by Iris Lim
Elizabeth panted as she held their aunt at arms' length. Her face seemed particularly flushed in the candlelight. The room swirled, the faces blended.
Jane, a trembling mess, barely stayed upright enough to take her place and face a scowling Mr. Darcy.
Chapter 11
“Shall we commence?”
The tentative look on Mrs. Gardiner’s face only spurred his ire to greater heights. What woman could so knowingly condemn her own nieces to certain lifelong misery? How could a woman he had esteemed at first sight spiral so quickly to the depths of his disdain?
“Mr. Darcy, shall you take your place?”
He looked up to see the object of his anger – deserved or otherwise – directing him to adjust his stance to more fully face his bride, rather than Bingley's. Unwillingly, he tore his eyes from Elizabeth's downcast form and turned to face a pale, withering Jane. How the two could possibly be sisters was a mystery he would never decipher.
“In the presence of God and man, we gather here tonight in joyful celebration,” Mrs. Gardiner began in words clearly not her own. “It is with hope and with gladness that we uplift these couples to His holy care – that He who saved us from the darkness of sin may preserve them with love and mercy for the duration of their earthly lives.”
Darcy had always considered himself a devout man, but tonight's words nearly drove him to nausea. The room darkened and spun. His lungs failed to sustain him. His frown, he knew, could be perceived a mile away.
With the feeling of Elizabeth still fresh in his arms, he found his throat tightening almost to the point of death. These vows, these proclamations – meant nothing in the light of his farce of a marriage. Could not the women's aunt see their own discontent? Could not Elizabeth prove with her words – as she had almost done – that the uniqueness of their situation warranted a relaxed observation of the system?
“As we gather together to witness the confirmation of their happiness, let us hear from each individual their words of love and promise,” Mrs. Gardiner recited on – and Darcy nearly socked the woman herself.
The room both bustled and hushed at the invitation for the couples to speak. Despite their arranged encounters, couples who did remain together until their second meeting often cared deeply and passionately for one another – and often swore the most beautiful of vows. He may never have witnessed such moments himself, but Darcy's friends had told him as much and built his expectations for this special night.
He had never thought he would stand on this momentous evening before a woman he disliked – a woman so bland he would never have noticed her absence. He had thought that he would already have found love by this hour – though perhaps towards the woman he faced, rather than the woman whose back aligned with his – whose gown's edge brushed tantalizingly against the soles of his boots – whose very existence drove him to madness.
Darcy shut his eyes as the happy sighs and whimpers rose in volume, emanating from scattered pockets of people. He could not hear if Bingley spoke to Elizabeth – though he doubted his fair-haired friend would ever find words sufficient to describe the wonder that she was. He did not know if his neighbor truly understood the grace that Providence had given him, by granting Elizabeth Bennet as his bride. He knew that he, deafened by his loud and mourning heart, heard nothing.
And he knew he was not about to say another word either.
“Mr. Darcy?” Mrs. Gardiner prompted, concern in her voice. “Shall you not pledge your love for your wife?”
Wife – bride – the words swirled in his mind. He opened his eyes slowly, afraid of reality for the first time in his tenacious life. What was he to say to the anxious matchmaker? Would it be acceptable to insult her niece – if he had only the highest praise for another?
“Mr. Darcy?”
He flinched as if burnt when he felt the older lady's hand upon his arm. Fitzwilliam Darcy was not a man to be forced, and he was keen to prove that fact to her.
He felt Elizabeth shuffle behind him, turning as if to face away from her groom. The gesture charged his heart with a gladness that he could not dare deny. The thought that she might have changed her mind – and might consider deserting her groom for him – shed light into his poor, tired soul.
He longed to turn, to see her, to grasp her, to embrace her as if the world ended then. The young man inside him that had endured loss and disappointment, hope and then despair, awakened with desperate passion. He had always lived for duty – always acted upon the choice he knew to be wisest, regardless of his personal desires.
One sidelong glance at a blank-faced Jane triggered every fear that he had ever possessed over the dangers of duty and honor. Every choice he had ever made, every moment of hardened resolution – from Wickham to Ramsgate to Lady Catherine de Bourgh – haunted him with vivid recollection. Poor choices, made in the name of duty and honor, taunted him with their consequences.
Was he to make another such choice today – a choice that would shackle him away from hope and happiness, for the rest of his living days?
“Mrs. Gardiner!” He spoke sharply, loudly – interrupting whatever the lady had been about to say. “Mrs. Gardiner – I can't.”
Elizabeth stilled, her fingers dangling between their bodies, halfway turned. He drew courage from her proximity.
“It is not for me to vow love I do not possess,” Darcy spoke with measured serenity. No one who heard him, he prayed, could doubt the sincerity behind his words. “I cannot state promises I do not intend to keep.”
Small gasps surrounded him. He comforted himself with the fact that Elizabeth did not share said reaction.
“Are you unsure of your confirmation, Mr. Darcy?” The matchmaker's question came with a pointed look and questioning eyes.
He met them, straightforward. “Yes.”
“And what do you suggest we do, sir?”
“I do not know.”
He did not know – did not think. He who had always prided himself for his calmness and direction had acted purely on impulse tonight. He knew what he wanted – and what he did not.
He did not know how he was to gain one and avoid the other.
Then he knew, suddenly, that Elizabeth's fingers were reaching for his – and he quickly grasped them in return.
“I have lived for duty and honor and other people's happiness my entire life, Mrs. Gardiner,” the words came now, unrelenting. “I refuse to allow such reservations to rule my sham of a marriage as well.”
The gasps reappeared. He continued.
“I cannot confirm vows I do not mean – however expected of me they may be. I cannot confirm the existence of a marriage that does not. I refuse – to confirm lifelong devotion to one woman, when I am in love with another.”
“Mr. Darcy –”
He turned away from the wide-eyed matchmaker, to face his wide-eyed love. Their joined hands dangled openly between them – and he was determined to have his way tonight.
“Forgive me, Elizabeth,” he whispered underneath the shrieks and cries surrounding them.
Her eyes, stalwart, told him there was nothing to forgive.
• • •
She tried to smile, tried to manifest an outward expression of the overflowing emotions in her heart. Unlike the privacy of their alcove, however, this crowd failed to evoke those selfsame sentiments.
“Fitzwilliam,” she whispered, her other hand fleeing her side to cover their joint ones. There was hope, courage, and pride in his eyes. There was love, warmth, and promise in his hands. This was – he was – the man she needed to marry.
Why did she ever think she could survive living with another one?
No sisterly nobility was worth his destruction. No kindness or self-sacrifice could be made worthwhile by driving his happiness to its grave.
He was her foremost priority.
She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came. She inhaled, heart swelling, but failed to translate her joy and excitement to action. What words, after all, could
be adequate to capture this moment – this horrific yet wonderful beginning to their life?
Her eyes met Fitzwilliam's and their overflowing promise. Was a scandal the only way to ensure a possibility of their happiness?
“Jane!”
A loud cry from behind her broke her daydreams, and she spun around immediately – hands still entwined with her lover's.
“Mr. Bingley?” She could not help sputtering at the now-empty spot her groom had previously occupied. The way she stood, body turned away from her designated spot, mouth agape at her absent groom, was nearly comical – tempered only in humor by the gravity of Darcy's claims.
“Elizabeth,” the loud, low, matronly whisper at her side did not come from either man occupying her mind.
“Aunt Gardiner.” It was a voice she knew well nonetheless, and she turned to face it reluctantly.
“Elizabeth, darling, are you certain?”
The lack of condemnation surprised her, but Elizabeth still flinched involuntarily.
“Elizabeth.”
“Certain?” She studied her aunt's face, a face slowly growing into focus after her recent whir of emotions had temporary blinded her to any sight but the shape of Fitzwilliam Darcy. Elizabeth blinked, then sighed. “I am – certain. I am.”
What she was ascertaining seemed only to be a hint of a blur in her mind.
“Your sister,” Fitzwilliam's low voice beckoned – and her eyes wandered up towards his face. “You are absolutely certain, Elizabeth?”
Her name, under the caress of his voice, rendered all protestation moot.
“Yes.” She knew not what she agreed to – knew not if she would ever be granted entry to society itself. She knew not if her sister would ever forgive her. Was this a pledge of marriage – a promise to elope as he had asked? Was this a promise to try, however long and difficult the process may be, to make that impossible future a reality? Was this –?
“Jane!” Mr. Bingley's second cry could not be ignored – and Elizabeth's eyes travelled off her lover's face to her sister's fallen figure. The gasp she emitted was everything true.
“Jane!” Elizabeth cried herself, stepping forward towards the pale, limp creature that had replaced the cheerful sister she had known all her life. Darcy's hands, encasing hers, were her only deterrent. “Jane, are you well? Are you –?”
“Jane, my Jane, my darling Jane.” The other man in this mixture of marriage was already at the older sister's side. His hands on her back and arm guided her to stand partially, the brunt of her weight on his shoulders. The sight they composed – the kindly man and the jilted woman – drew the clear sympathy of every spectator surrounding them. The sighs and frowns, absent when Darcy had made his declaration, now generously permeated every face within two yards.
The knot in Elizabeth's chest grew.
• • •
“Jane, my Jane, my darling Jane.”
His hands could not wrap tightly enough around her waist, nor his lips kiss her brow enough. Her gentle figure, graceful and lithe, now lay limp against his arms and chest. He hardly breathed when she could not. His strength, suddenly surging, was mostly spent supporting them both on their feet.
“Jane,” he whispered, tears in his eyes. She had declined his offer, had broken his heart with a few, simple words. He had wanted to try, had been willing to try. The Charles Bingley who had lived under the direction of his sisters all his life had been willing, for once, to replace kindness with courage in pursuit of his heart.
The owner of his heart simply happened to be the most selfless person he had ever met and known.
“Jane.” Tears flowed unbidden now as he pressed another kiss against her temple.
Memories of their tentative embraces in Brigham Park's garden – haunting his dreams – felt distinctively real yet ambiguous tonight under the pressing weight of current reality. He had gone through phase after phase after that night – from happiness to guilt to pride to joy to more guilt and then to purpose. He almost convinced himself, under her pledges of kindness tonight, that they would survive merely sharing their love as brother and sister – as friend to friend.
Her pallor the very moment Darcy began his declaration wiped all other thought from his mind.
She needed him, and he refused to disappoint.
“Jane, my love, my darling – what have I done?” The words of his heart found their way repeatedly to his lips. “Why have I – why did I –”
His own sniffs and sobs were the only threats to his fluency.
“Charles,” she whispered faintly, and every nerve in his being rushed to her care.
“Jane, Jane!” He turned her in his arms until she faced him. “Jane – please, be well – do not fret. I shall have you. I shall love you.”
His right hand found its way to her cheek, his left still supporting her waist. His unmanly sobbing would not cease.
“Jane – stay, please. Be well. I cannot bear this life without you.”
“Charles –”
“I love you.” He kissed her brow before placing her head on his shoulder. The delicacy of her frame left plenty of space in his arms, and he tightened his grip until there was none. “Jane, do not suffer. I disallow it. If heaven had granted – oh, if we only had – if the very first of that exchange had been true. If we – oh, Jane – if we had shared those first two weeks the way we should have.”
He cried openly against her hair. Touches of her weak fingers pressed against his coat.
“Your sister can never compare with you,” he mumbled, heart breaking. His hand on her neck pressed her tightly against his chest. “If she had but one-eighth of your goodness, tonight would never have happened. Tonight – oh, Jane, Jane, my love – oh, what have I done?”
He felt, more than heard, the suddenly roaring reactions. Tears muddled his eyes from perceiving the actions around him.
It did not matter.
Jane was here, in his arms.
He was not about to let go.
• • •
“Elizabeth,” he whispered, his voice as low and intense as his heavy heart felt. He pulled her closer, caring little for propriety. It was propriety, after all, that had doomed the four of them to tonight's tragic circumstance.
“Fitzwilliam.” She sniffed, her face against his chest, and he knew the words that Bingley declared hurt her still.
What sort of man would insult his bride so openly – would ruin the woman who had chosen to stay with him with such open inconsideration?
It barely escaped him that the words describing Bingley described himself just as much.
Darcy blinked, rapidly.
Bingley's words, vowed with ardor, had turned the tables as quickly as a wildfire would tinge a dry, summer forest. The surrounding eyes that had condemned the two pairs but a moment ago now gazed upon Bingley and Jane with soulful compassion. Unrequited love – punished when intentional – was romantic to the utmost when unwittingly compelled. It was clear, even now, that the village crowds believed the love between him and Elizabeth to be the root cause of the suffering between the two faltering individuals standing right before him. His love was condemned; Bingley's encouraged.
It was most fortunate that Georgiana and Miss Bingley had not chosen to come tonight. He could not bear his sister's censure, had it come.
“I am sorry,” he whispered, helpless and broken. He was not sorry for having declared what he thought, not sorry for having allowed his heart to guide his hand tonight. He was sorry, beyond words, for having inflicted pain upon the two people he loved best in this room – a trembling Elizabeth, and a crying Charles.
“Jane, oh Jane, please – be well,” Bingley's pleas persisted despite the rampant gossip clearly beginning to be shared around them.
Darcy did not know what those gossips believed – whom they cast as their sympathetic heroes.
He only wished Elizabeth agreed with him.
“I'm sorry,” he said again before pressing her tightly against him. Th
e embrace was pure scandal, impossible to condone beyond a husband and wife's own chambers. It would be widely considered inappropriate even to entwine his fingers with Elizabeth's. Entwining limbs was, beyond doubt, an act of grave indiscretion.
He hoped she did not mind.
“Fitzwilliam.” She sobbed again, her own hands twisting tightly around his waist. He knew her embarrassment, witnessed it himself. The courage glimmering from her eyes the first moment their hands had joined in public tonight had long melted into fear and mortification. How could she not feel betrayed and hurt – when Bingley insulted her so?
He almost sneaked a peek at the other Miss Bennet at the disquieting thought that he had hurt her just as much, if not more.
“Jane, Lizzy – are you certain?” Mrs. Gardiner – cursed woman – was talking to her nieces again.
Could she not see how thoroughly indisposed each lady already was?
“I'm sorry,” Elizabeth mumbled against his chest. His heart and shoulders shuddered, fearing her regret. “Please, allow me.”
He let her go reluctantly, one hand still clinging to her arm. Elizabeth, thank God, did not shake his grip away.
“Aunt Gardiner,” the voice of the witty and wise Elizabeth began to reemerge, “have you anything to tell us if we are? You ask – but you do not do.”
It was obvious to Darcy then that he was not the lone person in these pairings to begrudge the draper's wife.
“Elizabeth –”
“Please – do something.” Elizabeth's cry rose above the murmur of the crowds. “You assign – you switch – you torture – you pain.”
Darcy felt her fingers tighten on his forearm.
“Aunt, please – if you wishing to have us confirm our heart's desire merely to cruelly snatch it away – then, I pray you, do not ask. Do not taunt. Do not hurt.” Elizabeth's voice burned bright and fiery. “I have wondered, often, how my wonderful aunt could have done what she did.”
Darcy could not tell if the room fell silent for truth. His ears – and heart – hung on her every word.
