Page 67 of Conundrums & Coincidences

Fitzwilliam

Having read Mr Darcy’s words for a third time and having blushed only after the first two, Elizabeth placed the letter in her gown’s hidden pocket and continued strolling along the stream, trying to imagine a home so far removed from Hertfordshire.

Longbourn

July 4, 1812

My dearest Fitzwilliam—Yes, Mr Darcy, of all my many Fitzwilliams, you are the dearest.

Oh bother! I should cross out that line. I forgot you have relations by the name Fitzwilliam and that I can claim an acquaintance with one of them. Be assured that, while I found Colonel Fitzwilliam quite charming in Kent, in no manner is your cousin dear to me. Strike that. He will become dear to me once we are married. I mean once you and I marry.

Wisely, I shall abandon the above awkward subject matter and mention my appreciation for your letter of the twenty-ninth. I appreciated it so very much that I slept with it beneath my pillow last night, and I have it in my pocket even now. I miss you terribly, Fitzwilliam (terribly as in very much, not terribly as in very badly done), and although the sun finally shines from a blue sky here at Longbourn, for me it is all glumness and gloom without you. How I long for your return and the commencement of our married life together.

Which reminds me…

Another letter arrived yesterday. The message therein, written in an unknown hand, congratulated me on my imminent marriage to such an illustrious personage as yourself. Can you possibly guess, dear sir, who has wished us joy? I shall provide you with several hints. She is a recent acquaintance of ours, and she learnt of our engagement from Mr Hadley. Oh, bother! I should have phrased all that as a charade, for we met the lady at Oakwood during the tournament. Yes, Miss Sophia Kensett, who soon will wed an admirable, worthy gentleman from Ipswich and leave behind her controlling father and brother in Maidenhead.

As glad as I was to learn that Miss Kensett is well pleased with her intended, I am rather delighted with mine. In fact, I am the happiest creature in the world!

I once told you that I desire a marriage with a balance between romance and reason, somewhere betwixt Jane’s idealised view of it and Charlotte’s more sensible perspective. A marriage founded on both love and good sense. But where, sir, was your good sense when you, the wealthy nephew of a nobleman, offered marriage to a young woman with nothing—neither love nor money nor peerage—to offer in return?

Do you see my dilemma? I cannot imagine life with a nonsensical man, nor can I imagine a life without you. You are too good. Too honourable, too forgiving, too generous. Too self-sacrificing. I do not deserve you. Nor do you deserve a young woman who had not the good sense to accept the aforementioned offer of marriage. So, what are two nonsensical people to do? Shall we abandon reason and good sense and embrace a life of love and romance? What a conundrum!

And what nonsense! See? This is what happens on a Saturday when I have nothing to do but pine for you.

As I write, Jane is with Mama choosing wedding clothes, food for the breakfast, and which flowers from the cutting garden she and I shall carry at our weddings—the weddings of two complying, easy, and generous souls and two nonsensical others.

Now, in all earnestness, sir, I assure you that my love is genuine. I love you for who you are. You are my friend and the love of my life. You know me. And you know I can be brazen. However, a lady must not be quite so brazen as to tell her gentleman how very much she longs for his embraces, kisses, and caresses, or how she cannot wait to become his wife.

And here I shall brazenly answer your question by saying that I have no objection to sharing your bedchamber for the foreseeable future. However, if you snore in a way resembling my father—who can be heard from a mile away—I cannot promise that ‘foreseeable’ will last beyond one sleepless night.

But, speaking of becoming your blushing bride, I should mention that there is another wedding taking place at St Mary’s on the morning of the eleventh. Therefore, ours has been planned for eleven o’clock. I trust that meets with your approval.

Until we meet on that date and at that time, my dearest Fitzwilliam, I remain…

Your nonsensical, brazen, and lovesick,

Elizabeth

Happy was the July morning that Elizabeth reached the age of majority and married Mr Darcy at St Mary’s with Kitty and Georgiana as her attendants and Jane and Mr Bingley as witnesses.

She had not realised it at the time, for she was far too engaged in the business of getting married to glance at a timepiece; but, at the exact moment the vicar pronounced that they be man and wife together, the minute hand had ticked over to eleven past eleven. It had not been planned that way; however, as the elder sister, Jane thought her and Mr Bingley’s marriage should be solemnised first.

In the churchyard afterwards, Sir William Lucas—who had, by coincidence, glanced at his watch during the ceremony—gleefully informed Mr and Mrs Darcy that eleven minutes past eleven o’clock was considered a significant moment in time for an event to occur.

Elizabeth thought her husband’s expression mirrored her own scepticism, but what had occurred was, indeed, the most significant event of her life.

“I hope to encounter the two of you at St James’s now and then,” continued Sir William. “And, speaking of such, I was looking forward to seeing some of your noble relations today, Mr Darcy.”

“I am afraid my sister was the only family member able to attend, Sir William. My parents, of course, are deceased. Colonel Fitzwilliam is on his way to Upper Canada due to the American war, and his parents, the Earl and Countess of Matlock, are at their estate in Derbyshire. And as you no doubt are aware, and unfortunately for them, Lady Catherine de Bourgh and Anne are unable to grace us with their presence.”

Biting her lip, Elizabeth stifled a smile. With one’s standing often uppermost on Sir William’s mind, her husband had just flaunted his own noble heritage for the Knight Bachelor’s benefit.

In a light drizzle, while congratulations and best wishes were extended to both happy couples, Elizabeth’s memory captured images of her special day. Mr Darcy, so handsome in a blue coat. Her father and her husband smiling and shaking hands. The mother of the brides lording over everything and everyone. Lydia and Georgiana, arm in arm. Lydia in silk she referred to as her Midsummer gown. Miss Bingley’s affectionate and insincere felicitations. Mr Hadley in their midst, no doubt due to Kitty’s presence. Jane radiant; Bingley beaming.

All in all, it was a mostly happy group that returned to Longbourn for a lavish breakfast. During the feast, Elizabeth thought her husband bore her family’s raucousness with decent composure and admirable forbearance, particularly when her aunt Philips took them aside and dispensed questionable and inappropriate advice about marital felicity. If Mr Darcy squared his shoulders and huffed at her vulgarity, he at least waited until the woman was out of sight and earshot. Doing all she could to shield him from her aunt and mother, Elizabeth directed her husband to those of her family with whom he might converse without mortification.

“I wish we were already at your town house,” she whispered.