Page 46 of Moments Frozen in Time (Pride and Prejudice Variation)
ELIZABETH
T he storm raged for two full days, fierce and unrelenting in its intensity.
Fitzwilliam took it in stride, accustomed to such occasional tempests from his winters in Derbyshire, but I was wholly unprepared for its ferocity.
It swept in with astonishing speed, cloaking the landscape in drifts of snow so deep I feared we would not see the ground again until spring.
And then—just as suddenly as it had come—it began to ease, leaving behind a world muffled and white.
What astonished me most, however, was that even in the thick of it, the local reverend somehow managed to reach the cottage.
On the first day of our being snowbound, he arrived—windblown and red-cheeked—with his record book clutched firmly in gloved hands.
Fitzwilliam greeted him warmly, and in the cosy sitting room, before a crackling fire and only the servants who had faithfully helped me the last two months as witnesses, we were married.
The ceremony was simple but sincere. The reverend, a kindly man with a broad smile and snow still melting in his beard, took the time to carefully print three copies of our marriage certificate at Fitzwilliam’s request. He pressed them flat beneath a heavy volume to dry whilst Mrs. Mackenzie wiped away a tear and Caitrìona beamed at me like a favourite cousin.
Since discovering the truth of why I was there, their attitude towards me had thawed substantially, and now they spoke more freely to me.
After the reverend’s departure, we gathered in the small dining room for a modest but joyful celebration.
Mrs. MacNair, the cook, had outdone herself—serving a hearty venison stew, warm bannocks fresh from the griddle, and sweet oatcakes drizzled generously with honey.
The little room was filled with the scent of roasting herbs and peat smoke, and despite the storm howling beyond the windows, there was warmth and light enough within.
Mrs. Mackenzie raised her cup of whisky with a nod of approval. “To the bride and groom,” she said, her Scottish burr rich with fondness. “May the winds be ever at your back and yer quarrels short-lived.”
“Aye,” added Caitrìona with a grin, lifting her mug of cider. “And may your bairns be bonny and clever!”
Even Lachlan, a stoic man who had rarely bothered to speak to me during my stay, managed a faint smile as he rumbled, “Good fortune to ye both,” before returning to his seat near the hearth.
I caught Fitzwilliam’s eye as he sat beside me at the table, his gaze warm and full of wonder after all we had endured. Beneath the table, his fingers found mine and curled around them gently.
“You are truly mine now, my dearest Elizabeth,” he murmured, his voice meant for me alone. “Nothing shall ever keep us apart again.”
A rush of emotion rose within me as I leaned closer to my husband, my smile unsteady beneath the force of my joy. “No,” I whispered, my fingers tightening around his, “nothing ever shall.”
Later, we climbed the narrow stairs hand in hand, the warmth of the meal and the kindness of the servants lingering with us.
The chamber assigned to Fitzwilliam was larger and warmer than the others, with thick quilts piled high on a bed far better suited to his frame than the narrow one I had occupied alone.
The wind still battered the walls, but we barely noticed it .
We spent most of the next two days there, sheltered from the storm and the world beyond—wrapped in quiet peace, shared laughter, and the long-awaited comfort of being together at last.
When the storm finally relented and the road to Dumfries became passable once more, we prepared to depart on horseback.
We could not bring my trunk with us, and Fitzwilliam had arranged for it to be carted to town when the weather was good and from there sent on to Pemberley.
Mrs. Mackenzie kindly procured a pair of warm breeches for me to wear beneath my gown, and I bundled myself tightly in layers of wool and borrowed scarves.
My dignity may have taken a small blow, riding astride like a man, but I was warm—and far too grateful to be going home to care about appearances.
The horse I rode belonged to a neighbouring crofter, a sturdy creature with a calm temperament, and Fitzwilliam led the way, glancing back often to ensure I remained steady.
My valise, strapped behind his saddle, held more appropriate clothing for the rest of our travels, but for the moment, I was simply thankful for warmth and movement.
With each step the horses took, I felt the ache of the past months loosening its grip on me.
I was Elizabeth Darcy now—wife of Fitzwilliam Darcy. I was no longer missing, and I would no longer be kept hidden by the ploys of a jealous and bitter woman—and I was soon going home to Pemberley.
It took almost a week to reach Pemberley. Neither Fitzwilliam nor I was in a hurry to return and be forced into the company of others, and the weather provided sufficient reason to make the journey slowly.
Amongst the other things we talked about during our journey was what we would do about my parents and Miss Bingley. Frankly, I had little desire to be in company with any of them ever again, but I knew that we must say or do something after what they had done .
There had been a letter from Mr. Bingley waiting for Fitzwilliam at the inn, and in it, he reported, yet again, that there had been no change in Miss Bingley’s health. The letter had been some weeks old, having been misdirected at first, so I supposed she may have improved, but it seemed unlikely.
However, despite my intentions otherwise, I had found it necessary to speak to Fitzwilliam about what I had learnt regarding Miss Bingley.
Mrs. Mackenzie had made a comment during our stay about that lady, and whilst Fitzwilliam had asked me then, I had chosen to wait until our journey.
On the second day, as his valet studiously ignored our conversation, I revealed to him what I had learnt about Miss Bingley’s stay at that same cottage.
“I always thought it odd when Bingley told me that she left school, only to spend several months in Scarborough instead of coming to London,” he said.
“I did not really know Bingley then, so I knew of it only from an offhand comment someone had made. Still, I am astonished that Bingley would not know of it, for surely someone had to have made the arrangements and forwarded the funds.”
“It must have cost several hundred pounds,” I agreed.
“When I needed warmer clothing, Mrs. Mackenzie ensured I had what I needed. They were not of the highest quality, but the flannel for my new gowns would have cost a pretty penny to obtain. Our food was of good quality as well, and the house was well heated. I wondered several times where the money came from for this. Do you think that Mr. Bingley could know more than he claims?”
“I hate to think it, Elizabeth, but I suppose he could,” he admitted.
“Mrs Hurst surely has access to some money as well, and she could have assisted Miss Bingley with the arrangements, but I cannot imagine either her or Miss Bingley willingly sacrificing their own finery to ensure you were well cared for.”
“Mr. or Mrs. Bennet may have paid the fees or, at least, a portion of them, for my care,” I replied, having decided that I would no longer refer to them as Papa or Mama.
Mr. Bennet had willingly signed any authority for my care to my uncle and had not been bothered to search for me, allowing Fitzwilliam to take full responsibility.
Whilst I did not like to think that he knew where I was, he had not cared enough to consider my wellbeing in any of this.
“What do you wish to do about Miss Bingley, Elizabeth?” Darcy asked me something we had so far not discussed.
Closing my eyes, I considered the matter.
When they opened again, a slow breath escaped before answering.
“It depends, in part, on her,” I said. “If, when we travel to Netherfield, she remains ill and truly unable to communicate, there will be little to be done or said. However, should we find her recovered—or discover she has been feigning illness all along—then I am uncertain how we ought to proceed. One thing is certain: she will never be welcome in any home where I reside, and I am not at all sure I am willing to remain at Netherfield while she is there.”
Fitzwilliam nodded in reply, and we were both silent for some time after this. We did not discuss this topic again until we reached Pemberley.
To our surprise, upon returning to Pemberley, we found several letters awaiting us—each bearing news, but none so astonishing as the one from Jane addressed to our sisters.
In it, she recounted how she had finally lost her temper with Miss Bingley and laid out her growing suspicions regarding the true nature of that lady’s so-called “illness” and the dubious letters she had been secretly sending.
Jane was unclear whether Mr. Bingley or Mrs. Hurst were aware of Miss Bingley’s scheme but wrote of confronting Mr. Bingley.
My sisters, though overjoyed to see me again, were collectively furious on my behalf. After a flurry of embraces and eager introductions to Georgiana, Lydia wasted no time in thrusting the letter into my hands.
“Oh, how I wish I had slapped Miss Bingley at the ball!” she cried as I read .
The letter’s contents merely confirmed what Fitzwilliam and I had long suspected.
Folding it, I felt my resolve harden. I would return to Hertfordshire—not only to speak my mind to Mr. and Mrs. Bennet, but to confront Miss Bingley directly and, if possible, see her brought to account for her deceit.
One thing was certain: I would never again share a roof with her. Fitzwilliam would need to secure lodgings nearby, for I could not—would not—spend another night in the same house as Caroline Bingley.