Page 82 of Out of His Wits (Pride and Prejudice Variation)
The banns had been read, the necessary letters written, and the wedding day fixed.
The household at Longbourn, once so frequently in disarray, now bustled with purpose.
Seamstresses came and went. Parcels arrived and were carried upstairs in triumph.
Mrs. Bennet alternated between exaltation and collapse.
Amid all this bustle, Elizabeth found what peace she could in the smaller moments—in early morning walks before the house was astir, in Jane’s quiet understanding, and in the rare but welcome silent moments with her father.
She had not yet grown accustomed to the knowledge that Mr. Darcy—Fitzwilliam, as she now allowed herself to think of him in private—was to be her husband. The thought still startled her at odd moments, like a candle unexpectedly relit.
Darcy travelled to Pemberley to ready the house for her arrival.
He wrote when he could, brief but deeply felt letters that never failed to bring colour to her cheeks.
Returned, he arrived unannounced with a book he claimed she had left behind at Netherfield, though she suspected the excuse was thin.
Her father, encountering him in the garden, had merely raised one brow and said, “I trust you did not trouble yourself on account of the volume. Lizzy has managed quite well without it.”
To which Mr. Darcy had replied, “She has managed without me also, sir. But I am not so philosophical as the book.”
The wedding took place on a bright April morning in the small parish church near Longbourn, its stone walls festooned with primrose and hawthorn.
The bridegrooms stood side by side—Mr. Bingley with irrepressible delight, Mr. Darcy with quiet solemnity—as the Misses Bennet entered on their father’s arms, each radiant in ivory muslin and spring flowers.
Mrs. Bennet wept copiously throughout and declared it the happiest day of her life.
Even Mr. Bennet was seen to wipe his eye at one point, though he later blamed the draught.
Mr. Hurst, newly hailed as the man who bested a villain, wore his triumph like a medal—adjusting his cuffs, basking in praise, and declaring (to anyone who would listen) that duelling ought not to go out of fashion. Mrs. Hurst, glowing and expectant, allowed it—just this once.
The absence of Miss Bingley from the festivities was generally agreed to be a blessing, though the reason for it cast something of a shadow over that family’s joy.
Word had reached them only days before the wedding: Miss Bingley’s ambitious pursuit of society connexions had led to her spectacular ruin.
After wangling an invitation to a grand London ball on the strength of her embellished tales of her brother-in-law’s heroics, she had been discovered in compromising circumstances with a married peer of questionable reputation.
The scandal had spread swiftly through every drawing room, her reputation irreparably destroyed.
Former friends turned cold, doors once open now barred.
She who had schemed to elevate herself through borrowed glory was summarily expelled from society entirely—a sobering example of ambition unchecked by prudence.
After the ceremony, the party returned to Longbourn, where the breakfast—lavish, excessive, and the pride of Mrs. Bennet’s heart—lasted nearly three hours and included six puddings, four syllabubs, and a great deal of toasting.
When Elizabeth and Darcy at last took their leave, the crowd gathered on the steps. Mr. Bennet, with an expression both wry and wistful, pressed his daughter’s hand.
“You will write, I suppose?”
“Often,” Elizabeth promised, blinking back the sting in her eyes.
“And you, sir,” Mr. Bennet added to Darcy, “will forgive me if I claim that no man is quite worthy of her. But I am willing to let you try.”
Darcy’s answer needed no words. His arm about Elizabeth tightened, and he gave the older man a respectful nod.
They climbed into the waiting carriage—one bound not for Pemberley quite yet, but for a few quiet days in Oxfordshire, where the daffodils were just coming into bloom and the world, for a time, could be very small.
As the wheels turned and the morning sunlight caught the silver trim of the door, Elizabeth looked out at the family gathered behind them, waving handkerchiefs and hats.
Darcy regarded her with unalloyed joy. What he had once called reserve, had been cowardice.
She had thought she understood him better than he did himself.
In the end, they had both been wrong—and then right, together.
That, they decided, was all the bravery they need ever ask of each other.
FINIS