Page 73

Darcy and Georgiana arrived the day before the wedding, having reached Netherfield late the previous evening.

By mid-morning, the carriage rolled up the drive at Longbourn, where the family had gathered in the drawing room in anticipation.

Jane sat serene and radiant, Mary was poised with a book in her lap, and Kitty paced intermittently between the window and the door.

Even Mrs. Bennet, for once, had no elaborate speech prepared; her thoughts were entirely consumed by the details of the wedding less than twenty-four hours away.

When the butler announced them, the room stilled with a kind of breathless attention.

Elizabeth rose with the others as Mr. Darcy entered the drawing room, tall and pale but moving with a steadiness that spoke of continued recovery.

At his side came Georgiana—elegant and composed, looking younger than Elizabeth recalled, though taller and more self-possessed than her sixteen years might suggest. Her dark blonde curls framed a pale, serious face, and her eyes—so like her brother’s—carried the same thoughtful reserve Elizabeth remembered.

To meet her now, for the first time, in such a formal setting—with so many eyes upon them—felt quietly surreal.

And yet it was the deeper strangeness that caught Elizabeth more keenly: to know this girl’s heart, her history, and still be obliged to smile as though they were strangers.

Proper greetings were exchanged, and Mr. Bennet was the first to speak with dry amusement. “Well, at last,” he murmured, raising a brow. “We were beginning to think Derbyshire had claimed you forever.”

Darcy offered him a bow with a trace of a smile. “I was determined to arrive in time. I would not miss this occasion.”

Elizabeth stepped forward, her heart tight and light at once. “Miss Darcy,” she said warmly, taking the younger woman’s hands in hers. “It’s very good to meet you at last.”

Georgiana curtsied politely. “And you. My brother has spoken of you often.”

Elizabeth smiled but said nothing more. Georgiana’s manner, though polite, felt formal—pleasant, reserved, and nothing more. Elizabeth set aside the pang it brought .

She ushered them to seats—Georgiana beside her on the settee, Darcy opposite in a well-cushioned chair.

Elizabeth studied him quietly as conversation flowed around them.

His color was still too pale, but his posture was strong.

Every movement was deliberate. He looked better. Not whole, but healing.

Jane and Bingley were seated nearby, the former quietly intercepting their mother’s increasingly erratic wedding plans. Mary and Kitty were chatting by the pianoforte. Elizabeth turned her attention back to Georgiana, determined to ease her.

She asked after the journey, Matlock, their route through Oxfordshire.

Georgiana answered with perfect civility, but when Elizabeth mentioned a mutual acquaintance from Pemberley, she caught a flicker of surprise—polite, quickly masked, but unmistakable.

It was the first moment Elizabeth realized: he had not told her.

Not about what Elizabeth knew. Not about the life they once lived.

And yet, after all, it made sense. She had told Fitzwilliam once why she had kept her own counsel with Jane.

The same reasons would apply to Georgiana, too.

Eventually, she steered Georgiana toward Mary and Kitty, and was pleased to see Kitty light up with real welcome. Mary, a little stiff at first, offered a thoughtful comment on a book she and Georgiana had both read. They would do well together, Elizabeth thought.

When she turned back, Darcy was beside her.

“You’re late,” she said quietly, though her eyes were bright.

“I was under strict orders not to overexert myself,” he said. “I obeyed them—reluctantly.”

She smiled. “Then I forgive you.”

“I have missed you greatly,” he said, more softly. “Please tell me you received my letter.”

She laughed. “It would have been difficult not to. Did you have to send poor Jameson? He had just worked up the courage to inform his father of his attentions toward Mary Wilkins.”

“I wanted someone who knows you,” Darcy replied. “Someone I could trust to place the letter directly in your hands. No lost expresses. No interfering aunts to burn them. No servants to misplace them.”

Then, without preamble, he said it: “I love you.”

Elizabeth looked at him for a long moment, then reached for his hand. “I know. And I love you, too. ”

From across the room, Mrs. Bennet’s voice rang out about lace and garlands and seating arrangements, and Elizabeth squeezed his fingers once before letting go.

The next morning dawned bright and fair—the perfect day for a wedding.

Jane looked luminous in pale blue, the gown simple and elegant, overlaid with fine lace that had required a week of negotiation with their mother.

Mrs. Bennet had campaigned passionately for a more elaborate trim, but Jane, with Elizabeth’s quiet support, had prevailed.

Mary’s gown, a soft grey with gentle embroidery at the cuffs and neckline, drew more than one admiring glance. Elizabeth noticed the way Mary stood a little straighter under the quiet praise. Kitty had done much of the work on it herself, and beamed accordingly.

Darcy stood up with Bingley, and Elizabeth with Jane. Mr. Bennet gave away his eldest daughter with quiet dignity and only the briefest of dry remarks—something about having two fewer mouths to feed and a great many bonnets yet to buy.

The church was filled with familiar faces.

Miss Darcy sat quietly between Mary and Kitty, her expression one of gentle wonder.

She had never been to a village wedding before, and Elizabeth caught her smiling more than once at the cheer and affection around her.

Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner had come down for the ceremony, their children left in London due to the short stay.

The Philipses were present, of course—Mr. Philips looking vaguely sleepy, and his wife eager to tell everyone how many weddings she had attended in that very pew.

Miss Bingley, dressed in fashionable lavender, was all sweetness and smiles, declaring how lovely it all was and how she had always known Jane would make an excellent match. Mrs. Hurst nodded along, though she said little. Mr. Hurst, for his part, dozed lightly in the corner and said even less.

Lydia was in rare form—talking too loudly, laughing too freely, and drawing looks more than once from her aunt and uncle. Elizabeth caught her slipping out of the church hall during the hymn, only to reappear a few minutes later as if nothing had occurred.

The wedding breakfast at Longbourn was a lively affair.

The table gleamed with polished silver and summer flowers, and the guests were content and well-fed.

Mrs. Long declared it the loveliest village wedding she had seen since her cousin’s in ’98.

Lady Lucas, beaming beside Mr. Collins, praised the harmony of the match and said she could not recall a bride looking more serene.

Charlotte, though plainly weary, smiled warmly through it all and exchanged a knowing look with Elizabeth—a silent reminder that happy marriages could come in many forms .

Even Mr. Hurst roused himself long enough to toast the couple with a rather incoherent blessing that still managed to charm the ladies seated near him.

Georgiana, seated beside Kitty and Mary, looked quietly enchanted.

She pinned a small posy of bluebells to her sash and listened with interest to everything around her, replying with sweet shyness whenever addressed.

It was during the second course, just as the syllabub was being served, that Mrs. Bennet leaned toward her sister and asked with idle interest, "So how is our Lydia faring under your care? She’s spent half her days with you, I’ve heard—quite a comfort, I’m sure."

Mrs. Philips paused, her spoon halfway to her mouth. "With me?"

Elizabeth, seated only two places down, went still.

Mrs. Bennet gave a vague wave. "Well, she’s always saying she’s off to your house. You’ve not noticed her?"

Mrs. Philips shook her head slowly. "I’ve not seen the girl in a fortnight."

Mrs. Bennet let out a dismissive laugh. "Oh, she must have been mistaken—or perhaps she was simply walking by. Lydia always finds somewhere to be."

But Elizabeth felt the warmth leave the room.

Across the table, Jane’s smile faded, though she quickly looked down at her plate.

Mary set down her fork with precision. Kitty’s fingers twisted in her lap.

Beside Elizabeth, Mr. Darcy, who had been quietly attending to a conversation with Mr. Gardiner, lifted his head.

They all felt it. Something was off. But for Jane’s sake—for the celebration that still surrounded them—none of them said a word.

Later that afternoon, Elizabeth found her sister alone in the morning room. Jane was folding a bonnet that had already been packed once, her composure frayed at the edges.

"Should I stay?" she asked quietly, not looking up. "If something is wrong with Lydia..."

Elizabeth stepped forward. "You mustn’t let this overshadow your joy. You and Mr. Bingley should take your honey month as planned. I will speak to Papa."

Jane hesitated a moment longer, then nodded.

The truth came to light the next morning.

Kitty had gone out to the back garden, drawn by the sound of voices near the old shed. What she saw made her stop short—Nathaniel Pratt, the butcher’s son, loitering nervously at the edge of the path, smoothing his hair and craning his neck toward the side gate.

When he spotted her, he straightened guiltily.

"She said she’d be here," he muttered.

"Who?" Kitty asked, though she already feared the answer.

"Miss Lydia," he said. "Said she’d meet me again. You won’t tell, will you? She’s real fun, I swear it’s nothing wrong—just a kiss or two."

Kitty stood frozen. Her mind was already racing—to the times Lydia had vanished in the afternoons, to the whispering in the halls, to the way she’d lingered at the windows when the tradesmen passed.

And Nathaniel Pratt—of all people. The very boy Lydia had once teased her about.

Kitty felt her cheeks burn, a strange mix of anger and embarrassment curling in her chest.

By the time Elizabeth and Mary coaxed the rest of the truth out of her, it had grown even worse.

Lydia had not only been sneaking out to meet Nathaniel Pratt, she had also been hiding in the trees near the far lake where the tradesmen often swam on hot days.

She had laughed, flirted, and worse—practiced what she called “just harmless flirtation,” all the while claiming to be with Aunt Philips.

Elizabeth, white with anger and dread, went straight to her father.

Mr. Bennet listened in silence, then let out a slow breath through his nose. "Send her to me," he said, his voice more tired than angry.

The confrontation was brief. Voices were low, but the outcome was clear. At the end of it, Mr. Bennet called up the stairs himself.

"Lydia Bennet—you are confined to your room until further notice."

The door slammed not long after, and the house fell into a strained quiet.