16. In which Elizabeth puts two and two together an...

The wedding of Mr. William Walter Elliot and Miss Caroline Bingley was as lavish as could be contrived outside of London. A small fortune had been spent on satin and lace veils, every meadow and hothouse within ten miles had been robbed of its blooms, and the wedding breakfast could have fed an entire regiment of cavalry, bipeds and quadrupeds alike. Elizabeth shook her head over it all, but only to Jane, and only as they were walking arm and arm in the garden, away from the other guests who had also arrived a day early.

“I cannot believe how she has managed to make something so simple so dreadfully complicated,” said Elizabeth, decapitating a few daffodils with her parasol. “Was there this much fuss for your wedding, Jane?”

“No,” said Jane, with a sigh, “but—”

“—but dearest Mama would have had it otherwise?”

“No,” said Jane, dimpling, “but Caroline is older than either of us were when we married; I think she had given up hope of finding her soulmate.”

“Wasted too much time on poor Darcy?” Elizabeth translated.

“Caroline wishes to celebrate a very hard-won match,” protested Jane, rather weakly.  “And her husband, you know, he did not marry his match the first time, so he is very happy.”

“Happy to spend Charles’s money?”

“Lizzy!”

“I am sorry Jane, I am being a wicked, wild creature; but I still cannot forgive Mr. Elliot for calling me a model of female delicacy and making me into a person of importance in the society. I was much happier on the fringes.”

“It is not all Mr. Elliot’s fault. There is your father-in-law, who is an Earl, and your husband’s commander, who is no less a person than the Duke of Wellington— and I do not think it helped that so cautious and proper a man as Darcy chose you to chaperone Georgiana.”

“Too many men,” groused Elizabeth. “But I shall forgive Darcy for his part in it, for he hates having everyone pay attention to him, and avoids it when he can. Oh and I suppose I must forgive Wellington, for he always hated it when the men cheered him. They could so easily be moved to boo the next time, he once said.”

“So you must forgive the men whom you personally like?”

“Jane Bingley,” said Elizabeth, with mock censure, “are you accusing me of disliking my father-in-law?”

“I— no!”

Elizabeth burst out laughing. “The accusation would be true!”

“It would be an unkind thing for me to say, and you give yourself too little credit. You have always behaved with proper deference to your father-in-law. And... Lord Matlock is not everything one would wish in a father.”

“Good God, Jane, that was almost an insult! My bad influence is at work once again. I dare not move in with you; before you knew what you were about, you might actually declare you disliked something!”

Jane laughed and looked fondly at Elizabeth. “You are so much more yourself than you have been, since....”

“Since Richard’s death,” she said, more-or-less evenly. “Yes, I fancy I am more myself. I do not think I can be the person I was before he died. It was too great a loss not to be permanently changed by it. I think I am more cynical and serious, and less... happy in large parties, or in cities, where there is a great deal of smoke about. But as uncle Gardiner pointed out, in essentials I am much the same as I ever was. Have you heard from them yet?”

“No, I think the child is due very soon, however. Aunt Gardiner was kind enough to write she was very sorry not to see all the lace Caroline was at such pains to purchase in London.”

“I would be happy to be spared it,” said Elizabeth, dryly. “You know, Jane, the fanciest thing I had at my wedding was an honor guard of redcoats.”

“Yes, but then again, Mr. Elliot is an MP, and though the Elliots are a very good family, they are not so well established as the Fitzwilliams. There are certain... expectations, as far as I understand them. People will write about what flowers Caroline is carrying and the lace veil she is wearing to all their friends, and judge her for them. Everything will be remembered.”

“Will it? I cannot say I entirely recall what flowers I was carrying.”

“Nor can I,” admitted Jane. “I recall my dress, for I did the white work on it myself. What do you recall of your wedding?”

Elizabeth considered this, and was not unhappy to revisit the memory. It still surprised her, at times, that she could now think on past milestones with her husband without pain. “Uhm— signing the registry. It was the last time I signed anything as ‘Elizabeth Bennet.’ It felt rather odd. I was pleased with Elizabeth Bennet, as wild and misguided and over-dependent on her own judgment as she was. I didn’t know who Elizabeth Fitzwilliam might be.” She cocked her head to the side and asked, “Is that your daughter, riding on Boatswain?”

Jane sighed. “I think so.”

They made their way back to the lawn just before the terrace, where Darcy was gravely holding little Jenny’s right hand, and Jenny’s doting Papa her left, as Boatswain ambled along. Jenny gibbered to herself in excitement at such a treat.

“Oh Charles, is that really safe?” asked Jane, a little worriedly.

“We’ve got her, my love,” he protested. “And it amuses Jenny.”

“I think it amuses her father and godfather rather more,” said Elizabeth dryly.

Jane checked the little fob watch she wore on her light summer spencer and sighed. “Either way, I think I must take Jenny in. If I lay her down for the night, instead of the nursemaid,” she added, at Elizabeth’s confused look, “Jenny will go to sleep without fuss, and Caroline will not be disturbed.”

“Caroline has been complaining about Jenny?” Elizabeth asked, rather shocked.

The Bingleys struggled with themselves, and Jane eventually produced a weak, “The pressures of marriage, of so soon changing her state, of getting her trousseau ready and such— it has worn very much on Caroline’s nerves. Jenny’s fussing can sometimes irritate them yet further.”

Jane picked up her daughter and disappeared into the house as Georgiana and Kitty hastily quit it.

“Lizzy,” said Kitty, much harassed, “I really must thank you and Jane for behaving so normally before your wedding. Georgiana and I were just playing the pianoforte—”

“Mozart’s four hand sonata in D,” specified Georgiana.

“You can play Mozart’s four hand sonata in D, Kitty?” Elizabeth asked, shocked.

“Not well,” admitted Kitty, who had only begun playing the piano when she had become such fast friends with Georgiana four years ago, and practiced even less than Elizabeth did. “But Caroline came in and so pressed and pressed us to continue, oh no it was so lovely to have such loud music when one was overseeing the servants in the succession houses which were so close to the music room, especially when one was so busy—”

Elizabeth tried not to laugh, but did not succeed. Darcy, who had occupied himself with Boatswain, was heard to snort, though he later denied it. Bingley merely sighed.

“I am sorry,” said Bingley. “Fortunately Caroline will be married and on her way to Kellynch Hall by this time tomorrow. Then you may play as loudly or badly as you like, Jenny may cry, Louisa will be allowed to sleep in during the mornings and be in a better temper thereby, and poor Jane will perhaps pass an evening doing something other than attending Caroline.”

“It... has seemed difficult on Jane,” said Elizabeth.

“I should like to do something for Jane,” said Bingley, troubled, “but every time I ask if there is something I can do for her relief, she usually sighs and says ‘no.’”

Kitty said, pragmatically, “I see your problem, Mr. Bingley— you asked Jane! She has been writing to me and Lizzy all spring about how much trouble the Luddites have been to you and how much it has wearied you, taking care of it.”

“That is true,” agreed Elizabeth. “And Jane would not dream of adding to your burdens. I fancy she is almost more worried over the idea you have noticed the strain she is under than the problems causing the strain.”

“Has she said anything to either of you of what might be done for her present relief?” asked Bingley, hopefully. “I would do anything in my power — she looks so tired all the time— but anytime I try to do something for Caroline, I seem to do the job so unsatisfactorily Jane or Louisa have to do it over. The only thing I seem to be able to do to Caroline’s standard is pay tradesmen.”

Kitty said hesitantly, “Well—”

“Yes, Kitty?” Bingley asked, encouragingly.

“Jane has been mentioning to me where we all were this time last year.” Elizabeth involuntarily twisted her wedding ring, but Kitty went onto say, “That is, she talked rather wistfully of sea-bathing and how much Jenny enjoyed the beach. And when she was very harried yesterday and I was helping... well, trying to help put Jenny down for her nap, she held up a seashell to Jenny’s ear and asked her if she could hear the sea and didn't that make her feel calm.”

Elizabeth was a little surprised Jane should so love the sea, but Elizabeth supposed that not everyone was as poor a sailor as herself, or associated long walks on the beach with the first, desperate pains of grief. Now she thought of it, the summer at Matlock had been Jane’s first holiday with her husband and child, away from her sisters-in-law. The Bingleys had spent a great deal of their time quietly keeping out of the way of everyone else— making themselves available whenever they felt they were needed, of course— but mostly doing so on the beach at the end of the Matlock estate.

Bingley brightened at the idea of action. “Do you think Jane might enjoy a holiday to the seaside?”

“Very much so,” said Elizabeth. “A little sea-bathing might restore her spirits, especially if it is done in solitude.”

Georgiana did not quite catch that this was a joke at being far from Caroline and broke in eagerly, “Oh yes, Lizzy and Kitty can come back to Pemberley with us. It will be no trouble to have them again, even for all the summer!”

Darcy said, “I do not think that was what Mrs. Fitzwilliam meant.”

“But it is a very good idea,” interrupted Kitty. “Jane has always had to look after some sister or other. I think it would do her a world of good to have to think only of herself for a month or two. Oh well, you and Jenny too, I suppose.”

“A magnanimous concession,” said Elizabeth. “I had not meant to delay our own stay with you— but there is some sense to what Kitty says. And I would hope you do not think Kitty and I are ill-bred enough to come to your house to immediately demand seaside holidays. If the Darcys can do with us, we really do not mind postponing our stay.”

“Of course we can,” said Georgiana. “Their rooms have not even been shut up yet. I can write to Mrs. Reynolds today!”

Elizabeth looked to Darcy. He seemed pleased, but trying not to show it, and was fastidiously straightening the cuffs of his shirt, like a cat grooming itself to show it was uninterested in the proceedings. “Might we trouble you a little longer, Cousin Darcy?”

“It would be no trouble at all,” he said, still attempting nonchalance. “I think it a very good idea, Bingley. I had noticed a little weariness about Mrs. Bingley.”

They worked out the details to their satisfaction and began to go up to dress for dinner. Darcy hung back a little to wipe off Boatswain’s paws and Elizabeth did too, saying hesitantly, “I hope you will not think I take some amusement out of foisting my company upon you—”

“It is no trouble,” said Darcy, “and it is hardly foisting when Georgiana practically kidnapped you and your sister as soon as the opportunity presented itself.” He handed the dirty rag to a footman.

“Well, if you can do with me....”

The footman shut the parlor door behind him.

To Elizabeth’s own surprised joy, Darcy abruptly stood and kissed her.

It was a good kiss. He cupped her face in his hands as he pressed his lips to hers, as if she were something precious and delicate he feared to injure with rough handling. When he had done he looked solemnly down at her and said, stiltedly, “I cannot do without you.”

“You mean you do not want to,” teased Elizabeth, though she was amused and touched by this unexpected and awkward gallantry.

“That either.”

“Ridiculous man,” Elizabeth said, but fondly. The disappointment of not being with Jane began to evaporate like morning dew in strong sunlight. “You've had to spend every summer before this without me. That's campaign season. And before then we did not know each other.”

“But that was before our teas,” he replied.

“Before our chess games, too,” Elizabeth teased him, before laughing and brushing an informal, affectionate kiss against the side of his thumb. “Come now, we have time enough for this at Pemberley. Miss Bingley is getting married! She has only this dinner to remind all her relations of this fact." The Elliots were all dining together at the nearest inn, where most of them were staying. "We must not deny her, and be distracted from this central fact, or she will immediately come to remind us of it.”

***

For the wedding Elizabeth put on her best morning gown (unfortunately it was still a mourning gown, a turn of phrase she had liked and abused to everyone who would bear with her alliteration), of dark purple muslin embroidered with little red and gold autumn leaves. To this she added a ruched, straw-brimmed bonnet of dark purple, russet gloves and half-boots, and a red Kashmir shawl with gold medallions, a relic from Colonel Fitzwilliam’s service in India. Still, Elizabeth felt horribly underdressed when she arrived and wished she'd dug the hideous Fitzwilliam ruby set she'd inherited out of her jewel case. With the exception of a three or four couples and some bewildered neighbors, everyone was dressed as if attending a morning drawing room at St. James’s Court. Caroline Bingley was herself wearing a gown that— with the addition of hoops and a lace tippet in the place of the satin Spanish-style hat she hat put on— would not have been out of place as a presentation gown, worn before the Queen.

The church itself resembled a succession house more than a house of worship. Elizabeth felt as if she were fighting her way through the jungle as she tried to make her way in. Her shawl snagged on one of the garlands adorning the pews. She tugged. Nothing. She tugged a little harder, but became afraid she’d rip the fabric. ‘That is just what I need at Caroline Bingley’s wedding,’ thought Elizabeth, as Darcy moved obliviously forward, talking with Bingley. ‘On the bright side, if I make a scene and rip my clothes, perhaps I might no longer be considered the embodiment of British female delicacy.’

“I think you are stuck here— will you allow me to be of assistance?” came a gentle voice.

The voice belonged to pretty woman in a long blue pelisse that complimented her husband’s full dress naval uniform. (Or at least, Elizabeth assumed the distractingly good-looking naval captain standing behind was the lady’s husband; there was a sense of pride and proprietariness in the way he angled himself to the woman and observed her at work. But it very well could have been her lover, merely. Darcy looked sometimes at Elizabeth in a similar way.)

“I am much obliged to you,” said Elizabeth, as the woman removed a white kid glove and began deftly pulling the fringe loose. “I was rather tempted to just leave it so as not to impede the flow of traffic, but I should look even more ridiculously out of place without my shawl. It is a... very fine wedding.”

“I understood the bride took a great deal of care over the arrangements,” the other woman said, as if trying to convince herself this was the case.

“She certainly took a great deal of interest in how much care everyone else took in the arrangements,” said Elizabeth, dryly.

Darcy was by now at the front of the church, looking around in complete bewilderment; he realized that Elizabeth was not there and made his way, salmon-like, through the flow of wedding guests. “Eliz— Cousin Elizabeth?”

“I got stuck,” Elizabeth said mournfully. The end of the shawl pulled taut and then gave; Elizabeth said, “Oh, not anymore.” She turned beamingly to the lady in the blue pelisse. “Thank you! I am very much obliged.”

“It was nothing, really; I am always glad to be of assistance where I may.” She turned to Darcy and said politely, “Mr. Darcy. Hello.”

Darcy looked deeply uncomfortable. “Miss Anne Elliot.”

“Mrs. Wentworth,” she corrected, smilingly.

“Oh, yes, of course. I see you have met my cousin, Mrs. Fitzwilliam?”

The ladies curtsied.

“I believe my husband Captain Wentworth is known to you, Mr. Darcy?” Mrs. Wentworth asked.

The two men bowed. Darcy’s discomfort shifted, not very subtly, to awkwardness— or at least, more awkwardness than usual— and he offered his arm to Elizabeth, mumbling something about needing to be seated.

Mrs. Wentworth moved to the Elliot half of the church. Her gentle air and affect of retiring kindness reminded Elizabeth a great deal of Jane. Of course, thought Elizabeth, with stout partiality, Mrs. Wentworth was not nearly as beautiful as Mrs. Bingley. But then again, no one was. Even as obviously exhausted as she looked, Jane was the most beautiful woman in the church.

With one exception.

In the front row of the church, on the Elliot side, and right next to the Wentworths, sat probably the most beautiful woman Elizabeth had ever seen. She was tall and voluptuous, her features would not have been out of place on a Roman statue of Venus, and her dark hair and eyes were very arresting against her fashionably pale complexion. Elizabeth had never before seen someone who so exactly fit the current standard of beauty.

“Who is Helen of Troy over there?” Elizabeth murmured to Mr. Darcy. “Do you know?”

“Miss Elliot could hardly launch a thousand ships,” grumbled Darcy.

‘So this is Miss Elliot!’ thought Elizabeth, though she quipped, “Oh no, only six or seven hundred.”

“Oh no,” murmured Georgiana, following the line of Elizabeth’s gaze. “I forgot she would be here.” Then she reddened in uneven splotches and said hurriedly to her brother, “that is— not that I— I only met Miss Elliot once, and at a dinner at Uncle Matlock’s house. Perhaps she improves upon longer acquaintance, or she just— sometimes it is intimidating, to have Uncle Matlock staring at one as one eats—”

“Who is Miss Elliot?” Kitty asked, sliding into the pew beside Georgiana.

Darcy looked like a cat that had been caught climbing where it shouldn't.

“Oh, um, she was a favorite of my brother’s, some years ago,” said Georgiana, softly. “They were almost engaged.”

Kitty turned to look at Elizabeth, who shrugged, not sure if she should admit to knowing this. Elizabeth tried not to stare at Miss Elliot, but had to admit to a very morbid curiosity. When the ceremony dragged to its lugubrious close, Elizabeth slid out so that she and Kitty were right behind Miss Elliot. Miss Elliot, disdaining the forgiving and comfortable drapery Elizabeth preferred, wore a gown with the stiff, bell-like structure brought about by three rows of ruffles and embroidery at the hem, and long stays and a corded petticoat underneath. She moved with the smooth grace of one who had been taught by London’s best dancing masters, and paused in the aisle as if striking one of Lady Hamilton’s famous attitudes.

‘No wonder Darcy was so distressed at liking me,’ Elizabeth thought.  ‘I have nothing in common with Miss Elliot!’

When they at last escaped into the church yard, Kitty whispered, “Are you sure this is the Miss Elliot?”

Elizabeth felt a pang of remorse; perhaps she had been too harsh, out of jealousy. Being now such a favorite, she could hardly be expected to be content with this proof or standards either lowered or changed utterly. “Georgiana said so, so it must be,” she murmured.

They managed to extract the Darcy siblings just before the newlywed Elliots came out.

“Mrs. Fitzwilliam, would you care to get some air?” Darcy asked. He himself had an air of polite desperation.

Elizabeth looked pointedly about the churchyard. “Darcy, you astonish me! Here I was thinking that I was getting air all this time but apparently I was asphyxiating.”

He looked pained and with a little gesture of discomfort, which Elizabeth had noticed he often made in company he found too large or too overwhelming, added, “The heat and size of the crowd does not oppress you?”

There then came a melodious, “Mr. Darcy! It has been an age!” and Miss Elliot came forward, all smiles.

Darcy froze. “Miss Elliot.”

“And dear Miss Darcy!” said Miss Elliot, oozing charm in Georgiana’s general direction, without taking her eyes from Darcy. “I remember, you were quite the budding talent on the pianoforte, when we last met. Have you at all kept up with it?”

Georgiana looked as if she had been replaced with a cunning, life-sized wax model of herself.

Kitty and Elizabeth exchanged mystified looks; for all her flaws as a mother, Mrs. Bennet had not let them grow up afraid or ever uncomfortable in company. Kitty nudged Georgiana in the side, and Georgiana stammered out several broken sentences which conveyed only her own nervousness.

“My sister is a remarkable musician,” said Darcy stiffly. “May I introduce you to my cousin, Mrs. Fitzwilliam, and her sister, Miss Bennet?”

Elizabeth and Kitty curtsied.

“So you are the Widow Fitzwilliam,” said Miss Elliot, with a sort of stilted surprise, in such a way as to imply, ‘I was expecting someone better.’

The newlyweds were now passing them; Darcy hurriedly and somewhat uncharacteristically called out his compliments, and the others added theirs. Mr. Elliot greeted them all with a politician’s glib charm, adding little personalizations that felt as if he had— in imitation of Mr. Collins— written them down in advance for use whenever convenient. To Elizabeth he said, “Mrs. Fitzwilliam, my dear Mrs. Fitzwilliam— how is our friend the Duke of Wellington? I know he writes you very faithfully. I hope he enjoyed all the celebrations of his great victory at Waterloo?”

Wellington had written in his last that he had seldom enjoyed anything less, but before Elizabeth could think of a way to make this fact appropriate for the setting, Mr. Elliot spotted someone more important and went over to them, a very smug Caroline Elliot in tow.

This reminder that the Widow Fitzwilliam was a favorite of the Duke of Wellington’s had caused Miss Elliot regained her old manner, like someone not fond of cats attempting to caress one, and she linked arms with Elizabeth. “Oh but we must become acquainted,” said Miss Elliott. And so Miss Elliot made herself one of their party, as they walked the quarter mile to Mr. Bingley’s estate. Kitty walked just behind, occasionally glancing over her shoulder at the Darcy siblings, trailing behind in a fog of quiet embarrassment.

“Cousin William always speaks so very highly of you.”

“I did not deserve his tribute in the Commons, that is true enough,” Elizabeth said dryly.

“And I fancy you must have run into my cousin, the Dowager Viscountess Dalrymple, during the season?”

“I have not had that pleasure, no.”

“It would be of all things my delight to introduce you, when you are both in town,” said Miss Eliot, graciously, and launched into a long and very self-aggrandizing story about the Dowager Viscountess. Elizabeth stopped paying attention about thirty seconds into this, as she was not very interested in the lives of people who had done nothing more to earn their titles than be born. Miss Elliot passed from this to subjects even less likely to interest Elizabeth. Perhaps thinking any favorite of Wellington’s would likewise be a Tory, she aired her distress about the abolition of the slave trade— something Elizabeth had always supported— linked slave riots in Haiti to the Luddite uprisings in England, and condemned every man, woman, and child who found employment in the numerous Northern mills as radicals who ought to be shot— for there were always other men to take up the work, “just as there are always other men to be cannon fodder in the wars.”

Elizabeth was speechless. Even if she hadn’t spent the past four years living in the home of a prominent Whig politician, and befriended so many prominent Whig hostesses, such blasé condemnation would have offended her on the basis of their illogic and lack of kindness alone.

Miss Elliot did not notice this and laughed. “I heard that His Grace, the Duke of Wellington, calls the enlisted men the scum of the earth!”

“Only as a characterization of where the army takes up its recruits,” said Elizabeth, trying to keep her temper, “from gaol and the gutter— and after he said this, he did remark it really was wonderful that the common soldiers should become the fine fellows they are. We owe a great deal to our military.”

“To our officers, yes,” conceded Miss Elliot.

Elizabeth began to look around for escape, now they were nearing the house, but did not find an avenue before Miss Elliot spotted a lady with freckles, clucked over them, and offered Elizabeth unsolicited advice about her beauty regime.

“Dear Mrs. Fitzwilliam,” said she, seemingly convinced she was really doing Elizabeth a kindness,  “might I give you some advice? Gowland’s Lotion would be of invaluable use to you. It will take away the brownness of your complexion and give to it some missing brilliancy. I suppose you use nothing at present.” To Elizabeth’s protest that she made and used milk of roses, Miss Elliot made a dismissive gesture and said, “No, no, use of Gowland’s, constant use of Gowland’s, especially during the summer, is the only thing for you. My father swears by it. It has done marvelous things for my intimate friend, Mrs. Clay. Quite carried her freckles away.”

Elizabeth had always heard Gowland’s lotion removed freckles, yes, but the rest of one’s skin with it as well. “Is that not a rather painful course of treatment?”

“One cannot go too far in pursuit of what nature does not give.”

“I suppose you use it yourself?”

Miss Elliot laughed. “I take such a comment as a tribute to your belief in the efficacy of Gowland’s, but no.” She preened. “I use nothing.”

Elizabeth thought a rude word, but refrained from saying it, and contented herself with an arch, “I am sure nothing could improve you, Miss Elliot.”

Miss Elliot did not realize this was an insult and preened even more, taking it as tribute to her beauty.

Thankfully they were in the house; Elizabeth made an excuse and broke from Miss Elliot. She was full up of annoyed incredulity. This was the only person for whom Darcy had expressed a preference, besides herself? She could not in the least reconcile this with her current understanding of his character. How could Darcy like a Miss Elliot?

Darcy, who so delighted in debate when he had such trouble making other conversation! Darcy, who was always arguing against Elizabeth's ideas of general standards and principles, in favor of the individual and the particular! Darcy, the staunch Whig, who did what he quietly could to support his uncle’s bills! Darcy, a reading man, a thinking man, to whom habits of charity were as instinctive as breathing, to whom the good of every soul in the parish within and abutting Pemberley were of such concern he founded a poor hospital, while suffering the pangs of unrequited love! How, she asked herself, could the pain of losing the love of Miss Elliot inspire him to such feats of nobility?

The only way Elizabeth could make sense of it was to think Darcy had come to his senses, been frightfully embarrassed about his preference for a woman so clearly unworthy of him, and built a poor hospital out of guilt— a sort of message to his society to say, ‘I went perhaps a little mad in my passion, but I am still the same man I was before I was so unwise as to form an attachment to a superficial and supercilious Tory.’

Kitty and Georgiana sought Elizabeth out by the bay window where she had hidden. Georgiana sat and pressed Elizabeth’s hand, in mute sympathy; Kitty, more vocal, whispered, “I do not know how you could keep your countenance, Lizzy! I only heard your conversation and could not help but be offended.”

“Practice,” said Elizabeth. “My father-in-law’s endless dinners before the RAMC bill were good for that, at least. Georgiana, I must confess to my astonishment, that Miss Elliot was ever a favorite of your brother’s.”

“Was it really her , and not one of her sisters?” asked Kitty, hopefully. “I am told that there were three Miss Elliots originally, only now the middle one is a Mrs. Wentworth, and the youngest is a Mrs. Musgrove.”

“Unfortunately it was the eldest Miss Elliot,” said Georgiana. “Colonel Fitzwilliam took me out of school to meet her, at the behest of Lady Stornoway and my brother.”

Elizabeth struggled with herself, and managed to bite back her profound, “Why ?” in favor of a weak, “Miss Elliot is very beautiful I suppose.”

“That's what all the Fitzwilliams said.”

“Being one of them, I suppose I am glad I have fallen so rank and file into their response. Why did your brother...?” Elizabeth really wanted to ask, ‘why did he like Miss Elliot?’ but felt she was perhaps being too harsh and instead substituted a feeble and unconvincing, “... part ways with Miss Elliot? If you do not mind my asking, that is.”

“I do not know,” said Georgiana, slowly, “but I got the impression that my brother realized they were not soulmates. He certainly acts now as if he knows they are not and were never a match.”

“What brought that about?” asked Kitty.

“I suppose he met someone who is his match,” said Georgiana, pointedly. Elizabeth was puzzled by her manner, for Georgiana was seldom direct, but supposed Georgiana meant for Kitty to drop this line of questioning.

“Come on Kitty,” said Elizabeth, spotting an overwhelmed Jane on the other side of the room. “We must go rescue Jane. She has too many people clamoring for her attention.”

Jane, trying to balance the demands made upon her by servants, fussing child, sister-in-law and guests, was beginning to show the strain. Elizabeth came up to her and said, quietly, “Give me Jenny; I shall take her out of doors until she is quiet.”

Jane hesitated; Kitty said, “Yes, and I shall go settle whatever is wrong in the kitchen. Then there will only be Caroline to worry about.”

“If you are both certain,” said Jane uncertainty, and handed over Jenny to Elizabeth. Elizabeth happily escaped into the back garden. There the nursemaids were busy with their charges, or rather, busy talking to each other and calling out half-hearted reprimands when their charges seemed likely to do something dangerous. Elizabeth nodded at them all and walked about, bouncing Jenny a little on her hip, to calm her. Being out of so noisy a room had its effect on both aunt and child, and Elizabeth and Jenny were soon restored to smiles.

Elizabeth was amused to see that the Wentworths also made their escape from the wedding breakfast, to the back garden; Mrs. Wentworth bent at once and held out her arms out for a chubby baby toddling towards her. “Come now Freddy,” said Mrs. Wentworth, encouragingly. “Do come to mummy! You can make it!”

Little Freddy was in the stage of walking where he had realized his knees were involved in bipedal motion, but he had not, as of yet, satisfactorily worked out in what capacity. He careened madly over the suspiciously level ground.

Captain Wentworth stood upright behind his wife, but kept an indulgent, but a weather eye on his son. “I think he is meant to be a sailor, Anne. Look how he corrects for a groundswell, even when there is none.”

It was a charming sight; Elizabeth felt a sudden stab of longing for children of her own. It was an impulse that had been visiting her with increasing frequency since she had put off her blacks. She attempted to avoid the usual maudlin wondering if she and Colonel Fitzwilliam would have been parents now, if he had survived Waterloo, by turning her attention to Jenny. Jenny was trying to stuff her whole fist in her mouth.

“No, no,” said Elizabeth, “no chewing on our appendages, little miss. Not at your Auntie Caroline’s wedding. Very bad ton. ”

Another child of perhaps four or five had latched onto Mrs. Wentworth when Elizabeth looked up again. Mrs. Wentworth said, patiently, “Walter, I am occupied with Freddy now. Let go.”

Walter refused.

Captain Wentworth deftly lifted the child off of Mrs. Wentworth’s back with a stern, “I have told you a hundred times not to do that, Walter.” He added to Mrs. Wentworth, “I should have thought two years sufficient for him to grow out of this habit.”

“Four-year-olds are not known for how well they retain their lessons,” said Mrs. Wentworth wryly.

Seeing the Wentworths with their children, something suddenly clicked for Elizabeth, like a key finding the tumblers in a lock. Four years old... four years ago was 1812, the year Darcy had seemed most depressed about his soulmate— and Darcy had mentioned meeting Miss Elliot in the spring of 1811. Surely he met the other two Elliot daughters as well, Mrs. Wentworth and Mrs. Musgrove? And Georgiana had said Darcy had ended things with Miss Elliot, because he had met someone he knew to be his soulmate....

And why had Darcy had been so markedly awkward with the Wentworths this morning?

Elizabeth took a second look at Mrs. Wentworth. Mrs. Wentworth was a very pretty woman, but the sort who would always be called elegant rather than beautiful, and her neat, light figure, her dark hair and eyes, her delicate features, the very shortness of her person had more in common with Elizabeth’s style of beauty than Miss Elliot’s.

The eldest Miss Elliot was everything that society had told men it ought to want— of course, Darcy, with his high standards and fastidious disposition, would go first for Miss Elliot... if his mark read ‘Elliot!’

Elizabeth actually gasped and pretended it was because Jenny had seized the neckline of her gown. “Jenny, no! Do not expose us both to ridicule!”

She detangled Jenny’s grubby, wet first from her gown, her thoughts whirring along rapidly. That was why Darcy had been so interested in Miss Elliot! He must have suspected their marks were a match. They were socially a good match— and had not Darcy’s chief objection to Elizabeth’s being Colonel Fitzwilliam’s match been her standing in society, her low connections, the impropriety of her family?

Elizabeth felt uneasy about her theory when she realized Captain Wentworth might not have any names in common with Mr. Darcy, but then thought, ‘Darcy— that could be mistaken for a French name. What better way to cover up from the embarrassment of loving the enemy than to marry a sailor at war with the French? Sir Walter seems the sort to insist his daughter marry to cover up such a social embarrassment.’ She had come across Sir Walter Elliot many times during the various London seasons, and was less impressed with every meeting. ‘And the Navy, even more than the Army, has a reputation for being full of men who had unacceptable or unusual soulmarks, men who might not be able to be with their soulmates— and thus a naval officer, especially one as handsome as Captain Wentworth, might marry a baronet’s daughter. He might offer for a lady not because their makers match but just because he liked her— which he clearly does—’

‘But the Wentworths clearly love each other,’ part of her corrected.

‘You can love someone not your soulmate,’ Elizabeth thought. 'Love is a choice; and if they clearly chose each other, then they love with more than usual clarity and purity.' But she was not yet ready to accept all the inferences of this realization and turned her attention back to Mrs. Wentworth. Perhaps Mrs. Wentworth had been with child in 1811, and that was why she would not leave her husband for Darcy, her true soulmate? Or perhaps, seeing Darcy pursue her sister, she had decided Darcy was not her soulmate and ceased to wonder about the mark on his wrist? After all, Elizabeth herself had been confused and a little shaken in her understanding of Darcy's regard for her, just from seeing Miss Elliot. Elizabeth somehow doubted Mrs. Wentworth had much in common with Miss Elliot either; in a similar situation, say, if Colonel Fitzwilliam had first pursued Jane or Kitty, Elizabeth might not have entertained the possibility that she and Colonel Fitzwilliam could be a match.

If Mrs. Wentworth was the married woman with children over whom Darcy had been making himself miserable for years, the sheer scope of Wickham’s awful behavior to Darcy was staggering in its cruelty. If Darcy had met the Elliot sisters in the spring of 1811, and ended the season in town aware that he had been pursuing the wrong sister— that, in fact, the correct Miss Elliot was a Miss Elliot no longer, and would not leave her husband for him — then Darcy had been catapulted from one devastating personal tragedy to another. Wickham had tried to elope with Georgiana in the summer of 1811. Perhaps Wickham, who had seen Darcy’s mark when it came in, had even then still been a friend— or if not, perhaps he had heard Darcy had been pursuing the eldest of three Miss Elliots and had not married her, and put two and two together. It struck Elizabeth that Wickham might even have decided to elope with Georgiana specifically that summer in the hopes Darcy would be too distracted by his own disappointments to be very attentive to his sister.

“Oh poor Darcy,” Elizabeth could not help but murmur.

Jane came out then, looking as if she had managed to break through her exhaustion, to a second burst of energy. This was due, Elizabeth learnt, through Jane’s rather garbled exclamations of joy and gratitude, to Mr. Bingley’s informing her that they would be going away on a holiday, just the two of them, and Jenny.

“You do not mind, having to go back to Pemberley?” Jane asked anxiously, searching Elizabeth’s face. “If you did mind—”

“I do not at all; indeed I am a little glad of it!” Elizabeth exclaimed and then, with a glance at the Wentworths, still playing with their children, she drew Jane a away into the flowerbeds and filled her in on her suspicions.

“Oh poor Mr. Darcy!” whispered Jane, eyes filling with tears. “In that case, I am very glad you are to go back with him, you and Kitty— it must be so difficult for him now, and he will need his friends about him— and with Bingley gone—”

“Jane,” said Elizabeth, pressing her hands (Jenny was wreaking havoc amongst the larkspur), “do not for a moment feel any guilt! I am sure Bingley would do all he could to help, but he met his soulmate and married her— he cannot understand the very particular pain of having met your soulmate— or someone you think your soulmate— and thereafter finding it impossible to be with them. I do not mean to make this out to be an unusual circumstance, but it is one I have just struggled through. I really think I can be of help. Seeing the Wentworths today must not have been easy on him.”

“Oh and they are dining here tonight, and leaving tomorrow, with the rest of the Elliot party,” exclaimed Jane. “I had no notion— that is, he told Charles and Charles told me the general situation but I knew none of the particulars—”

“I do not think Darcy would want them to be generally known,” said Elizabeth, thinking through this. “The Wentworths seem very happy and are respectable. And in ‘11 we were still at war, and I think it very likely Captain Wentworth was in active service. How could a man like Darcy, to whom duty and kindness to others is so instinctive, bring any shadow of discredit or misery to them, especially in so trying a time? No, he would hide what he felt.”

Jane was made so sad by this, Elizabeth expected Jane had finally been pushed past her limits and, when laying down Jenny for a nap, insisted Jane take one as well. As a result, at dinner the Bingley ladies were all absent. No one had the heart to rouse Jane; Mrs. Hurst had retired in a state of semi-hysterical exhaustion; and Mr. and Mrs. Elliot had decided to begin their wedding journey soon after the breakfast, and stay at an inn for their first evening, as man and wife. Elizabeth, as widow of the younger son of an Earl, was therefore one of the highest ranking ladies present, and had the misfortune of being led in by Sir Walter Elliot. It was an awful trial, but at least confirmed her theory; when she asked about the marriage of his daughters, Sir Walter deigned to comment on his sons-in-law as such: “Captain Wentworth is a very fine-looking man, despite his profession. More air than one generally sees, though it is a pity about his complexion.” He meditated on this and added, “Though he is a great deal better than Mr. Musgrove, to be sure. I had my reservations about marrying Anne, do not think I did not— but his sister is married to my tenant— I should say, my former tenant, Admiral Croft— and though the honor is all on their side, at being linked to our family, I am not so illiberal as to disdain the connection. Captain Wentworth saw good service in the wars and made a great deal of money. He keeps Anne in very tolerable comfort.”

This aligned pretty well with what Elizabeth had thought, and Sir Walter’s neatly disposing of the French by speaking of the various horrors of French fashion only added to her sense of certainty. Sir Walter would make his daughter marry, as many fathers of English high society would, to prove that their child's mark was perfectly normal, perfectly acceptable, etc.

A little later Sir Walter also confirmed, “Ah yes, your cousin Mr. Darcy made our acquaintance in the spring of ‘11. Now there is a handsome gentleman. Such air and elegance! I would be pleased to be seen with him anywhere. He and my eldest, Elizabeth, made such a fine couple when they stood up together, but the Fitzwilliams did not approve.” He added, unctuously, “Not to speak against your relations, Mrs. Fitzwilliams— never that! But your father-in-law is so Whiggish in his notions. It really is too much of him, to expect every woman to interest herself in politics as he does. I daresay he would disapprove of any connection his nephew sought to make, if Mrs. Darcy was not standing on her dignity about sugar and wearing those dreadful abolitionist cameos reading ‘am I not a man and a brother.’”

“Politics is my father-in-law’s particular passion,” said Elizabeth, deciding not to get into a fight about abolition. She personally put up quite a lot of fuss about buying sugar from plantations owned and worked on by free men, and she had one of those cameos, which raised money for freed slaves, and urged those who saw it to recall slaves were people and not property. “Were your other daughters in London at that time?”

“Mary was in Uppercross, and I fancy Anne was with her for a time— but no, Lady Russell brought Anne up to town with her, later in the season. Anne was there by Easter, I think.”

Elizabeth worked out the timeline on a scrap of paper in her workbasket, when the ladies left the gentlemen to their port. This seemed to work out and— barring some great misperception, or blind spot— Elizabeth could not think of any other explanation for all she had not understood about Darcy.

With this sensation of perfect understanding came a sense of overwhelming affection and tenderness for Darcy. When the gentlemen rejoined them, Elizabeth cheerfully and unashamedly monopolized him. Darcy was rather surprised at her high spirits, and ventured to say he thought she’d be out of humor, “for, in all the time I have known you, I have never yet see you bear unnecessary formality and ceremony with anything like cheerfulness.”

She laughed. “A flattering portrait of me, Darcy. Perhaps I am merely happy it is all over?” Then, before she could think to stop herself, “And perhaps, Darcy, I am happy to go back with you to Pemberley?”

His look of surprised delight warmed her. Impulsively, she added, “Also, I want to apologize.”

“For what?” he asked.

“For how I treated you when we first met and after meeting again in Kent. I fear I did not understand you at all then.”

“And do you now?”

“I think so. I did not realize just quite how much you were suffering, how hard a time you have had—”

“I wish you would not make me out to be quite so pathetic,” said Darcy, a little sourly. “I have been unhappy, yes, but I have also been happy, and I have accomplished things of which I am extremely proud. The hospital is at last completed, and Colonel Pascal arriving in two weeks; and I daresay these vinegar trials of his might be our generation’s great discovery— something akin to the smallpox inoculation. A man cannot help but be pleased to be part of such an endeavor. And there is no such thing as a life of naught but passion and suffering, any more than there is a continuous earthquake. That is something Lord Byron himself told me; even the Romantic of our era does not paint the life of a man a little disappointed in love, so blackly as all that.”

Elizabeth dropped her work. “You never told me you met Lord Byron!”

This story, of possibly the worst house party Darcy had ever had the displeasure to attend, lasted the rest of the evening. Elizabeth was pleased she had kept him from any further misery in the company of any Elliot.

To Elizabeth’s surprise, Darcy rather flourished under the additional care she lavished upon him, when they returned to Pemberly; as she tried to communicate, without directly speaking of it, that even if he thought little of his past suffering, she was sorry he should have experienced it. She was not sure how much he understood, but Darcy seemed to comprehend that all the new little gestures and overtures she made were important not in and of themselves, but because of the love that inspired them. Or affection, rather, Elizabeth hastily thought to herself. But this idea, once touched upon, could not be ignored.

Elizabeth frequently, uncertainly probed at the nature of her affection for Darcy, as a child might with a loose tooth, testing her own tolerance for pain, and her own unthinking, involuntary resistance. Though she was perfectly fine— now, at least, after her initial confused panic had been got over— with the idea of being attracted to someone not her husband, she struggled, still, to think she might fall in love with someone else. And perhaps then....

But this was still too far. And yet—

Elizabeth could not help but notice every quality about Darcy she liked most had become more endearing now she understood more exactly the nature of his struggles. How good he was, how noble, how much responsibility he took on, how seriously he took his duties even in the face of personal tragedies.

She continued to feel ashamed of her own first impressions. Of course Darcy was going to be disagreeable and easily displeased when he first arrived in Hertfordshire! He had endured more than most men that spring and summer. Of course he would have panicked at the idea of someone so beloved as his cousin Richard marrying after only a month-long acquaintance, after both Darcy and Georgiana had been so mistaken about their matches! And how much more impressive was Darcy’s subsequent change of heart towards her, knowing all this?

There were times, when she thought of this, or tried to chivvy herself on, where she felt an almost painful tenderness for Darcy, but by and large, her growing affection filled her with a sense of elated wonder. Sometimes when she looked up from her work in the evenings, to see Darcy sitting beside her with a book or newspaper, she would be filled with a sensation of giddy astonishment— that they were so easy with each other after so fraught a relationship and such initial mistaken understandings of each other, yes, but also that so little a thing as sitting on the same couch of an evening could make her feel so contented.

Then, about the time Elizabeth began to wonder if it would be possible for such happy co-existence to go on even longer than the Bingleys’ holiday, Lady Catherine came for an unexpected visit.