyed a very light, cream colour and stitched over ivory silk. Elizabeth had loved it at first sight, and the veil (of a matching Irish lace) was styled like a Juliet cap over her hair. Elizabeth had been adamant that her face be unobstructed as she walked down the aisle, for it was the one thing Fitzwilliam had insisted on, and this was the compromise that was reached between her and her modiste.

Her grandmother who, having completely forgotten Miss Bingley the moment that woman left the store, was looking at her with tears welling up in her eyes, “Oh, Lizzy! You look absolutely wonderful!”

Elizabeth grinned back, and then twirled childishly, “Do you really think so?”

“Oh absolutely. The most beautiful bride there ever was. Would you not say so, Madame Ellofe?”

“Yes, my Lady. Miss Braxton looks a lot like you when you were her age.”

“There. You heard the lady. You look like me, and I was the belle of the season when I came out.” Lady Braxton gloated jokingly. Elizabeth giggled, but took it as the compliment it was meant to be. She turned to the mirror to her right, then grew serious as she examined herself in-depth,

“Do you think Fitzwilliam will like it?” She asked her grandmother quietly, smoothing the fabric over her fluttery stomach,

Lady Braxton scoffed, “My dear Lizzy, I would not be surprised if that man ended up swooning on the altar.”

Jane Bennet would not ever let anybody see, but she was feeling terribly aggrieved. The entirety of the Netherfield party had abruptly left Hertfordshire two days ago with nary a word of farewell, having closed their house and dismissed all the servants, and, as a result, their little village of Meryton had almost come alive with all the speculations.

Had someone died? Had the family committed a crime because of which they needed to flee the country? Had Mr. Bingley somehow suddenly managed to lose all his fortune and become unable to afford an estate? And the most scandalous one of them all, Had Miss Bingley fallen into disgrace and gotten with child?

Jane could not even understand how that last rumour came to be. It was a horrible, horrible thing to speculate about an honourable lady. Jane liked to think well of humanity in general, but she was also starting to understand that people could be quite cruel.

Because along with the Bingleys, her reputation was also suffering.

Mrs. Long, the sweet old woman whose garden Jane always helped tend in the summers, had called her a jilted woman . Mrs. Smith, at whose store Jane always shopped for all of her buttons and ribbons, was heard to have said that she was not at all surprised that Mr. Bingley had given up his suit. After all, I have never seen a lady more meek and unresponsive to flirtation.

Jane had had little time to examine her own heart. Her mother was both furious and devastated enough for the both of them. She took turns being offended by Mr. Bingley’s callous behaviour, and being angry at Jane for not showing the man more favour. Jane did not know how to tell her mother that she did do everything that was in her power to encourage his affections. She accepted happily every time he asked her to dance, smiled prettily every time he paid her a compliment, and agreed enthusiastically with him every time he professed an opinion.

Her courtship with Mr. Bingley had been much more harmonious than Elizabeth’s had been with Mr. Darcy. And yet, it was her cousin who was getting married to her beau in London, and it was Jane who was left with nothing but a note written in Mr. Bingley’s sister’s hand.

If what Miss Bingley had written held any semblance of truth, then Mr. Bingley had treated her very ill. His attentions had been most marked, especially after the Netherfield ball. Even her father, who often cared not for silly girly things romances and attachments had reassured her that she had not imagined things, and neither had she been delusional. He had also deigned to tell her that a woman ought to be crossed in love at least once in her life. Apparently, it built character. Jane did not feel as if she had gained any wisdom from the experience. Quite the opposite, she had never before felt more foolish.

When Jane had first discovered Mr. Bingley's departure, she had been so completely confused, it had almost felt like she was losing her mind.

Had she made a mountain out of a molehill? Had she seen roses where there were none? Had his sweet compliments and starry gaze been only appreciation for a pretty girl and nothing more?

Perhaps if his flirtation had ended right after the night of the Netherfield Ball, she might have been able to convince herself that she had managed to fall in love with only a gentleman’s kindness. But, after the ball, after Mr. Darcy’s abrupt departure, and Elizabeth’s equally hurried leaving, they had spent a fortnight devoting almost every social hour to each other. For fourteen days he had sought her company, had followed her around, had talked almost exclusively with her to the point that she was afraid he might give offence to the rest of the people around them.

Jane had not been wrong to interpret his attention as affection and interest. It was Mr. Bingley who was in the wrong. A cad of the worst sort. She felt sorry for poor Miss Darcy with whom he was said to have an arrangement. Jane decided she would write to Lizzy warning her of Mr. Bingley’s character. She was certain her cousin would not want a man like that anywhere near her soon-to-be sister.

The Darcy wedding was quite possibly the most talked about topic in London. Fitzwilliam Darcy, one of the most eligible bachelors since his entering society was finally off the market. His chosen bride, though not yet part of the ton herself, was known to be from a very promising stock. Like her husband, though her father was not titled himself, her grandfather from her mother’s side was an Earl. In fact, she was Earl of Wrexham’s only granddaughter and was widely known to be his favourite offspring. The couple were, by the public in general, considered to be perfectly matched.

The ceremony was to take place at St. James’s Church with a common licence, seeing as neither the groom nor the bride were parishioners of any of the churches in London. Though the guest list was only confined to the closest of family, quite a large crowd had formed at the gates of the cathedral in hopes of getting a look at the bride and the groom when they departed after the wedding.

Elizabeth was nervously pacing by herself in the little room that had been assigned as her dressing room for the day. She had been all but ready to walk down the aisle and marry Fitzwilliam when Hala had realised that the shoes they had brought from home had somehow been switched. The pair she had been trying to fit into had been too small and so her maid had raced out to see if a replacement could be found. Elizabeth would prefer not to wear the leather boots she had worn to the church. The morning of her wedding had been rather wet, and her footwear was quite filthy from having had to walk through the muddy grounds of the church.

She was chewing at her nails, nervous but pretending not to be when the door opened. Elizabeth jumped up, though her smile fell off her face when the person on the other side of the threshold was not Hala.

Instead, it was an older woman whom Elizabeth had never met. With sharp features set in an inscrutable expression and a stocky frame, she looked quite intimidating, as did the equally heavy-set maid who was trailing behind her,

“Can I help you?” Elizabeth asked, more than a little confused.

The woman took her query as permission to enter. Now that she could observe better, Elizabeth could see that the maid behind her was holding a tray carrying two glasses of sherry.

“You look just like your grandmother.” The old woman observed. Elizabeth tried to smile, though it was not a very good attempt. There was something about the woman that unsettled her,

“Forgive me. Have we met?” Lizzy asked,

“I suppose I should introduce myself. I am Lady Catherine de Bourgh. I am Darcy’s aunt.”

“Oh.” Elizabeth bit her lip. This was the aunt who had come all the way to her grandfather’s house to confront Fitzwilliam. Elizabeth herself had not been present in the room during their argument, but she had heard from both her grandfather and her betrothed that Lady Catherine had left the conversation displeased.

Elizabeth could only suppose that displeased was a very mild word for what the lady was actually feeling.

Why had she come? Was it in a desperate final attempt to dissuade Elizabeth from going through with the wedding?

“I can tell what you are thinking.” Lady Catherine said, closing the distance between them, “You are an open book, my dear.”

Lizzy took a step back despite herself, “I do not know what you mean.”

“It is quite all right.” Lady Catherine shrugged, “I have not come to cause trouble. In truth, I had hoped to reconcile with my nephew before his wedding. But I do not know if you have noticed- there is quite a bit of a crowd outside the church. It was too late to have a talk with Darcy by the time I managed to enter the venue. And so, I came here. I only wanted to congratulate you on your nuptials, and I wanted to apologise for causing such a scene in your home. I fear that as I grow older, I am unable to control my emotions as well as I could in the past.”

“Oh.” Elizabeth relaxed. The woman had only come to apologise. She wanted to reconcile. Elizabeth grinned, both in relief and in happiness. Despite trying his best to hide it from her, Elizabeth knew Fitzwilliam hated to quarrel with his aunt. She was, after all, his dear late mother’s only sister. Neither she, nor her husband-to-be had particularly large families. They ought not to estrange themselves from the ones that they did have, “I am glad. Fitzwilliam will be so pleased.”

Lady Catherine smiled back, then motioned the maid behind her to bring forth the drinks. Taking one of the glass crystals for herself, she passed the other to Elizabeth,

“I remember the day I got married very clearly. I was a very nervous bride. My sister, Darcy’s mother, snuck in a glass of sherry for me to calm my nerves. I wanted to carry the tradition. Will you not drink with me, Miss Braxton?”

How could she refuse? Elizabeth took the glass readily, saying, “Please, you must call me Elizabeth, or even Lizzy if you prefer.”

Lady Catherine’s smile was maternal, warm and benevolent, “Lizzy then.”