Chapter 26

The Great North Road

Heading south toward London

Thursday, 20th August, 1812

The sun had surged over the horizon some two hours previously, and the day was fresh and fair and delightfully cool.

The mare carrying Darcy toward London was no thoroughbred, but she was a spritely creature who seemed to enjoy trotting down the road. In fact, Darcy was required to pull her to a walk more often than she liked, but he was a superb horseman and knew that Sunflower would travel better if allowed frequent periods of walking.

Far behind him, perhaps a mile, lumbered Lady Catherine's carriage, drawn by four fresh horses. He could, of course, have traveled inside the carriage, but he had no desire to spend so much as an extra minute with his irritating relative.

They were a long way from Town, and it would take them two full days to reach London. That would give him time to think about how to manage the situation. He would certainly not marry his cousin Anne. But he needed to arrange the events of the next few days to keep the mistress of Rosings from spreading Lydia Bennet's shame.

It was a good thing that Lady Catherine had never heard about Georgiana's near elopement with Wickham. It was obvious that the ties of blood were nothing more than chains in her mind; shackles to force someone to do her imperious bidding.

Darcy, thinking about his discussion with Mr. and Miss Bennet the previous night, grinned. This time, Lady Catherine would not have her way.

/

The Bishop

Off Shore the Isle of Man

Wickham gripped the rail as the ship plunged, then rose on a cresting wave, offering him an unimpeded view of their destination, the town called Douglas. A town it was indeed, no great city like London; the buildings were small, clustered together, rarely two stories and never higher. No soaring cathedral steeples reached for the heavens, nor mansion fronts presenting a majestic gracious vista.

Wickham stirred restlessly, wondering again if he had made the correct decision. It had been a hasty one and had seemed obvious at the time – the thought of spending the rest of his life in Marshalsea had been too horrifying to entertain and any alternative short of death sounded preferable. Certainly, going to work as a clerk in a mining town had to be better. A clerk's duties might be tedious, but they would not be onerous, and he would doubtless be highly valued by the less-educated locals. Indeed, he had spent hours fondly imagining the fascinated looks sent his way by the local women – for surely there would be women, miners' wives and daughters and perhaps sisters – intrigued by the handsome, charming new clerk.

Yes, Wickham had fancied that he could build himself quite a good life here.

But after two days at sea, he was feeling less certain. For one thing, he had not realized that many people on the island did not speak the King's English. Apparently, many spoke some kind of foreign tongue – indeed, a number of the sailors on the merchant ship conversed with one another in this mysterious language, along with English.

He had never, in his whole life, been required to interact with people who spoke something other than his own native tongue. It was going to be peculiar and odd and unnerving.

It had to be better than Marshalsea, though. Mustn't it?

/

Church

Parish of Sixoaks

Kent

The stiff lace at the collar of Anne de Bourgh's best gown scratched at her neck and chest, but she disregarded the mild discomfort. She had never much cared for this dress, considering the rich brocade entirely too ostentatious, as well as rather overwhelming for her thin face. But she would not disrespect her new husband by marrying in a shabbier gown, and soon she would rid herself of all the gowns her mother had chosen for her and purchase some new dresses more to her own liking.

Her white-gloved hand lay lightly on the arm of her fiancé's father. Her own father was long dead, of course, and buried in the de Bourgh plot. Nor would Lady Catherine be here to watch her only daughter be wed; Anne had ensured that by sending her mother to chase after Darcy in pursuit of her vain dream of seeing Darcy married to her daughter. It was no concern to Anne whether or not her cousin was truly in love with Miss Elizabeth Bennet. She had placed the idea into her mother's head, and Lady Catherine, incensed, would worry and worry at Darcy like a terrier with a rat, no matter what he might say. And while her mother was bothering Darcy, she would not be around to interfere with Anne's plans.

The sanctuary was cool and modestly decorated with a few small bouquets of flowers. At the far end of it stood Mr. Evan Buckley, the youngest son of the gentleman who owned the small estate of Blue Haven to the south of Rosings. Anne had encountered him one day while out in her phaeton, which provided one of her few escapes from her mother. She had been riding around the perimeter of the estate, far from the sight of the house, and happened upon young Mr. Buckley walking along the paths of his family's own estate, murmuring Scripture to himself.

They had stopped, each curious about this other person of the same generation, and had chatted for a few minutes. Evan often walked out here, he said, away from his brothers and sisters – seven all told, and always several either home or visiting, and always loud – so that he might better apply himself to his vocation. For his father, not a wealthy man, had pressured his youngest son into taking Holy Orders.

It was not a position that Evan – shy, portly, not handsome, awkward in company – much desired. He was a dutiful son and would have taken a position if it opened, but it was a mixed blessing, as he had told Anne, in one of their increasingly common meetings, that no living had been awarded to him thus far.

She had nodded thoughtfully, eyes on the dancing green leaves of the elms around them. After that, she drove often to the south border of Rosings, thrilled to have a companion outside of the family circle with whom to speak. Likewise, Evan had grown to value her company, and a friendship between the two had formed.

It had been Anne who had conceived of the idea to be wed. The marriage would be remarkably advantageous to Evan Buckley, and as for her, it would loose her from the dictatorship of her mother, which chafed more with every passing day. Lewis de Bourgh had stipulated in his will that Rosings was to come to her on her thirtieth birthday or when she married. Anne's thirtieth birthday was yet five years away, and with Lady Catherine's refusal to ever let her daughter go to Town, Anne had despaired of being married at a reasonable age.

It had seemed nothing short of Providential to meet Evan, who had hailed her idea with emphatic approval. The elder Mr. Buckley, aware of the great advantages such a union would bring his son specifically, and the rest of the family more generally, had given his blessing with alacrity. Their courtship had been short, carried out beneath the trees of Rosings and along the paths of Blue Haven, while Anne plotted how best to be rid of her mother for some days.

She was entirely ready to take control of the estate. Mrs. Jenkinson had surreptitiously acquired some books on estate management and the latest farming practices to pass along to her mistress. It galled Anne the way her mother clung to outdated notions that did neither land nor livestock any good. Even more than that, she loathed her mother's contempt and lack of care for their tenants and servants. Given Lady Catherine's flagrant wasting of her wealth, Anne deemed it high time that her mother move to the Dower House, allowing Rosings to be managed by more capable, kindly hands.

Anne had watched her mother's carriage vanish down the drive and at once dispatched a note to Blue Haven. Mr. Buckley was only too happy to acquire a common license for his son and future daughter-in-law and arrange with their local rector to perform the ceremony. Anne permitted herself a small smile as she thought of asking Mr. Collins to marry them – the man would turn purple and sputter, stricken with horror at the idea of flouting his patroness by marrying her daughter to anyone other than Fitzwilliam Darcy.

Her shoe heels clicked softly down the stone floor of the church, and she smiled up at her husband-to-be. Evan grinned back and accepted her arm from his father, and both turned towards the rector, who smiled down at them paternally.

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered today…"

/

On the Great North Road

Thursday, 20th August, 1812

The carriages left the Red Dragon an hour after dawn, with the intent of traveling at least seventy miles northward. Such a distance was by no means excessive, so long as the roads were in good repair and Mr. Bennet's hip pain did not flare up again.

It had been decided that it was still best for Lydia to have one-on-one time with her suitors, and the carriage was now inhabited by Lydia, Elizabeth, Mrs. Greenfield, and Sir Christopher. Elizabeth was thankful for that. She liked and admired Captain Scofield, but he was not as easy a conversationalist as Lydia, and Elizabeth wanted nothing more than to be silent and think as the party made their way north even as Mr. Darcy and Lady Catherine journeyed south.

She was wearing gloves, of course, and found herself continually touching her left hand, where Mr. Darcy's token, a pearl ring which had once belonged to Lady Anne, encircled her slender finger.

It had been a shock to hear Mr. Darcy's suggestion that he and she enter into a formal engagement with the blessing of Mr. Bennet. She had initially been horrified at the prospect – not because she did not wish to become Mrs. Darcy, but because it would be terrible if the Bennets were indeed ruined, and the Darcys brought down with them.

"But you will not be ruined, do you not see?" her beloved had explained, smiling down on her. "It is true that the Darcys, the de Bourghs, and the Matlocks are highly placed in society. I will insist that Lady Catherine and I call on my uncle, the Earl of Matlock, whereupon I will inform my relatives of our engagement. You know that a man of honor does not break an engagement, no matter what, and Matlock is aware that I am a man of honor and determination. He is the one person whom Lady Catherine truly respects. He will insist that she keep her mouth shut. It will part us for a short time, of course, but I think it is worth it."

She had turned a hopeful look on her father, who had nodded and said, a trifle sorrowfully, "I think Mr. Darcy is quite right, my dear. I know that he loves you, and you love him. It is time to formalize your relationship."

She could not find any words to dispute the plan, and indeed it had been her hope and dream for many weeks that she would find herself in this place, at this time, engaged to the most wonderful gentleman in all of England. And certainly, Mr. Darcy was the most wonderful man in England for her.

"Lizzy, is something wrong with your left hand?" Lydia demanded, drawing her attention to her fellow travelers. "You keep rubbing it."

"No, erm," Elizabeth said, "no. I just, erm..."

The others were now looking at her curiously, and she felt herself redden more. "The truth is that last night, Father gave his blessing, and Mr. Darcy and I are engaged. He gave me a ring as a symbol of our engagement. It is lovely, but I am unaccustomed to wearing it and find myself fidgeting with it."

There was a squeal of delight from Lydia, who then cried out, "Oh, do let me see it, Lizzy!"

She removed her glove to display the delicate circlet, and Lydia cooed and exclaimed some more.

"Many, many congratulations, Miss Bennet," Sir Christopher said genuinely. "I am confident you and Darcy will suit well."

"Is that why Mr. Darcy left?" Lydia asked eagerly. "Is he needful of preparing the marriage settlements and so on?"

That was, indeed, one of the reasons that Darcy was going, along with dealing with his stupid and tiresome aunt.

"Yes," Elizabeth replied.

Thankfully, the baronet drew Lydia's attention at this moment, and Elizabeth turned away to gaze out the window, now full of hope for the future. They would pass through Scrooby and Bawtry and Wetherby and spend the night in Boroughbridge. Now that Mr. Darcy was no longer with them, she was eager to complete their journey as quickly as possible. It was still uncertain whom Lydia would marry, but she was confident that one or other of the men would be pleased to wed a pretty, energetic lady with ten thousand pounds and close connections to the nobility.

She felt tears brim in her eyes; after so much struggle and heartache, she and Mr. Darcy were engaged at last, and she had never been so happy.