Page 28

L ord Braxton looked down at his granddaughter, his expression a little bemused,

“Are you feeling all right, Lizzy?” He asked. She nodded. Underneath her veil, he could see very little of her. The darkness of her hair, the paleness of her skin. Her hand on his arm felt lighter, frailer than usual. Victor wondered if the occasion of her wedding was making him emotional, reminding him of the time when she was just a child. Her grip back then had been so light, he might as well have had a bird perched on his arm.

“Are you nervous?” He asked again. Again, Elizabeth nodded. She really did look quite tense. Victor tried to remember how he had felt when he had married his Rose. They had had their wedding in a dingy little inn in Gretna Green. Despite having travelled together on the road for a little over four days, when he had stood in front of the pastor, he had felt nervous enough to want to cast up his accounts onto his shoes. He wondered if ladies felt similarly when they were about to get married. If so, he wisely decided against asking his granddaughter any more questions.

“Well then, I suppose it is time to walk, my dear.” Victor leaned closer to her, and Elizabeth stiffened further, “Just one word from you, Lizzy, and I shall take you away from it all if you have changed your mind. You do not have to marry him if you do not wish to.”

Elizabeth shook her head, and Victor grinned. He expected nothing less. Never in his life had he seen a more besotted couple than his Lizzy and Darcy.

“Very good. Then come, my child, let us go to your beloved.”

Darcy’s back straightened when he heard the door to the antechamber open. He turned smoothly on his boots, his smile, genuine but nervous, wavering on his face when he saw his bride walk towards him.

He was… a little disappointed.

Elizabeth’s dress was beautiful, and so was her veil, he supposed. He did wish she had not decided to take part in the recent trend of ladies hiding their faces before weddings. He had pictured this day so many times, and in every one of his musings, she had been looking right at him, smiling bright as the sun as she walked towards him.

Darcy’s brows furrowed, only slightly, but the smile did not diminish. He was too happy to let such a small detail bother him for more than a moment. As Elizabeth and Lord Braxton came to stand before him, he stepped down and reached out his own hand. With a heavy nod, Lord Braxton passed his granddaughter’s hand to him, and Darcy held it in his grip solemnly, feeling the responsibility of Elizabeth’s health and happiness falling onto him from that moment on.

Together, the couple stepped up onto the platform before the altar, and then kneeled in front of the pastor. Elizabeth’s hand in his felt smaller than usual, more fragile. He wondered if she was afraid. He squeezed it reassuringly.

Only in the back of his mind; he worried a little when she did not squeeze back.

All throughout the pastor’s speech, Darcy tried, again and again, to catch her eye, but the blasted veil was blocking his view completely. His normally spirited Elizabeth was so unresponsive and stiff as she kneeled beside him, that Darcy almost felt like he was marrying a piece of lace.

He worried.

Was she truly afraid? Of what? Of him? Was she rethinking her decisions? Was she regretting accepting his proposal?

The pastor bid them stand. Darcy did so hurriedly. The sooner this blasted ceremony ended, the sooner he would be able to pull the blasted veil off her head and the sooner he would be able to speak to her.

“Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy state of matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour and keep her, in sickness and in health; and forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”

“I will.” He spoke confidently, trying to look encouraging as he smiled. Again, he squeezed her hand. This time, he distinctly felt her flinch. Darcy gritted his teeth. What in the world was happening?

“Miss Elizabeth Braxton, Wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy state of matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, serve him, love, honour, and keep him in sickness and in health; and forsaking all other, keep only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?”

For a long moment, there was only silence.

“Miss Braxton?” The pastor prompted her. Darcy was at the end of his patience,

“Elizabeth, what is wrong?”

“I will.” The bride spoke, barely in a whisper.

It was enough.

Darcy froze. Then, taking a step closer he finally noticed all the things his nervousness had not allowed him to before. The woman before him was at least an inch shorter. She was also a little bonier. Now that he had become suspicious, the slight differences were becoming glaringly obvious. Instead of the sweet and powdery scent he was well-nigh addicted to, this woman smelled herbal, almost medicinal. Without a moment’s hesitation, Darcy reached out and tore off the blasted veil from her head.

Anne de Bourgh’s teary, shameful face appeared before him.

Scandalised gasps were heard from all around him. He could hear the Braxtons yelling from somewhere behind him. Distantly, he saw from his peripheral as Aunt Elenor all but swooned into her husband’s arms and Richard shot up from the pews with an unholy swear, but Darcy registered nothing.

He gripped Anne’s twig-thin arms in a maliciously tight hold and pulled her to him until there were bare inches between their faces. Never before had he felt such fury. Even Wickham had not been able to anger him to this extent, and Darcy knew that that bastard had tried. With a gritted voice that barely repressed the rage that was bubbling beneath his skin, he demanded,

“Where. Is. My. Wife?”

Anne closed her eyes tight, averting her face in terror, “I-I know not. Mama just told me to get in her dress and take her place. Darcy, please! You must believe me! I wanted no part in this! Only- she threatened to send me to a nunnery if I did not obey her.”

Darcy scoffed. If she expected sympathy from him, she was going to be sorely disappointed. Disguise of any sort was abhorrent to him. What she and his aunt had attempted to do was the worst sort of crime.

“I swear to God, Anne. If even a single hair on her head has been harmed, forget about the damned nunnery, I will see both you and your mother in prison for your offences.”

Darcy raced down the aisle, meeting Richard somewhere in the middle,

“Check the rooms in the building.” His cousin told him the moment he reached him, “With the crowd outside, there is a higher possibility that Miss Braxton is still in the establishment. I shall get my horse and inspect all the carriages that are seen leaving from this direction.”

Viscount Corwen joined them, looking harried, and stunned and determined, “What can I do to help?”

“Come with me, my Lord. I shall need more hands, and your authority will help control the public.”

And so, with a plan in motion, Darcy left the guests in the hands of his uncle and ran towards the antechamber. At the right side of the vestibule was a hallway with three small rooms. One of which, Darcy knew, Elizabeth had used to get ready. He opened it first. The room appeared undisturbed except for a small crystal glass that lay shattered on the hardwood floor. Gingerly, Darcy picked it up and gave it a sniff. It was faint, but underneath the nutty aroma of the sherry, Darcy could smell the distinct bitter, earthy scent of laudanum.

That blasted old bat! In her senility, she had not only kidnapped the granddaughter of one of the most powerful men in the country, she had kidnapped his bride!

It was a ludicrous situation.

Darcy did not waste another moment. Quickly, he finished searching the rest of the rooms in the hallway, and then went over to the corridor on the left of the antechamber. The three rooms on that corridor were also empty. Cursing like a sailor, he was just about to climb the narrow stairs that led up to the second floor when a spandrel, haphazardly concealed behind a table, caught his eye. The piece of furniture was massive and heavy, but Darcy pushed it away with all his might to get to the door,

When he opened the small closet, his knees almost buckled from relief.

Elizabeth lay inside, hands and feet bound, a cloth tied over her mouth, and a sheet draped over her undress, unconscious but otherwise unharmed.

Quickly, he untied her, pulling her up into his arms,

“Elizabeth?” He was out of breath, his voice hoarse, “Lizzy?”

It took some time for her to come back to her senses. Her eyes, when they met his, were half-mast and glassy,

“Fitzwilliam?” She half-mumbled, then closed her eyes again. He shook her again until she looked at him once more.Opening her eyes looked like it pained her, “What happened?”

Darcy sagged. He would explain it all to her sometime later. And then apologise a million times hoping that she would still want to marry a man with an absolutely insane relative who would go so far as to drug and stash her in an effort to prevent their marriage.

For now, however, he would just let her sleep.

And in the meantime, he would find the culprit who was responsible for it all.

Lady Braxton was crying in the chapel. Her husband was, very unhelpfully, arguing with Lord Fitzwilliam till he was red in the face. The latter man looked more shame-faced than perhaps ever before. His face, too, was red but for completely different reasons. Other than the two families and the pastor, Mr. Bingley was the only outsider present at the ceremony. The young man looked absolutely clueless as to what was happening.

The damned woman- the woman who had taken her child’s place at the altar, still stood there, looking lost and out of place. She was Anne de Bourgh, Lady Braxton supposed. She felt no sympathy for the tart. Had she and her mother truly thought that this… this ridiculous idea of switching brides would work?

Perhaps if the girl had somehow managed to sign the marriage papers, she would have had a case, but did they truly expect Darcy to not notice if his bride refused to speak during the ceremony? Did they expect him to simply shrug and accept his new reality when he finally did realise that he had married the wrong woman?

Oh, but what did it matter? Her little Lizzy! Where was her precious child?

Lady Braxton had always considered herself to be of a tranquil nature, but it was as if there was a storm brewing inside of her as time passed with no sign of her granddaughter. What if that resentful old bag had done something to her? What if she had been abandoned somewhere, helpless and alone? What if her Lizzy-

The door to the antechamber burst opened, and Lady Braxton stood, a hand clutching onto her pearl necklace as Darcy entered, Elizabeth unconscious in his arms. He made a beeline for her even as Lady Braxton burst into tears anew,

“She is well. Only asleep.” The young man tried to reassure her even as he laid her granddaughter on the pew. Elizabeth was wearing his coat, and only a sheet underneath it. Lady Braxton thought he would have sounded more convincing if he himself did not look so shaken. Roseline placed a commiserating hand on his arm,

“I am-” He started, then stopped, shaking his head, “I do not even know how to go about apologising for this.”

Roseline was already shaking her head, but it was Lord Braxton, having come up behind them, who reassured the young man, “None of this is your fault. I have known for a very long time that Catherine was not quite right in the head. I ought to have considered she might try something like this.”

“Sir,” Darcy turned, then bowed, “Forgive me- I had no notion-”

“Straighten up, son. Elizabeth is well. That is all that matters.” Lord Braxton said with finality, then patting Darcy’s shoulder, he continued, “I have talked with your uncle. As soon as Catherine is found, she shall pay for what she attempted to do. Everything else can wait for the morrow.”

Darcy shook his head, “I searched through the entire building. She was nowhere to be found.”

Lord Braxton nodded towards the door, “Your cousin is bringing her in now.”

Darcy turned and saw Richard and Viscount Corwen all but dragging two women along with them. Lady Catherine was writhing in her nephew’s grip, shouting obscenities and looking not at all remorseful for her actions. Darcy vaguely recognised Anne’s companion, Mrs. Jenkins, in Lord Arnold’s hold. She was a large woman, but seemed to have given up struggling, for her head was down, and she was following the Viscount without protest.

Just looking at the two of them, Darcy felt his anger rise once again. Gritting his teeth, he went to his cousin,

“We found them waiting in a carriage at the back of the chapel.” Richard pronounced, then dumped Lady Catherine on one of the pews. The woman at least had enough shame in her to avoid Darcy’s glare. Darcy himself had no pity for his aunt,

“I shall have you sent to Bedlam for your actions.” He said to her in the calmest voice he could manage. Everybody was surprised. Richard looked at him with wide eyes, but Darcy could tell he did not truly disagree. His aunts and uncle, including Lady Catherine, however, were protesting heatedly. Darcy cared not to listen to them as they went on and on about family honour and societal reputation.

His aunt had planned to trap him in a nightmare. He would see the same done to her.