19. In which all ends happily

Mrs. Pattinson did not manage to restore Elizabeth to the shining glory of her appearance at the start of the ball, but by building up the fire in Elizabeth’s room to dry the gown, exchanging shift, petticoat, shoes, gloves, etc. for fresh ones, and hiding the dampest part of Elizabeth’s hair by wrapping about her head a length of white gauze as a bandeau, she managed to hide most of the damage. Elizabeth’s wandering around the room humming to herself, laughing at nothing, and fits of dreamy distraction caused this good lady no little confusion. She and all the other servants had been under the impression that Lady Catherine and Mrs. Fitzwilliam had quarrelled so vehemently during the supper dance that Mrs. Fitzwilliam had gone walking in the garden to cool her temper; this information she tentatively passed onto Elizabeth, who replied, “Oh yes, I suppose I cannot deny that—but I cannot also deny a very happy outcome. I shall tell all anon, I promise, but I want so very much to go back down and dance as soon as I can; I have missed it so.”

“Of course ma’am—but where is your bracelet?” asked Mrs. Pattinson.

“Mr. Darcy has it, or had it,” said Elizabeth and then went hunting in the pockets of the coat Darcy had put over her shoulders. She passed over the bracelet and then looked hesitantly at her wedding ring. She had felt no guilt in accepting Darcy’s proposal; only a soaring joy, the equal of which she had only known once before, and for an identical cause. But, she thought, Richard had had Colonel Pascal before they had married; he would not begrudge her Mr. Darcy now their marriage was over. Indeed, he might even have been pleased by it.  

Mrs. Pattinson took certain inferences from this and asked, delicately, “Might I wish you joy, ma’am?”

Elizabeth flushed. “I hope you know I—I did love the colonel and was very happy with him—”

“Of course, ma’am,” said Mrs. Pattinson, handing over a fresh set of ball gloves. “And I think you shall be very happy with Mr. Darcy. A very different man from the colonel, ma’am, but a very fine man all the same, if you will excuse my saying so.”

Elizabeth laughed. “By all means! Wax eloquent on his virtues, Mrs. Pattinson; I shall speak only to beg you to continue.”

“I’m sure you could only find a finer man in regimentals,” said Mrs. Pattinson, which was so high a compliment from that lady, Elizabeth was moved to embrace her. Elizabeth went down all smiles, just in time for the last dance of the evening. The ballroom was less full, about a fifth of the guests having left to go to Barmote, and others having left out of exhaustion, or a wish of going before the wait for carriages grew too long. Elizabeth’s gaze went to Darcy as inexorably as the tide coming in; she saw him and went to him feeling buoyed and elated, with the giddy sensation, when they danced, that the room had no ceiling or floor. She was dizzy with love. Her happiness could not be contained, but bubbled over in conversation. Darcy’s own feelings were too strong to be easily expressed, especially in a ballroom, before strangers, but he went through the dance smiling, which was probably the first time he had ever done so.

When the dance ended a servant came to Elizabeth with a note from Colonels Dunne and Pascal, describing in four lines their progress at Barmote. There was enough time to scan this and pass the note to Darcy before the applause for the orchestra had ended.

“Before you all depart,” said Darcy, as the guests all began to move to go, “I beg a moment of your time. I have two items of news that I think are of note. The first— the explosion at Barmote has been successfully contained.” There was a general murmur of relief at this. “Colonel Dunne writes that so far there have been no deaths, and only a handful of men injured. A few of the outbuildings about the mine were obliterated but the fire did not spread from them to the village itself.”

The guests were in the habit of applauding and so did; several came forward to ask questions, for Barmote was not so near to their properties as to cause them to flee a ball early, but not so far as to leave them with no anxiety whatever. Darcy answered them as best he could, and it was quite five minutes before anyone recalled he had a second announcement.

Georgiana, arm-in-arm with Kitty, piped up, “Brother, did you not have a second announcement to make?” There was a particular air of excitement about her that made Elizabeth suspect Darcy had immediately run to his sister, after they had parted, wishing to share the joy of his engagement with all he held dear.  

“The second,” said Darcy, meeting Elizabeth’s eyes— and oh! There was so much of love in his expression, and how truly did so heartfelt a smile become him “— is a yet happier piece of news. I would like to announce my engagement to my cousin—”

Lady Catherine assumed an expression of great satisfaction.

“—Mrs. Fitzwilliam.”

Lady Catherine looked as if someone had hit her right between the eyes with a truncheon. Elizabeth would have liked to say she had not felt utterly triumphant, but she did. Darcy extended his left hand to Elizabeth, she took it. The congratulations flowed in with all the sincerity of neighbors of long standing wishing one of their own every happiness; Elizabeth quite lost sight of Lady Catherine, in the bustle in noise of so many good wishes, mixed with so many farewells and such confusion about whose carriage had arrived. When the last of the guests had departed, Georgiana and Kitty rushed to embrace their siblings at once, with overlapping cries of, “ Finally !” and “I am so happy!”

“What do you mean, finally?” asked Elizabeth, pulling back.

Kitty looked shifty and Georgiana turned bright red.

Darcy asked, sternly, “Georgiana?”

She hung her head and mumbled something indistinct.

Kitty translated, “Well, we knew you were a match since last summer. It has been some doing to get the two of you to realize it.”

“What?” asked Darcy. “Since last summer? How—”

“When we all got knocked over by that wave and you went into the sea,” said Georgiana, in an almost comprehensible murmur.

“A lot of mysteries have just been solved,” said Elizabeth. “I think Mr. Darcy and I are… shall we say indebted to you for your services? In the matter of our being habitually locked into rooms, certainly, and most likely the cowslip wine—”

“Well I like that,” said Kitty indignantly. “Here we are, having united two soulmates, and done so for the first time, without anyone really helping us or giving us advice. The fact that we managed to bring the two of you together at all seemed to us horribly unlikely for at least half the year!”

Elizabeth would have scolded them for rather inefficient matchmaking, but Lady Catherine, noticing that only the family remained in the hall, chose then to make her entrance, and glided grandly down the staircase.

“Fitzwilliam Darcy,” she boomed out, Anne trailing behind her as a thin, red shadow, “a word, if you please?”

“I think you have had quite enough of those, madame,” said Darcy, dryly. “But permit me to ask a question that I think will spare us both some unnecessary argument. Is it not true that one ought to marry one’s match?”

“Yes, of course.”

“And is it not true that you know your true match because you bear that person’s name on your wrist, and that person bears yours on theirs?”

Kitty, seeing where this was going, helpfully undid the clasp of Elizabeth’s bracelet.

“Just so,” said Lady Catherine, eyes narrowing. “With first name matching to first name, and last name matching to last name, and so forth.”

Darcy raised his left arm and pulled down the sleeve of his coat, exposing the button at his cuff. Then then very deliberately undid the button on his cuff, arm still upraised. He caught Elizabeth’s eye with a look almost of playfulness.

Elizabeth hid a laugh behind her newly ungloved left hand. Darcy was enjoying this.

Lady Catherine greatly mistrusted this. “Fitzwilliam—”

“Yes, that’s what is on my wrist,” said Elizabeth holding out her own wrist.

“And mine,” said Darcy, holding out his, “says, ‘Elizabeth.’”

Lady Catherine turned a shade of puce Elizabeth privately thought would be a good color for the curtains in the east drawing room.

“It appears,” said Mr. Darcy, hugely enjoying this, “that Mrs. Fitzwilliam bears my first name, and I bear her first name.”

“I believe that may make us a match, Mr. Darcy,” said Elizabeth, in mock surprise.

“According to my aunt, it appears we are a true match. We had better let the engagement stand.”

“Yes, we had better marry. It would not do to go against Lady Catherine’s advice.”

“After all I have done for you—” Lady Catherine began.

“And you have done so much ,” said Elizabeth, pressing a hand to her heart. “You have been the means of uniting us, Lady Catherine! Without our conversation on the balcony, Mr. Darcy and I might never have come to realize we were a match.”

Lady Catherine glowered at them both, greatly displeased to have been so thoroughly outmaneuvered. But there were servants all about, being purposefully helpful about cleaning up (including several housemaids all dusting the same vase). She coldly informed all assembled that she, Anne, and Mrs. Jenkinson would be departing for Rosings in the morning. Elizabeth, Darcy, Georgiana, and Kitty were all concern, but did not press them to stay, and indeed, Darcy took a particular pleasure in asking the servants to begin preparing for Lady Catherine’s departure at once.

Lady Catherine swept off with a sense of offended dignity, muttering, “My brother will hear of this!”

“And so will Marjorie,” said Elizabeth, when Lady Catherine disappeared up the stairs. “It almost makes one sorry for Lady Catherine.”

“Really?” asked Kitty.

“ Almost .”

***

The Matlock Fitzwilliams duly arrived home from Tahiti and were descended upon at roughly the same time by Lady Catherine de Bourgh of Rosings Park and Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley. Darcy had the advantage of traveling on his own, and having already been in London, procuring a marriage license, when news of his uncle’s ship arriving in port reached him. He anticipated Lady Catherine by a day to quite good effect, according to a letter written by Marjorie Spencer Fitzwilliam, viscountess Stornoway, to her dear friend Miss Mary Crawford who, in turn, forwarded it to her good friend, Mrs. Elizabeth Bennet Fitzwilliam:

Dear Mary,

We are all safely got back from Tahiti, and more importantly than surviving a transatlantic journey, have survived being on a small ship with each other for what feels like five hundred years. We no sooner take off our things to wish off the sea water when the butler announces Cousin Darcy is come to wait upon us. I was v much shocked, as you can imagine— he is generally so conscientious about being at Pemberley for the harvest he will not quit it until Michaelmas; and then too, both Lizzy and his friend Mr. Bingley are in Derbyshire, he has no particular draw to London except for us. Honoria and I agreed it a rather overactive sense of duty that caused him to wait upon Matlock like this, and got Dora and Julian to agree with us, but we were all admittedly feeling sick (from sea and of each other) and feeling v cynical about human nature. However, when we had all washed up and gone down to dinner Darcy was really and very sincerely happy. I am not sure I have ever seen him in better spirits. I feel rather touched by this shew of family feeling. Am a little surprised he did not bring G with him but he mentioned G, Lizzy, and Miss Bennet were at Pemberley with Mr. and Mrs. Bingley and might be coming to town soon. I do not entirely know what he means by this. Do they propose to come wait on us? Vastly but pointlessly civil if so. I know I do not have enough family feeling to travel from Derbyshire to London at the end of August, tho admittedly the heat here is nothing compared to Tahiti. The men are come back now and Julian looks more than usually confused— I must put down my pen for now to explain something to him.

Dear Mary— I feel I really ought to start a new letter and throw out the top half of this sheet for I have such news. Julian came to me and said, v uncomfortably, “Marjorie dear has Lizzy written to you?” I said she usually did, what was the matter (really fearing that she had been plunged into another trough of misery and could not be pulled out) but Darcy’s looks were too cheerful. If L was in the same state as she was this time last year, he would be v somber and grave. J looked even more uncomfortable and said he felt more than uncommonly stupid but really did not understand— Darcy was in such a good mood, J had joked that D must be in love. D smiled and said he was, and that as the lady was so good as to return his feelings, he expected to be married by the end of September. Glad tidings poured in— I think there was some reticence in asking if it was at true match, as we are all rather certain Darcy has Joan of Arc of Boadicea or the like on his wrist, and Matlock and J like Darcy too much to fault him for not marrying according to family tradition. J did ask the lady’s name and do you know who Darcy is planning to marry? None but Lizzy!

You can imagine my astonishment at this, for Darcy has not the open manner, nor the playful, gentle goodhumor that I always thought Lizzy valued most about Richard. Darcy is a very good sort of man, intelligent and loyal and all— but not very much like Richard, except that they share a name (and apparently tastes). I really did not understand how Lizzy could accept Darcy, but then I recalled how v shaken she was after Waterloo and how good Darcy was to her, and with what tender solicitude he always attended her, and how much and how often she turned to him at first in distress and then in friendship— one with so wounded a heart and so warm and affectionate a temperament as our Lizzy could not help but be moved by such kindness, and from mutual sympathy to friendship to love there are no very great distances. Darcy confused me rather— I know both you and the Duke of Wellington hinted his interests lay in that direction but I admit I thought the unusual degree of concern he had for Lizzy and her grief was a way to avoid focusing on his own. I admit to being wrong. He goes about smiling. It is really very alarming. I must put down my pen and go manage Matlock. I do not think he will take much persuasion— he has always been at a loss at what to do with L and he has this belief that women cannot be happy without children. It is as nonsensical as a superstitious person believing that their shattering a mirror causes anything but a lot of work for the servants. But L’s marrying Darcy soothes both of Lord M’s worries, and conveniently keeps all the money and properties R left L within the family. I shall lean very heavily on Lord M’s aunt marrying Lord Ravenshaw after her first husband died, in order to bring Lord R, who is a not very political man who spends all his life putting on amateur theatricals, over to the Whigs. Sadly Darcy is already a Whig so we have not that excuse, but I think there is something in the properties staying within the family. More tomorrow.

I pick up my pen again this morning with yet more news of the various entanglements of my relations. Darcy came to talk to me last night of Lady Catherine, who, if you can believe it, found a way to be even more insufferable than in the past! She appears to have invaded Pemberley, thrown a ball (which Darcy paid for, of course, even though he probably hated every minute of it), and insisted Darcy marry Anne. Quite obvious what choice makes in that case. Especially since both Anne and Lady C said some things about the rest of this family that would make Caro Lamb say, ‘hey now! That’s too harsh!’

Darcy told me what he had heard, and Lizzy sent me a very long letter about it all. Did you know, my dear, that Cousin Anne thinks herself the best of her generation? I shall shew you L’s letter when next you come visit. I was surprised Anne said nothing of Richard, but I suppose L looked so murderous at that point, Anne shut up; that or it was so bad L left it out. Lady C told L after this that L was keeping D too comfortable by living w him and running his household and all—D wld never marry while L was there, and L, having served her purpose by hiding half of R’s predilections, must now be cast from the family circle, for causing more problems than solving them. I really do believe D and L got engaged out of spite, to drive Ldy C from Pemberley, but then found that as their being married would not materially alter a pattern of life they had fallen into and rather enjoyed, went ahead with the engagement.

More news! I really should just have four different letters to you. Lady C has deigned to visit us. Unfortunately for her, my dear Julian had another Glenarvon moment. He probably could have shrugged off Ldy C and Anne’s belief that he was dropped on the head as a child, but as the two of them dared call me conniving and our children brats, he barred them from the house unless they apologized. Of course they wouldn’t—not with all the servants purposefully hanging about—and he shouted a bit and ranted and raved about how the good of the bloodline means bringing in those to whom we are matched, Honoria came running in to support her brother, and Lord M came out of his study just in time to hear Ldy C unwisely attack Honoria. Now, we have been gone the past sixmonth, Ldy C could probably be excused for not realizing how materially Lord M’s opinion of Ldy H and Miss D has changed, in light of his actually bothering to spend time and get to know them, but she shld have realized after R’s death, Lrd M would positively explode if anyone accused him of not loving his children and ensuring that they had good, fulfilling lives with their soulmates. So, in short, there has been a break between the Matlock branch and the Rosings branch of the family. Happily we were awarded custody of the Pemberley branch.  

Lrd M was sweet as a lamb abt D and L marrying after that (of the ba-ba type, not the Glenarvon writing type). I am happier w the idea of it too, esp. since Darcy rather quietly admitted to being in love with L and that being more motivation to marry than any desire to poke Ldy C in the eye metaphorically. I confess, I do not entirely understand how his affections came to be engaged. He disliked L so much when she was to marry Richard! He and Richard did not speak to each other for nearly two weeks! It was only with time that Darcy became accustomed to Lizzy, and I honestly thought that he only started liking her as a person when he saw how devastated she was at Richard’s loss, thus proving she was, in fact, Richard’s soulmate, and not a fortune hunter.  

How should Darcy, the high stickler, the stoic avoider of human emotion, whose one foray into romance was with Elizabeth Elliot the Unendurable [ink blot]

I am the stupidest creature on earth. I beg you will hit me upside the head when you next see yr oblivious frnd

MSF, Ldy Stwy

***

About a week after Lady Stornoway wrote her letter, a rather large party came down from Derbyshire, consisting of Mr. and Mrs. Bingley, their daughter, Georgiana, Kitty, and Elizabeth. London had been agreed upon as the most convenient place to be married, as it would suit the travel needs of all. The Matlock branch had made it clear that though they were very happy Darcy and Elizabeth would marry they would all rather be captured by Jacobins and guillotined for being aristocrats than travel again. It was likewise convenient for the Bennets to come up. Kitty and Georgiana would be returning to Longbourn for the fall, while Darcy and Elizabeth traveled abroad. The newlyweds intended to journey to Italy (over land, at Elizabeth’s insistence), a place that neither had been, but both felt some curiosity in seeing. To Elizabeth the idea of crossing the Alps was nearly as much of an enticement as the Roman ruins, and though Darcy’s tastes tended towards the familiar, Rome, that dwelling place of Caesar and Cicero, was as familiar to him as it was to any other man who had been transformed into a proper gentleman through the crucible of Eton and Cambridge, and he wished very much to see that city.

Though Mr. and Mrs. Bingley considered it the most natural thing in the world for two people they held so close as Darcy and Elizabeth to marry, Mr. and Mrs. Bennet were very much confused. Upon their arrival in London, Mrs. Bennet was torn between praises of Darcy’s wealth, and loud exclamations of confusion as to Elizabeth’s marrying him. Mr. Bennet was too mystified to even mock his wife on this subject, and drew Elizabeth aside to say, apprehensively, “Lizzy, my girl, are you sure you know what you are about? It is an unpleasant thing to be a widow, I know, and Mr. Darcy has been a good friend to you, but—”

“But, Papa,” said Elizabeth, “I did not think you were so firm a believer in soulmarks.”

“I am not,” said he, “indeed, I should be very pleased to hear that you had married in open defiance of them and chosen your second husband just to please yourself.”

“Then rejoice! For not only have I done so, I have chosen a man I like and esteem, and with whom I have every expectation of being very happy. It is a very settled thing between us, you know, that we shall be the happiest couple we know. Indeed, we are as agreed upon that point as we are about the provenance of our sugar.”

“But can you respect him, as you did your first husband?”

“Yes, very much so! Even when I disliked Mr. Darcy I still respected him as a man of ability; now, in addition to that I not only like him, but love him. And too—” She paused, unsure how serious to be with her father “—we both… there are certain circumstances we have both lived through that neither of us can forget, and that will keep us forever joined, in some respects. Even if we had not chosen to marry each other, we would always have been friends, I think, for having survived the aftermath of Waterloo together.”

Mr. Bennet looked searchingly at her, and said, “Well, Lizzy, you are five and twenty, and have married once already; you do not need my permission to marry now, but do assure me that you and Mr. Darcy have both put some thought into whether you should suit. You were very lucky with your first husband. I do not think I could bear to see you are miserable as I have been, when it comes to your choice of partner, especially after I have seen you truly happy.”

Elizabeth, after a moment’s thought, laid out the whole of her history with Mr. Darcy, (excluding, of course, their kissing forfeits). She spoke of the evolution of her own feelings; the gradual change which her estimation of him had undergone; her absolute certainty that his affection was not the work of a day, but had stood the test of several years, including many in which there had been absolutely no possibility of a return of his sentiments. And finally enumerating with energy all his good qualities, she did conquer her father’s incredulity, and reconcile him to the match.

“And here Kitty was telling me all about how you and Mr. Darcy were a match, and all the stratagems she employed to force the two of you to realize it,” said Mr. Bennet, dryly. “It did strike me as a touch too much Beaumarchais, but Kitty is a very new writer, and those just beginning to write are apt to plagiarize.”

Elizabeth blushingly confessed to being a match.

Mr. Bennet raised his eyebrows. “It seems some strange trick of the almighty, for you to have two perfect matches, when so many have none at all.”

“It is luck, I admit, but the more I think on it, the more I am sure it could be anyone’s lot. Jane is so common a name, Papa; you might have been very happy with any number of Janes. And did you not say your nursemaid Jane saved you when you were a baby?”

“That is all very true, my dear. Have you ever heard Voltaire’s letter to Emilie du Chatelet? ‘if I was not with you, my dear, I would no doubt be with someone else. But how nice that I have chosen you, and you have chosen me, instead of all those others.’”

“I suppose,” said Elizabeth, smiling, “I have merely been spoilt for choice.”

***

Though their engagement had led to a period of blissful playfulness, and a candor which allowed them to canvass even painful topics with relative ease, there was one point on which Elizabeth was a little reticent. One afternoon Elizabeth gave herself a mental shake, calling herself ridiculous, and sought out Darcy. The Earl had insisted she come back to Matlock House for the couple of days before she was married, to avoid any shadow of scandal, and as Darcy was busily and happily redoing his room to suit her, and transforming a nearby linen closet to ber her dressing room, and otherwise remodeling and redecorating his house to please her, it was not perfectly easy to find him. But she was eventually taken to the back garden, where Darcy was throwing what had once been a tennis ball and what was now mostly Newfoundland slobber. Every third time he threw it, Boatswain was prevailed upon to fetch it, which was quite good, as far as Boatswain’s usual record went.

Darcy lit up upon seeing her, and for several minutes Elizabeth was so overwhelmed by affection from both man and dog she forgot her errand.

“There is one point I should like to discuss with you, that I have not yet,” said Elizabeth. She pulled off her glove and then her wedding ring. She thought she might feel undressed without it, but noted, with some amusement that even without the ring itself, there was still a paler band about the base of left ring finger. “I should like a different band from you, if you are agreeable, and I should also like your advice on what to do with this one. I should like to keep it, if not wear it.”

Darcy, one hand still on Boatswain’s collar, in order to keep him from knocking over Elizabeth with the enthusiasm of his greeting, studied the slim gold band in her hand. “Elizabeth, I have no wish to rewrite or deny any part of your history. You were happily married once before, and I am not the sort of man to think that precludes your being happily married a second time— at least—“ with a glimmer of a smile “—I shall endeavor to make sure you are. If you care to wear it on your right hand I shall make no objection, or if you wish for me to procure a chain for you, so you might wear it as a necklace, it shall be done.”

“I should like a chain,” said Elizabeth, touched and gladdened by this response.

“I must ask, however, if this is the sort of style you prefer. I have never seen you wear any other rings.”

“Oh I am so often scrambling about, or in gloves, or in the stillroom I find rings inconvenient. I asked for something simple from Richard partly for practicality’s sake, partly in service of a romantic notion that I should have the same ring as my husband, and partly because I was afraid I was already costing too much. But I am really not the sort of woman to value her jewelry for its own sake. I like them for the events they commemorate or the love it symbolizes— and in that mindset, I shall take great joy in wearing anything you chuse for me, Darcy; I trust your taste and judgement.”

Elizabeth later doubted the wisdom of this, as Darcy had a steak of extravagance even greater than her first husband when it came to presents for his loved ones, and she was somewhat exasperated to be presented with a hoop ring made entirely of diamonds set in gold. The only ring she had seen at all similar to it had been on Queen Charlotte’s hand. She attempted to start a quarrel about it, as it cost more than any of her other pieces, but Darcy ended the argument as soon as it began with the halting confession, “I do not have the ease that some men do, in talking of what I feel; I cannot put into words the depth of the love I bear you. Any attempt I make at it sounds paltry to my own ear. I cannot think what it must sound like to yours. It is easier for me to give you tokens such as these. It still does not capture all I feel, but it does more than my awkward attempts at… I believe Bingey called it my searching for words of four syllables.”

“Ridiculous man,” teased Elizabeth, softening automatically but not wanting to lose the argument. “My dear Fitzwilliam, for one who claims he does not easily speak of his love, you certainly have done so eloquently enough to get me to stop quarreling with you—but now I know to treasure any gift of yours, I beg you will not make them all this expensive.”

Darcy smiled in such a way as to imply that they probably would be, but said merely, “I pray you will indulge me this once, at least. For many years it has seemed to me an impossible idea that we should be married; in the realization of such an unlooked for happiness, a little extravagance must surely be excused.”

Elizabeth complied.

***

The wedding itself was smaller than her first had been, partly out of a mural preference not to turn what to them was a moment of private happiness at the end of a very long journey into a public spectacle; and partly due to the time of the year in which it was being held. Most members of society were at hunting parties or at home gathering in the harvest. They had for some time thought the Earl of Matlock would be the highest ranking guest, until Wellington sent an unexpected note that he would be in London for about a week that September and would Mrs. Fitzwilliam be agreeable to his calling upon her?

Elizabeth somewhat impulsively invited him to her wedding, as it fell upon the first day of his visit, but not hearing from him, was a little astonished to see Wellington show up at the church just as she was entering it.

“Your Grace!” she exclaimed.

He took off his hat and pressing it to his heart as he bowed, exclaimed, “My dear Mrs. Fitzwilliam! I am glad to have arrived when I can still call you by that name. Pray let me escort you in.”

As Mrs. Bennet was near to fainting with astonishment at seeing the Duke of Wellington in the flesh, let alone bowing to her daughter, Mr. Bennet relinquished his daughter’s arm readily enough.

“Here, my dear,” said Wellington, tucking her hand in the crook of his arm, “wasn’t I telling you only a few months ago that you were too charming to stay long a widow? The only thing I can’t fathom is what the devil took your Cousin Darcy so long to marry you. Heavens, how these civilians will drag their feet.”

“A very kind interpretation of events, Your Grace,” said Elizabeth, laughing. “I was rather afraid I was too quick to leave off my blacks and I was very astonished to discover this August that Mr. Darcy was in love with me.”

“Dear girl, I could have told you that in February and saved you several months.”

“Your Grace, I was in mourning until June!”

“And it is now September. Several months, still.”

Though Darcy was not technically supposed to be waiting for her in the vestibule, he was, and was obviously not pleased to see Wellington. This amused His Grace terribly and after congratulating Darcy, ended with, “Pray allow me to kiss the bride for luck.”

Elizabeth was amused and laughingly offered her cheek. Wellington of course tipped her chin up with a forefinger and kissed her. She pulled back, a little started, with a half-laughing, half-censorious, “Your Grace!”

“It was really my last chance to get away with it, my dear,” he said, looking at Darcy with a gleam of quite wicked amusement.

Darcy was not one to display his affection before others— his fastidious, reserved soul shrank from public display of anything he felt— but he put an arm about Elizabeth’s waist and pointedly drew her closer. His expression seemed to say, ‘It certainly is.’ There was a gentleness and a power in the strength of his hold about her that Elizabeth could not help but find irresistibly attractive.

Wellington quirked a smile. “You know, I had been expecting to see your marriage announced in The Times since about January. You are behindhand Mr. Darcy!”

“I think it came at just the right time,” protested Elizabeth, smoothing down her pelisse of pearl-colored striped lutestring, and its border of gold embroidery.

“Indeed, Madame?” His Grace asked.

“It came exactly when I was ready to accept it.”

Wellington sighed. “You are a damnably lucky dog, Mr. Darcy, and no mistake. Well, on you get.”

And on they went. The ceremony seemed to rush by for Elizabeth, and she had on a new ring and was in the vestry with a pen in her hand before she felt like she had even sufficient time to take in all the details of Darcy’s appearance that day. Jane and Bingley were repaying the favor of being wedding witnesses and were laughing and congratulating Darcy as Elizabeth stood with pen in hand, looking at the blank space where she would relinquish forever a signature she had not, until recently, ever expected to give up. She had liked being Mrs. Fitzwilliam, she thought, with a twinge of melancholy. It was a self she had put some work into creating; a self with which she had been well-pleased.

“Elizabeth?” Darcy asked, coming up to her.

That, at least was a constant; and when she turned to look up at Darcy, all melancholy faded into a rush of giddy pleasure. ‘To me,’ Darcy had said, ‘you have ever been Elizabeth.’ She signed ‘Elizabeth Fitzwilliam,’ for the last time. ‘I wonder who Elizabeth Darcy will be?’ she thought to herself, and shuffled through the nearest selection of selves in her mind, imagining them as dresses hung up on pegs, waiting for her to pull them down and put them on.

Elizabeth had the opportunity to try out the likeliest of these selves at the wedding breakfast—she endeavored to be clever, but gracious; to deploy all the skills she had learnt while part of the Earl of Matlock’s household, while holding resolutely to the cheerful adaptability that had been refined through several years of following the drum; to use her ease in company as a shield for her husband, who, though clearly trying, was not his best self before crowds. To Darcy’s credit (and, Elizabeth thought rather smugly, thanks to her influence), he was making an effort. He was the liberal and liberal-minded individual who deeply felt his responsibilities; the clever and well-read debater who delighted in lively conversation; the considerate gentleman, who, though not always at ease in company, at least made an intentional effort at the requisite social courtesies.

Though there seemed to be a sense of mild perplexity among the assembled guests that she and Darcy had chosen to marry each other, Elizabeth fancied that after seeing them together, most people went away satisfied. Elizabeth and Darcy had already been shaping themselves into better versions of themselves, under the others’ influence; to see them now together, and perfectly fitted, contented the curious. Darcy’s great-uncle the judge, and his daughter, Mrs. De Courcey, were of this camp, and the latter ended her congratulations and conversation by noting privately to Elizabeth that the Darcys had always been a quiet family; and she was amazed at how gregarious the Derbyshire branch had become.

“Really,” said Mrs. de Courcey, “I remember Fitzwilliam always roaming about the grounds of Pemberley, during family visits, with Tom following him silently about, petticoats muddy up to the knees.”

“Tom?” said Elizabeth, rather confused. “I am sorry; I thought you were an only child?”

“Oh! I am. We London Darcys are a small bunch.”

Elizabeth glanced towards the small knot of Darcy second cousins, trying to recall if any of them were named ‘Tom.’

Mrs. De Coursey followed the line of her gaze and stifled a laugh. “Of course the Derbyshire branch never told you. No, no, Lake District Darcys are all George or Georgiana or Georgette, since their father had a habit of making unwise speculations and always relied on Uncle George of Pemberley to tow his barque back from Point Non-Plus. But don’t tell them I told you! They’d be all horribly embarrassed.”

“Imagine a Darcy being embarrassed,” said Elizabeth, drolly.

Mrs. De Coursey dimpled. “When Lady Anne gave us another Georgianna, Cousin Georgiana over there—” nodding at another Darcy cousin, trying to avoid conversation by the pianoforte “—was only three and had a vicious tantrum over having to share her name. ‘Why can’t she be named ‘Tom?’ she wailed. And it stuck. You wouldn’t think it to look at her now, but Tom— Miss Darcy of Pemberley, that is— was rather a tomboy when she was younger, since she would follow Fitzwilliam here, whether he wished it or no. Constantly up trees and on horses. Lady Anne threatened to breech her if she couldn’t keep from ripping up her skirts. Fortunately Tom took to music and switched from rolling down the hill at the back of my father’s house to playing the pianoforte and now she’s quite the little lady.”

Elizabeth could not keep from smiling. “I had no idea Georgiana spent most of her childhood being called ‘Tom!’”

“It’s a fact I am sure she and Fitzwilliam have tried very much to forget! Well, congratulations and all! I had better go and rescue my father; he’s been waylaid by that awful Mrs. Elliot.”

Darcy came over to Elizabeth, looking rather harassed by the cup of tea someone had given him and he had not wanted, nor had the social resources to turn down. Elizabeth took it from him with a reproachful, “You never told me Georgiana had a childhood nickname!”

“No?” He frowned and searched his memory. “Oh yes. The Darcy cousins all called her something my younger self found embarrassingly undignified. I never used it and encouraged everyone to stop by the time she was ten or so. What was it? Tom?”

“Tom,” said Elizabeth, pointedly, eyeing him over the rim of the tea cup. “A name that has some significance to my sister Kitty.”

Darcy did not quite understand.

She tried a different approach. “My younger sister Kitty had a childhood nickname too.”

Darcy said, dryly, “Yes, Kitty.”

“Not exactly,” said Elizabeth, trying not to shew her excitement. “Kitty was a small and sickly baby. My father said she couldn’t bear all the syllables of ‘Catherine,’ or even ‘Kitty,’ so he called her ‘Kit’ up until she was about ten or so.”

Darcy put the pieces together much quicker than Elizabeth would have done (and admittedly, had done) in a parallel situation. “I wonder if we should alert Kit and Tom,” he said, musingly.

“We cannot begin our married life indebted to anyone,” said Elizabeth. “After all the services they have rendered us, we ought to do something… though, given how remarkably unsubtle their attempts at matchmaking for us were—a fact that really does not reflect well on the persacaicty of either of us— I daresay we needn’t put ourselves out very much.” And, so saying, Elizabeth walked over to Kitty and Georgiana, who, as per usual, were talking together. After a little talk of the food laid out, Elizabeth said, “Kitty, I was thinking of when Uncle Gardiner was married, and he gave us each a cup of chocolate to drink at table. I felt very fine then. Do you remember it? I am not sure you do, for you were full young then. Papa was still calling you ‘Kit’ because he thought you weren’t large enough to bear a full ‘Kitty.’”

Georgiana froze and looked at Kitty with the startled aspect of a kitten facing an expereince far beyond its ken.

Elizabeth drove her elbow into Darcy’s side. He was even less subtle. “Georgiana, Mrs. De Coursey was just reminding me that you had a childhood nickname as well. Do you recall how everyone on father’s side of the family used to call you, ‘Tom?’”

It was now Kitty’s turn to be alarmed; she nearly upset her teacup and said, “You never told me that!” while turning indignantly to Georgiana.

“Fitzwilliam did not like it,” Georgiana protested weakly, “so I did not like it and so it—”

Kitty turned her indignation on Elizabeth. “Oh! How long have you known?”

“Thirty seconds,” said Elizabeth. “I am much prompter than you, Kitty dear. There is a very pretty little wilderness out back should the two of you require more privacy.” The two sisters fled, in a mix of incredulity and astonishment, trailing many variations of “you never said!” and “I never thought to say!”

“I did not anticipate this, but I am pleased there is no very great shake-up of our family circle,” said Darcy, smiling. He moved his hand slightly, so that his fingertips brushed a hanging ringlet; Elizabeth beamed up at him.

“Oh yes! I should be very happy to have the four of us perpetually at Pemberley. Especially as it will displease Lady Catherine.”

“Who is displeasing Lady Catherine?” asked Mary Crawford.

“Oh, every one of us,” replied Elizabeth. “Come sit, Mary! I rather owe you my current felicity.”

“A fact that I am sure pleases your husband,” said Mary, taking a seat and raising her eyebrows at Mr. Darcy.

Darcy looked harrassed and excused himself to greet an old friend from Oxford who had just arrived.

“Well I shouldn’t choose him, but I suppose he will make you a very good sort of husband,” said Mary, watching Darcy go. “I hope he is as doting in private as he is formal in public. Very different sort of man from the colonel. I often wondered how the two of them could be blood relations.” She eyed Elizabeth and said, “I am told you are a match, by the by, to a man I more-or-less consider to be a very fussy Persian cat in a cravat, but I thought I ought to get your opinion on the subject.”

“I think I am,” said Elizabeth, “but I… it….” She struggled. She did not regret her choice, but its complications still weighed upon her.

“Well,” said Mary, after a moment, “I think I had two soulmates, at the very least. We might have had a ménage-a-trois if the other two had been less ruined by conservatism.” She brightened suddenly. “May I make an introduction, by the by?”

“Yes, of course.”

Mary waved to a prettyish, very quiet woman in half- mourning, talking in a low voice to Miss Duncan. The woman came forward, a little tentatively.

“Lizzy,” said Mary, looking proud and pleased, “this is my partner, Fanny. Otherwise known as the Widow Bertram.”

Mrs. Bertram murmured a shy greeting. Elizabeth felt a stir of fellow feeling at the sight of the widow’s veil and dark purple gown, and said, “Mrs. Bertram, I congratulate you most sincerely. It is not an easy thing we do, but I think it is worth any particular side-eying from people who do not know how complicated life truly is.”

Mrs. Bertram blushed and said, quietly, “Yes— I— I was never one to be moved from my own ideas of right; I was just never— the uncle and aunt who raised me were very good but—“

“But they were the worst kind of Tories,” said Mary, affectionately adjusting a fold of Mrs. Bertram’s shawl. “Poor Fanny didn’t even know there could be female soulmates until Matlock’s di Rossi bill.”

Mrs. Bertram was a little overwhelmed by all the attention, and Elizabeth a little philosophically perplexed, and both escaped to the ladies’ retiring room. Instead of immediately heading back with Mrs. Bertram, however, Elizabeth wandered into the portrait hall. It was cool and deserted. The painted gazes of all those present only in paint, due to time or distance, seemed fixed upon viewers equally absent. Elizabeth paused before the most recent additions. She looked up upon the Vigee-Lebrun portrait of her and the colonel, feeling as if she was deliberately whacking a bruised shin against a fender, to make sure the hurt continued. It was still a good painting and still a good likeness, but Elizabeth had the thought, ‘the creature on the canvas there is more memory than reality; she is as effectively gone as the colonel.’

Under her pelisse of pearl-colored striped lutestring, Elizabeth had on a gown of jaconet muslin, decorated with the same golden embroidery in a wave pattern as her pelisse, and one the Elizabethan-esque ruff collars now in vogue. She undid the pearl button at the base of her throat and drew out a slender gold chain, upon which dangled her first wedding ring. Elizabeth studied it, her companion for many years, much battered and scratched, but much beloved for all that.

“It shall take some time to get used to your new position,” Elizabeth muttered to herself.

“Lizzy,” came Marjorie’s voice, in her usual tones of meticulously cultivated sweetness. “I thought I might find you here. Are you well?”

“Mostly,” said Elizabeth.

Marjorie approached, gorgeous in white Brussels lace and blue muslin, bearing two flutes of champagne. “Oh dear. You do not regret this morning’s choice already, do you?”

“No,” said Elizabeth, hesitatingly. “I have some very unworthy doubts I am ashamed to admit to, but they do not rise to the level of regret. Merely anxiety.”

“I cannot imagine Darcy is the easiest man to live with—“

“Oh, no! Not that. He is all consideration and goodness; he has his quirks, like anyone, and once one grows accustomed to the fact one ought not to talk to him before he’s had a cup of tea in the morning, and the like, he is remarkably easy to live with. It is only… suppose… I am only wondering about soulmates.”

“Not unexpectedly,” said Marjorie, offering the second glass.

Elizabeth took it and tried to marshal her thoughts into some kind of order. “I am little afraid Darcy will come to regret marrying me. ‘Elizabeth’ is so common a name and it… well, perhaps it is possible that what Darcy thought for the last five years is true. Namely, that Colonel Fitzwilliam and I were soulmates and by some trick of fate, or an unkind God, Darcy was mine but I was and am not his. Perhaps Darcy is meant for some other Elizabeth altogether.”

“And you… still believe in the Fitzwilliam nonsense about one true matches?”

“I think Darcy does. So far he has been remarkably good about my having been married before, but… will he resent me, do you think, for being wrong the first time, or not believing that I was wrong? I cannot bring myself to think it wrong I was married to Richard. I loved him very sincerely and did consider us a good match— even a true match. But I am rather sure Darcy and I are also a good match.”

“Even a true match,” quipped Marjorie, taking a thoughtful sip of champagne. “Oh, it is lovely not to have to deal with smugglers to get champagne once again. Hm. I doubt Darcy would resent you. He loved Richard and knew you were happy together; and I have seen nothing in him, either before your marriage or after that would suggest he thinks you chose wrongly at first, or even at all. You and Richard were a match in all the ways that mattered. And so you are with Darcy. In my Whiggish opinion, and in my official capacity as niece to the late Georgiana Duchess of Devonshire, I think you could have had a very nice ménage-a-trois together and all been perfectly happy that way. Mary was just mentioning how that might have solved her problems.”

Elizabeth was fairly scandalized by the idea and hurriedly changed the subject to, “But really, which Fitzwilliam does my mark refer to?”

“Would you like me to tell you what I think you would like to hear, or what I think?” Marjorie asked.

“The latter,” said Elizabeth. “I fancy you seldom say what you really think.”

Marjorie laughed. “I cannot contradict you. This is what I think: there is no way for me or anyone else to answer that question. Indeed, I do not think there is an objective answer to your question.”

“All we can really know so the evidence of our senses?” Elizabeth asked, smiling. “I never thought you to cite Kant.”

“I do try and avoid such drastic measures if I can. All I mean is this. It is profoundly arrogant of us to think we, one singular family, on our tiny, damp little island, have somehow managed to hit upon the one and only explanation of soul marks, in open defiance to the rest of the world. How horribly, aggravatingly conceited! Even in England the idea of a One True Match is seen as a little absurd. My own family shakes their heads at the Fitzwilliams. So I don’t think it’s a worthwhile question to ask, ‘was this person whom I love my match, or is it this other person, whom I also love?’ You could invent tests or magnify the evidence of one over the other but in the end, the person judging the case, the person weighing the evidence, the person who will be the most affected by such a choice is you .”

There was not much comfort to take in this; only the reaffirmation that ambiguity was in many ways the defining feature of the human condition, a fact Elizabeth had grudgingly recognized the summer previous and always vaguely hoped would be disproved some day or other.  “What did you think I wished to hear?”

“Oh! That this only affirmed for me the Spencer line on women’s soulmarks. Elizabeth Fitzwilliam was hailed in the Commons and a major player in the introduction of the RAMC bill.”

“And now I am doomed to obscurity in Derbyshire?”

“Not if you don’t wish to be, but I hardly think your new husband will be tempted into becoming an MP or taking a position in a future cabinet. That and I am convinced myself that without really being aware of it, we have managed to establish something much greater than ourselves, which will quite outlive us. No matter what I accomplish later—“ and her tone implied this would be quite a lot “—some reference will always be made towards that bill.” Marjorie assumed a more flippant air as she said, “Or, my dearest former sister, perhaps Plato was right and it refers to the best friend you shall ever have in life. As a Fitzwilliam myself, I graciously accept the role. I shall toss Mary into the Thames, to cut down on the local competition.”

Elizabeth laughed and said, “Marjorie, you need not do that. That is very unfeeling to poor Mary. But… oh, I wish there was one, straightforward, objective answer to everything.”

“I am afraid there seldom is. We can only try and get as much information as we can before making a choice, and then trying to choose the kindest option.”

Elizabeth tucked away her necklace. “And in this case? I should hope I have. It is one that brings me great pleasure, at least.”

“I think you have. We must recall how necessary it is to be kind to oneself as well as to others. You and Darcy have been through a great deal, and it is a very good thing you will now go on being very kind to each other in an official capacity. Oh do drink your champagne, you make me feel like a dreadful Bacchante, with my near empty flute.”

“Shall we toast to something?”

“To the Fitzwilliams and their notions of soulmates!” said Marjorie, raising her glass.

“Thank God they’re wrong,” said Elizabeth, clinking her glass against Marjorie’s.

***

Elizabeth had once quite angrily informed Anne de Bourgh that whoever Mrs. Darcy might be, she would have claim to the title as one of the happiest women in the kingdom, and was delighted to find this true in ways that she would blush to explain explicitly. Darcy had not the easy playfulness that could fall swiftly into games of passion that Colonel Fitzwilliam had; his object was equally her pleasure, but his preference was for something slower and more serious, as if he would study her. There was a deep pleasure in study of something loved, Elizabeth discovered, and though Darcy confessed again he did not find it easy to speak his adoration, he shewed it most eloquently. And when she gained confidence enough to tease and provoke, his own pleasure was so evident it only increased hers.

The next morning she found herself enormously satisfied with her choice. Her only spot of unhappiness was that, as she already knew, Darcy was not a morning person. When she woke, bubbling over with good humor and high spirits, he demanded to know the time, groaned, and buried his face in her hair.

“It is not that early,” she objected.

Darcy made a noise that perfectly expressed his disagreement.

“Oh come now.”

“Even for you, I shall not rise with a smile before it is even gone nine-o-clock,” he replied. As he then immediately went back to sleep and was insensible to all her attempts at persuasion, she got up herself and decided to tend to her correspondence.

My very dear Charlotte, she wrote,

I hear from my parents that Lady Catherine has been as Pharaoh and driven you across not the Nile but the Thames and back into Hertfordshire. I am very sorry for it! I hope your daughter, at least, is happy to see her grandparents once more. I am told her grandparents are so pleased to see her they can talk of little else— or at least, my mother can talk of little else than your parents talking of little else.

Mr. Darcy and I were married yesterday so you were wise not to be at Rosings… I cannot imagine Lady Catherine’s temper was bearable. I confess that though I do not like there to be any kind of breach within families, everyone in the Matlock branch has been so much easier and so much more cheerful with her gone. I daresay by the time I have a child she will be tolerably able to say something about apologies without actually making one herself— Darcy’s mother was her only sister, after all; I do not think she could long resist knowing Lady Anne’s grandchild. Though I am putting the cart so before the horse, the horse has only just been taken out of its stable. In reading this over I see that is a metaphor that makes no sense but I was married yesterday; you cannot expect much from your poor friend. Her head is turned by her new spouse, her mind still muddled with champagne. She is full of incoherent plans of future happiness. I will be shortly in Italy for a time, though we are to stop a little in Paris, so I may see all my military friends. I shall give you a list of inns if you will be so obliging to write me. I shall certainly write you, though I fear my pen will dwell more on the glory of my new husband than that of Italy. Regardless of all that, I am

Yours ever,

Elizabeth looked at the hopeful, empty space at the bottom of the page. She did not quite know how to fill it.

Though Elizabeth took considerable pleasure in signing as ‘E.F. Darcy’ through the course of her marriage, through the presentation of the promised heir, spare, and little girl (though not precisely in that order), and ever after, the first time she had to sign as such, she felt a frisson of anxiety.

The desk she assumed to be hers, for it had upon it a vase of cowslips and a new inkstand, pot, and sander of Wedgwood porcelain, had been placed in front of one of the windows. Elizabeth reached out to the side with her pen and drew back one of the soft, white muslin curtains. It was idly done, to check the time without having to rise and locate her watch or Darcy’s, and sunlight crept into the room, careful and soft, as if on little cat feet. It seemed to curl up in her place on the bed, between the dent in the pillows and the mussed bed linens straggling over the counter pane, tucking itself neatly into the open curve of Darcy’s arm. In sleep, all tension left him, and one could see by contrast how stiffly he ordinarily carried himself; with what rigid self-control he moved so carefully and yet so masterfully through the world; what high guards he erected about himself. Now he lay open and trusting, his left arm still curved from holding her, his palm upturned and the fingers relaxed, as if in invitation. His soulmark seemed to curl protectively over the blue-green veins at his wrist, the loops of ‘Elizabeth’ like the fancy-work on a wrought-iron gate.

Elizabeth looked at him with a swell of love it felt impossible to contain. He stirred, curled his arm around the space she should have occupied and, finding if empty, woke and looked sleepily about. “Elizabeth?”

Her heart thrilled within her at the sound of her name. “Here, Fitzwilliam. I am writing a letter to Charlotte; I shall be only a moment. Are you missing me dreadfully?”

“Dreadfully,” he agreed, in a tone of drowsy affection. “But take your time, my dearest, loveliest Elizabeth.”

She looked at the blank space on the page and thought, ‘‘Whoever Elizabeth Darcy may be, she will surely never regret her choice; for she will love and be loved as long as she has claim to that name.’

The anxiety passed. Elizabeth took great satisfaction in writing,

Yours ever,

E. F. Darcy