Chapter 24

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

D arcy stood before the altar in the palatial, gilt-encrusted baroque chapel at Rosings, staring at the floor. He refused to look down the aisle at the curious, whispering crowd, nor at the high painted ceiling with its pink clouds and dozens of plump cherubs peering down. The pews were packed tightly with the highest-ranking members of society, most of whom were barely acquainted with his aunt. Those who did know her disliked her. Lady Catherine wanted the ton to see her daughter married, and they obliged, eager to see and be seen, to be the first to brag to others about witnessing firsthand the wedding of the elusive Fitzwilliam Darcy. The only allies he had in attendance were Georgiana, the earl and countess, and Fitzwilliam. He had not written to any of his friends, not even Bingley. Lady Catherine would not have allowed a tradesman's son to attend in any case. She had not invited any of her neighbours or locals, nor asked her own parson to conduct the ceremony—or even attend—though in this, Darcy agreed. This wedding would be a horror already without having to listen to Collins's peculiar combination of the obsequious and the grandiose. Fitzwilliam stood at Darcy's side, silently offering what comfort he could with the occasional touch to his elbow. Curiously, no female attendant waited upon Anne. But, he thought, when would she have ever made a friend?

The processional began, and the doors at the rear of the nave opened. Anne entered on Lord Matlock's arm. The earl seemed agitated, meeting Darcy's eye with an ill-concealed expression of alarm. As they reached the altar, Darcy understood the reason: Anne reeked of alcohol. The pupils of her red-rimmed eyes were like pinpoints. She stood opposite him, swaying slightly, hunch-shouldered and seemingly half asleep.

The elderly bishop himself conducted the ceremony, slowly intoning the words of the service. Darcy spoke his vows flatly; Anne mumbled hers incoherently. Only once did he falter, when he took Anne's cold, limp hand in his and slipped his mother's ring onto her bony finger.

Once the register was signed, the entire company made their way to the vast ballroom where a lavish feast was waiting. Again, no expense had been spared. Long tables with gilt chairs ran the length of the ballroom, with the wedding party at a table on a raised platform large enough for a small orchestra. Another enormous table was covered with delicacies and dominated by a massive pair of swans, sculpted in ice.

From his position on the raised dais, Darcy watched footmen seat the guests while others scurried to and fro, up and down the long tables with trays and pitchers. They were sporting new livery and blindingly white wigs. At his side, Anne seemed to wake from her stupor, becoming possessed by a sudden energy, twitching and shaking and shifting in her seat, muttering to herself all the while. From a passing footman, she seized a bottle of wine and filled her glass. Drinking it down, she poured another.

Lady Catherine rose, and an expectant silence settled over the room. Before she could speak, the new Mrs Darcy leapt up, moving in front of her mother with a strange, wild energy.

"Welcome to the grand farce! Are you entertained by the spectacle, curiosity seekers? Because that is what you all are, is it not?" she shouted, her seldom-used voice rasping like a rusty hinge. Anne grabbed another goblet of wine from the table and swallowed it in one gulp. "My mother wishes to enact her jealous dreams through me," she shrieked, "and my cold fish of a cousin! Nobody asked me what I want!" She flung the goblet to the floor, where it shattered.

"I am not having it! Do you hear me? Rosings is mine ! I will not leave it. I will not go to Pemberley!"

She turned on Darcy. "Go home! I do not want you! Go home and do not return!"

The entire room was frozen, stunned beyond any response. Darcy too was shocked to his core, but his well-honed manners took over. He rose solemnly from his chair, bowed gracefully to Anne, and answered quietly, "As you wish, madam." He turned on his heel and made for the door at the far end of the ballroom. For several long minutes, the only sound was the tapping of his heels and the slow drip of the melting swans.

As he passed through the wide doors, he heard Anne's rambling, disordered shouts from behind him, slurring her words. "What is this? I do not want this!" He heard the clink of metal hitting something nearby, but he was not about to turn around to see what it was.

"My ring!" shrieked Lady Catherine. Her voice seemed to break the spell. At her cry, the entire room erupted into life, shouting, screaming, hooting, chairs scraping the floor loudly as they were pushed back or tipped completely over. Darcy barely heard it, walking mechanically in the direction of his rooms as the shock wore off.

What on earth had just happened? Had Anne gone mad? She did not want him any more than he wanted her. Darcy's hand had been forced; had hers too? Could she have stopped this travesty before it began? He had thought he would need strong drink to bed Anne, but apparently she had needed it to stand opposite him at the altar.

Darcy stopped at the door to his rooms. He could hear the muffled roar of chaos from the other end of the house. As much as he hated the idea, he must take up his responsibilities as Anne's husband and return to the ballroom. He must help his aunt impose order. He shut his eyes tightly, took a deep breath, stiffened his spine, and with an exhalation, steeled himself to go back. As he turned to do his duty, Georgiana reached the top of the stairs and ran towards him.

"Brother! We are to depart! Uncle says we must leave quickly! Anne will not have you in her house, and he believes she may calm if we go away. Your man and my maid can pack our things and leave in the second carriage."

Behind her, Fitzwilliam hastened towards them. "I shall accompany you. Lady Catherine and Anne are even now quarrelling bitterly in front of the guests. Father is endeavouring to keep them from coming to blows. The gossip mill will surpass anything we have ever seen, I am afraid. Everyone will be racing to town so they can be first to tell it. Mother says that the best we can do now is try to lessen the damage to the family, perhaps bend the narrative in some way."

He held his hand out to Darcy. In his palm was Lady Anne's ring. "Anne threw it at you as you were leaving the ballroom. A footman went after it and brought it to me."

Within minutes, their servants had their instructions. Shortly after, Darcy, Georgiana, and Fitzwilliam slipped out of a side door and were directed to a small, unremarkable black carriage. As the vehicle rolled away down a narrow lane behind the stable yard, they could see a tangle of splendid coaches pulling up in front of the massive ornamented front doors of the manor house. Coachmen were shouting, richly dressed ladies and gentlemen were streaming from the doors, horses were shying and rearing, and grooms were running about trying to calm them.

Darcy groaned. The whole episode had been a disaster from start to finish. Apparently, he was married to a madwoman. Their families would never be able to put it behind them.

Georgiana put her head in her hands, sobbing uncontrollably. "I am so sorry. This is my fault." Darcy put his arm around her and dried her tears with his handkerchief.

"Now there is where you are wrong, my dear," said Fitzwilliam. "This is solely Lady Catherine's fault. Even if Wickham had not tricked you into writing those letters, she would have concocted some other way to force Darcy's hand."

"What shall we do now, Brother?"

"I do not know." Darcy sighed. "I have always made every effort to live in such a way that scandal would never touch me. I do not know whether to go about town pretending that we have it all under control or to retreat to Pemberley and hope someone else suffers an even worse humiliation that will make the ton forget this."

"Knowing you as I do, I suspect you will choose the retreat," said Fitzwilliam. "In fact, you should. You are honest to a fault, Darcy. You will be besieged in town, and you will never be able to act as if nothing is wrong. Leave it to my parents. My father has some influence, but my mother is the true genius." He leant back against the squabs, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Lady Catherine has been going on about your so-called cradle engagement for years. Everyone has heard it. We in the family are the only ones who know of the letters and her use of them for extortion, but it should be obvious to anyone who witnessed her behaviour today that she has been concealing Anne's condition, whatever it is. Any condemnation will fall upon her. You have nothing to fear. Take heart, Cousin! Wickham is dead, you have the ring back, and the letters have been burnt."

Georgiana was soon asleep. They had had a late night and a harrowing day. The two gentlemen rode in silence, until Darcy barked a laugh.

"What is it?" asked his cousin.

Darcy's tone was laced with irony and self-reproach. "I fell in love with an ineligible lady. Not only did I refuse to court her, I left Hertfordshire so I would never see her again. All because I feared a scandal that would have been nothing to the events of today. I could have saved her, and we would have been happy."

After a day's stop in London to repack, Darcy and Georgiana began the journey north to Derbyshire. Long conversations were spent trying to anticipate the extent of the damage to their family name, but they had given up, mentally and physically exhausted. There was simply no way of knowing whether they would be shunned forever or accepted back into the highest circles. Or if I even care , Darcy mused. If one had the rank and the money, the chances of acceptance, or at least the appearance of acceptance, were far better. But if one did not have money or connexions… His thoughts went again to Elizabeth. She and her family had been shunned for two years now. Had she truly been married off against her will to someone far beneath her? The first thing he would do when he arrived at Pemberley was begin his investigations.

It was full dark at the end of the third day when their carriage rolled to a stop at Pemberley's doors. Mrs Reynolds was there to meet them. Tired, dusty, and ravenously hungry, they were ushered into their warm home.

After quickly washing and refreshing their clothing, they made for the small dining room. To their surprise, a welcoming committee was waiting. It was his ‘Crony Club', as his sister called them. Fletcher handed him a glass of ale the minute he stepped into the room, and Mr Pritchard brought Georgiana a glass of watered wine. Delicious smells filled the air; there were dishes of fruit, cheeses, and freshly baked bread already on the table. At the centre sat a large, old-fashioned tureen; dented, well-worn, and definitely not from Pemberley's kitchens.

Jamie Hedges proudly lifted the lid to reveal a steaming, savoury bowl of stew. "My wife's lamb stew, Darcy. Had to ask your Mrs Reynolds whether I could bring this in, and she allowed it. It was your father's favourite, and it comforted him near the end. Mrs Pritchard heard a little bit about the wedding—the gossip's travelled to Derbyshire already, I'm afraid—just enough to know it didn't go well. We wanted to bring you and the little missy here something to comfort you and lend you our support."

"Father's favourite?" echoed Georgiana, taking in the table laden with plain, hearty fare. Her stomach rumbled, and she blushed.

Mr Pritchard chuckled. "Do not be embarrassed, Miss Darcy. We all get hungry, and I would wager that you and your brother are rather sharp set by now." He gestured towards the table, and young Mr Fielding pulled out a chair for her.