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Elizabeth

London

W ithin the antechamber of St Martin’s in the Field, Elizabeth Bennet stood motionless in her cream silk gown.

The garment, trimmed with fine lace, had cost far more than the family could afford, yet Mrs Bennet had insisted upon it.

A proper wedding required a new gown, no matter their financial straits.

“Stand straight, Lizzy. One would think you face the gallows rather than the altar,” Mrs Bennet fussed.

Her mother’s fingers trembled with excitement as she adjusted orange blossoms affixed to Elizabeth’s hair.

“What fortune to secure such a match. The Blackfriars are so well situated in society. You may even be introduced at Court. That will be very thrilling indeed.”

Elizabeth’s fingers clenched behind her back where her mother could not see them. Four weeks had passed since Mr Blackfriars visit to Longbourn, four weeks of preparation, of false smiles, of reassurances to her sisters that all would be well.

Her mother, meanwhile, had rejoiced at the mere thought of seeing a daughter wed well.

She had told anyone who asked every detail about the wedding and Elizabeth’s husband-to-be.

In many cases, she had shared this information entirely unprompted.

Elizabeth felt as if she were a spectator of her own life.

Distanced, whilst hurried preparation were made around her.

“Oh, look at those redcoats outside!” Lydia exclaimed, nudging Kitty as they peered through a small window where two red-coated men strolled past. “Do you suppose they might attend the wedding breakfast? Mr Blackfriars must have military connections, must he not?”

“Lydia, contain yourself,” Mrs Bennet scolded, though her rebuke lacked conviction. “This is your sister’s wedding day not a parade. I am certain Mr Blackfriars connections are far better than mere redcoats. He knows royalty. His cousin is a viscount.”

“Oh, I might become a viscountess yet,” Lydia giggled as she placed an orange blossom in her own hair.

“And I shall set my cap on one of the Blackfriars cousins,” Kitty exclaimed.

“Girls,” Mrs Bennet chided. “Decorum, please.”

“Surely some levity is allowed,” Kitty complained.

Mary adjusted her spectacles, her expression solemn. “Marriage is a serious undertaking. Levity has no place in such proceedings. As St. Paul instructs, ‘wives, submit yourselves unto your own husbands, as unto the Lord.’”

“Thank you, Mary,” Elizabeth murmured.

The distant sound of the church organ signalled the guests were seated and awaiting the bride.

“Come, girls,” Mrs Bennet commanded, ushering Lydia, Kitty, and Mary towards the door.

“We must take our places. The ceremony shall commence shortly.” She cast one final, approving glance at Elizabeth.

“Jane, do attend to her veil before you join us. Mr Bennet will arrive any moment to escort her. And Lizzy. My Lizzy.” She sucked in air through her nose and dabbed the corners of her eyes. “I could not be prouder.”

The door closed behind them, leaving Elizabeth alone with Jane in the small antechamber.

No sooner had they left than Elizabeth exhaled and dropped into a chair nearby, eyes stinging with tears. “I cannot do this.”

Jane’s blue eyes widened in alarm. “Lizzy, what troubles you?”

“Everything about this match,” Elizabeth confessed.

“For the entire month of our engagement, Jonathan has spoken of nothing but his own wishes. How I am to manage our home while he is away, how I am to decorate the drawing room, which of my belongings are suitable for our townhouse, how I am to prepare for our life together.”

“Perhaps he merely wishes to ensure your comfort. He is going to the continent for several weeks. He will want to guide you before he goes.”

“No, that is not it. He never once asked what I desire,” Elizabeth continued. “Not once, Jane. It is as though I am a possession he has acquired, to be arranged according to his taste and convenience.”

Jane pressed her sister’s hand. “Perhaps marriage will soften his manner. Once the ceremony is complete, you may find greater freedom to express your preferences.”

“I think not,” Elizabeth insisted. “I know it as certainly as I know the sun rises. This match means the end of all I hold dear—my independence, my thoughts, my very self. Yet what choice remains? To refuse means condemning our family to ruin. I wish there had been another way to secure funds.”

Jane glanced towards the door, ensuring they remained alone. “I must tell you something. I was sworn to secrecy but seeing you so miserable is wretched. The truth is, there was another way. Uncle Gardiner and Uncle Phillips both offered Father loans to resolve our financial troubles.”

Elizabeth stared at her sister. “Father refused them?”

“He did,” Jane confirmed, her voice lowered. “He preferred the Blackfriars connection, not merely for the financial relief but for the social advancement it offers. Uncle Gardiner spoke to Father just yesterday to convince him that he could still change his mind but he said it was too late.”

“Father chose this path regardless, even though there was another way?” The father she adored, the man who had encouraged her love of books and writing, had sold her future for status. Her chest rose and fell in rapid succession. The entire room shrunk around her.

“He sounded as though he was convinced it was best for you and that you would see that in time. I do not believe he means to harm you. He thinks highly of Jonathan Blackfriars and things him a splendid match,” Jane attempted to comfort her but it fell on deaf ears.

“Pray excuse me,” she murmured. “I require time alone.” She rose, staggering forward.

“Lizzy, the ceremony—”

“One moment, Jane. I beg you.”

Before Jane could protest further, Elizabeth retreated through the door.

She walked around the back of the church to the small garden and leaned against the wall, her hands on her knees.

It could not be. Her own father had done this.

Before she could so much as gather her thoughts, footsteps sounded. She braced herself and rose to her full height, expecting her father. Instead, Jonathan Blackfriars stood before her, his tall figure blocking the sun.

“Here you are,” he said. “The ceremony commences any moment. Your father awaits outside.”

Elizabeth straightened further; her hands clasped before her. “I thought it unlucky for the groom to see the bride before the wedding.”

“Superstitious nonsense,” Jonathan replied, and waved a hand dismissively. “Now, are you ready?”

“I need to steady myself.”

He let out a puff of air. “I think you have had much time to steady yourself. It is time.”

She gulped. It was indeed time.

“Jonathan,” she said. “I wondered, I know I am to decorate the townhouse while you are away.”

He frowned, his eyes focused on the pocket watch he’d been holding.

“And? We have already established that you will furnish the house to my specifications while I am away. Why must we discuss this now?”

“We do not. It is just that I had a thought. A request. One I needed to discuss before we marry.”

He ran a hand through his hair and scoffed. “Go on then. What is so urgent?”

She had to know if he would honour her wishes and desires as Jane had thought, or if he was selfish and self—serving as she believed him to be.

“I thought perhaps I might use the small room off the library for my own use.”

Two lines appeared between his eyes. “There is a perfectly good sewing room waiting for you already.”

“I know. I mean for my books and my writing. I would like a small desk,” she said.

“Writing?” He spoke the word as if it were a foreign language.

“I write stories,” she explained. “Gothic novels. I collect them also. Along with other books, they are my passion.”

“I see. Your trunks arrived at our townhouse yesterday. The servants remarked upon their weight.”

“Yes,” Elizabeth replied, seizing the opportunity to test his tolerance. “I hope to continue my literary pursuits after we are wed. My stories provide me great satisfaction, and I hope to find a publisher for my work but I need a designated space to write.”

Jonathan’s expression hardened. “Such frivolities will cease after today. A wife’s duties lie in managing the household and securing her husband’s comfort.

You will have neither time nor need for scribbling tales.

And the room besides the library is for the maids to use, not for your silly pursuits.

If you wish to write a letter, use the desk in the drawing room. ”

“But writing is what I love,” Elizabeth protested, her heart sinking even as she expected this response. “Surely you would not deprive me of an endeavour that brings me joy without diminishing my attention to overseeing the household duties?”

“I would and I shall,” he declared. Then, he took a step closer and that wretched cinnamon scent filled her nostrils again.

“My wife will occupy herself with proper feminine pursuits—needlework, music, the oversight of servants. Not filling her head with fanciful notions or, worse, seeking public attention through publication.”

“But it is all I ever wanted to be,” she dissented.

To her shock, he wrapped his hand around her upper arm. His fingers closed, tight enough to bruise. “All you want to be from now on is a good wife and mother. You will obey me in this, Elizabeth. I will not tolerate defiance.”

She tried to pull away, but his grip tightened. “You presume to command me before we are even wed?”

“I establish expectations,” he corrected. “Your father has granted me authority over you. I suggest you reconcile yourself to your new position. It will prove easier for us both. You will soon see that I am right.”

Frost spread through Elizabeth’s limbs despite the sun. She pictured their future drawing room with its stiff chairs, her ink bottles boxed away, Jonathan’s voice echoing through the halls — and her voice, quieted to nothing.

With a swift movement, she wrenched her arm from his grasp. “Excuse me. I must prepare.” She could not tell him that she would not marry him, not right now. She had to tell her father. Once he heard how Jonathan sought to stifle her, he would put a stop to all of this.

She hurried past Jonathan, maintaining a measured pace through the church vestibule.