Page 59

Longbourn

T he house was in uproar. Ribbons flew through the air. Bonnets were snatched and argued over. From the top of the stairs, Mrs Bennet’s voice echoed with all the urgency of a general preparing for battle.

“Kitty, where is your petticoat? And whose has taken the hair irons from the hearth? Hill! Hill, I say! Have you seen my smelling salts?”

In the front parlour, Mary was reading from Fordyce’s Sermons in a tone no one listened to. Lydia, resplendent in a bonnet far too new to be hers, flounced past with a triumphant grin. “Well, if Kitty did not want me to wear it, she should not have left it on the bed!”

Kitty wailed from the staircase, “Mama! Lydia’s taken my new bonnet - the one with the violet ribbon!”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Mrs Bennet cried, fluttering into the hall. “We are hosting a double wedding this morning, not a village fair! ”

Hill swept past with a pile of linens, dodging a falling shawl and murmuring something about boiling more water. Mr Bennet, wisely, had vanished.

Upstairs, the noise faded. In the front bedchamber, golden with winter light, Elizabeth sat in her shift before the dressing mirror while Jane fastened the clasp of her necklace.

“It suits you,” Jane said softly. “You look-”

Elizabeth met her gaze in the mirror. “Like someone about to do something momentous?”

Jane laughed. “Like someone very happy.”

They exchanged a look - quiet, knowing - and for a moment neither spoke.

“I cannot believe it’s today,” Elizabeth said. “And that you will be Mrs Jane Bingley before nightfall.”

“And you, Mrs Darcy.” Jane smiled. “Do you feel ready?”

Elizabeth considered, then nodded. “Yes. Nervous, but not unsure.”

“Good. Then we shall stand together and walk down the aisle knowing exactly what we are about.”

Elizabeth turned and squeezed her sister’s hand. “Thank you - for always standing beside me.”

The moment held, sweet and steady, before the noise from downstairs rose again, and Jane gave a quiet sigh.

“Come,” she said. “Before Mama sends someone to drag us down by the hems of our gowns.”

They stood, adjusted their gloves, and walked forward - not just toward the stair, but into the next chapter of their lives.

* * *

Netherfield

The gentlemen had gathered early. Bingley, bright-eyed and perfectly dressed, could not sit still for more than a minute. He checked his cravat in the mirror, adjusted it, ruined it, and let the valet fix it again.

Colonel Fitzwilliam lounged by the fire, watching with mild amusement as Bingley fidgeted for the third time in as many minutes.

There was an ease in the Colonel’s posture that contrasted starkly with the tension radiating from his cousin.

Fitzwilliam’s gaze drifted to Darcy, taking in the quiet precision of the man’s movements, the deliberate calm that barely concealed something deeper.

“You seem remarkably composed, cousin,” he said, a note of teasing in his voice. “I half expected you to be pacing the floor or reciting sonnets to the window panes.”

Darcy gave him a dry look. “I leave sonnet-reciting to the younger sons of earls.”

Fitzwilliam chuckled. “Touché. Still, I must say, it’s rather astonishing to see you like this. You look - if I may be sentimental - almost happy.”

“Almost?” Darcy arched a brow.

“Well, entirely, then. It is disorienting.” He leaned back with a satisfied sigh. “I have known you all my life, Darcy, and I do not believe I have ever seen you look forward to anything with this sort of-well-expectation. I am rather glad to meet the woman responsible.”

Darcy’s expression softened. “So am I.”

“I have seen cavalrymen with steadier hands than yours, Bingley.”

“You have not met Mrs Bennet,” Bingley retorted, grinning. “This morning I face a far more fearsome force.”

“Speaking of fearsome forces,” Fitzwilliam added, turning to Darcy, “I believe you owe me an introduction. The woman who brought down Fitzwilliam Darcy? I should very much like to meet her. ”

Darcy, adjusting his cuffs, glanced toward the window, then back. “You will meet her soon enough.”

“I hope she’s everything I imagine. Anyone who managed to reform you must be formidable.”

“She is,” Darcy said simply, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

The door opened and Caroline Bingley stepped in, gloved and composed, though her eyes widened just slightly at the sight of so many titled guests arrayed in her house. Her gaze flicked to Colonel Fitzwilliam and lingered.

“The carriages are ready,” she said smoothly. “Shall we proceed?”

“Excellent,” Fitzwilliam said, offering her his arm with just enough charm to make her blush. “Miss Bingley, you are radiant this morning.”

“Caroline’s composure recovered swiftly. A glance at the assembled guests; titles, fortunes, elegance; made one thing clear: aligning herself with the Bennet sisters might not be so dreadful after all.”

The rest of the Fitzwilliam family assembled in the hall: the tall, aloof Lady Henrietta; the sweet-faced Lady Rowena, glancing around with shy interest; and their mother, the Countess, who moved with gentle languor and a gaze that often seemed elsewhere - though her soft pronouncements, when they came, were always perfectly judged and impossible to ignore.

Darcy tugged his gloves into place, then turned to Fitzwilliam. “Ready?”

His cousin grinned. “To see the taming of the great Mr Darcy? Would not miss it.”

Bingley clapped Darcy’s shoulder as they filed out. “It is time. ”

Darcy nodded once, but as he reached for the door, he paused.

For a breath, he allowed himself to feel it - the weight of years lifted, the quiet, steady joy that had taken its place.

He turned slightly, catching Fitzwilliam’s eye, and something unspoken passed between them: a farewell to solitude, and a step toward everything new.

“Let us go,” he said again, softer this time - not with reluctance, but with reverence.

The bells rang clear through the cold morning air as the assembled guests filled the pews at the Church.

Inside, the small church glowed with winter sunlight that streamed through frosted windows, catching on garlands of evergreen and white ribbon strung carefully along the aisles.

The vicar stood ready, his hands folded, his smile genial.

Mr Bennet looked uncharacteristically serious as he led his two eldest daughters down the aisle. Jane’s smile was radiant, her steps graceful; Elizabeth’s hand on her father’s arm was steady but warm. When she glanced up and met Mr Darcy’s eyes, everything else fell away.

The vows passed like a dream - words spoken softly, hands joined, promises made. When it came time for the rings, Mr Darcy’s hand trembled just slightly as he took hers, and Elizabeth’s smile steadied him.

“You have made me the happiest of men,” he whispered as the vicar pronounced them husband and wife.

“And you, the happiest of women,” she murmured back.

Jane and Mr Bingley beamed at one another, their joy as open and sweet as their affection had always been. Two sisters, two husbands - and the future spread before them like a path lit by winter sun.

The parlour at Longbourn had been transformed: candles lit, tables laden with fruit and warm breads and sweetmeats, glasses sparkling with wine. A fire crackled cheerfully in the hearth, and laughter spilled freely from every corner.

Mrs Bennet was already halfway through her second glass of sherry and holding court near the cake. “Two daughters married in one morning!” she proclaimed to anyone within earshot. “And so well! Mr Darcy of Pemberley! And Mr Bingley of Netherfield! Who could have foreseen it?”

“I could have,” said Mr Bennet dryly, sipping his wine. “I simply chose not to encourage it.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam had seated himself beside his youngest sister, Lady Rowena Fitzwilliam, engaging her in cheerful conversation that had her laughing softly.

Fitzwilliam leaned in with a wry grin, murmuring a joke that made Lady Rowena cover a laugh behind her hand.

He nudged her gently with his elbow, prompting a mock glare that quickly melted into a smile.

Anyone watching might have mistaken them for dear friends rather than siblings; their shared glances and quiet chuckles, the way she leaned toward him without hesitation, spoke to a bond forged not just by blood, but by years of shared mischief and loyalty.

Georgiana and Jane spoke softly by the fire, exchanging sisterly confidences. Caroline Bingley, ever observant, had attached herself to the Countess’s side with impressive subtlety.

Mr Darcy stood with Elizabeth near the window, his hand at her back, her fingers lightly tucked into his.

“Are you well, Mrs Darcy?” he asked quietly.

Elizabeth tilted her head. “I believe I shall answer to that name with great satisfaction.”

He leaned down, brushing her temple with a kiss. “Then let us begin as we mean to go on.”

And so they did.

Later that evening, after the last of the guests had gone and Longbourn’s drawing room had quieted, they returned to Netherfield.

The house was still, lit by firelight and the silver hush of winter stars beyond the window.

Darcy stood by the hearth in his rooms, the weight of the day settling over him not with exhaustion, but with reverence.

When the door opened, and Elizabeth stepped in, her gown already loosened and her hair half unpinned from the day’s celebration, his breath caught. She smiled - tired, tender, and entirely his.

No words were needed. He crossed the space to her, drawing her gently into his arms. Her fingers brushed the back of his neck, and she tilted her face to his.

Their kiss was quiet at first - a promise rather than a claim - but deepened with the quiet intensity they both had waited so long to share. When they parted, her forehead rested against his, her voice no more than a whisper.

“Home,” she said.

He smiled, and kissed her again - and this time, his hands settled at her waist and drew her closer still.

The firelight shimmered across her gown, half loosened now, as his mouth met hers again with growing fervour.

She did not shy from it - instead her fingers tangled in his hair, her breath caught and answered his in kind.

He had feared his passion might frighten her - that this depth of longing, honed through months of restraint, might be too much. But it wasn’t. She met him, measure for measure, with a tenderness that held nothing back.

Her hands slid along his collar, unfastening the buttons with quiet determination. His own fingers found the laces of her stays, trembling only slightly.

He kissed the hollow of her throat, the curve of her shoulder, every gesture reverent - as if to memorise her.

He had not meant for it to be this room; not originally.

Yet the memory of her, pale and half-frozen beneath the blue quilt now folded neatly at the foot of the bed, had never quite faded.

At the time, it had filled him with dread and longing in equal measure - a moment that haunted and humbled him.

And now she stood before him, no longer a vision, but his wife. The same room, but a different world.

Darcy’s voice was low as he brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. “I never imagined bringing you back here, like this.”

Elizabeth looked around, recognising it at once. Her hand found his.

“This is where it began,” she whispered.

And when they drew the curtains closed, the firelight danced on the walls of the room where their story had, in many ways, begun - and where that night, it began anew.

As the household settled and the last of the wedding ribbons were tidied away, the snow began to fall.

Light at first, then thick and swirling - wrapping Netherfield in a hush that echoed the peace inside.

Behind the curtains, laughter still drifted from the drawing room, and in a room lit by firelight and quiet devotion, two hearts beat steady, entwined at last.

The world could wait. Tonight was theirs.