The next day their tea was scarce cold in their cups before Darcy and Elizabeth's carriage was clattering over the stones on their way to Longbourn to pick up Lydia, whose beaming countenance at the very thought of town was nigh unbearable to the couple, already exhausted by the girl.
Their next stop was in Meryton to pick up Chamberlayne. The soldier was waiting, discreetly away from the encampment, bag in hand, long before the carriage swung into view.
As the footman opened the door, Lydia coyly smiled at the lad, who blushed and incoherently greeted them before entering the carriage and seating himself.
The journey felt like ages, with Lydia half-flirting, half-reproving her husband-to-be for concealing his passion for her. Chamberlayne was overwhelmed by Darcy's solemn presence and inarticulate before his bride-to-be's jubilation. Before long, Elizabeth's head throbbed with each movement of the carriage, tormented by the twin feelings of exasperation with her sister and longing to be alone with her husband.
Darcy had neglected to write to the staff at his London home to expect them, and the tumult when the master arrived, at the end of the season when he could reasonably have been expected to be comfortably installed at Pemberley, was terrible. But in short order both rooms and dinner were made ready.
Lydia begged to be allowed to go into town, saying she may as well be escorted by her almost-husband, but Elizabeth forbade it. Soothed by prospect of journeying with the regiment to Brighton and of attending church in town on the morrow, Lydia ceased her importuning and went to bed with a last coy look at Chamberlayne. Darcy asked his valet to make certain that someone kept watch at his sister-in-law's door all the night.
Col. Fitzwilliam looked up at the sound of his attendant's scratch on the canvas of his tent.
"Letter for you, sir," the man said. Fitzwilliam absently thanked him as he took the unexpected civilian missive. Breaking open the familiar seal, he was shocked to read the request from his cousin. He half stood, then sat again, unsure of what to do.
Reading again through the letter, he allowed himself to gape in surprise. Darcy, involved in such an affair. Darcy, to make such a request. Darcy's need was great, and his proud cousin's dependence on him in this delicate, urgent matter was flattering in the extreme. He resolved to request leave, no matter how unseemly it might be to those who must remain unaware of the nature of his need. He must travel to Hertfordshire, meet the girl, and see if there was aught he could do. It was a sacrifice, but what he must do for his family.
Darcy lay exhausted in his bed, welcoming the oblivion of sleep, when he heard a tap on the door. He jumped out of bed at the unexpected yet hoped-for sound. He opened the door to find his wife, dressing gown snugly tied around her night dress, standing with tears in her eyes.
He hugged her into the room, closing the door behind her. She clung to him, tears spilling over.
"Oh my dear Mr. Darcy. That I ever brought all of this upon you. I can scarce bear myself. How you must hate us all!"
"My dearest Elizabeth, never, never could I hate you." His arms tightened warmly around her.
"But all this trouble," she sobbed. "A bishop's license. Not to mention finding any officer willing to marry our Lydia, which I cannot imagine how you accomplished."
"This and much, much more would I do for you, my beloved," he said, soothingly.
Elizabeth cried against him for another few moments before regaining her self-command and looking up at him. "My dear husband, what a wonder you are."
"I find you wonderful as well, dear wife," he said.
Drawn together, their lips met in a long-delayed kiss, which both satisfied and tantalized.
Dimly he realized that the knot in her dressing robe was pressed into his belly, but decided to ignore it. Her hands tangled themselves in his hair, pressing him down to her as she greedily explored his mouth. Finally frustrated by the layers separating them, her hand fumbled for the knot.
Just then, there was a tentative tap at the door.
In two strides, Darcy crossed the room and, turning briefly to make sure Elizabeth had resumed her robe, opened the door. A footman stood uncomfortably in the hall, and haltingly explained that the mistress's sister required her attendance.
Elizabeth thanked him tersely and followed him to Lydia's room, where the hall boy sleepily watched the door. Elizabeth flung the door open and descended upon her youngest sister.
"What do you mean by calling for me in the middle of the night?"
"It's cold and lonely. At home Kitty always slept with me. This room is so big and empty, and there are strange sounds outside, but the footman will not let me go to see who is afoot."
Elizabeth sighed and marched back to the door to tell the footman that she would be staying with her sister.
Darcy, receiving the unwelcome news, reconciled himself to another night without her, trying not to curse his sister-in-law.
As the next day was Sunday, they could not apply for the license. Darcy thought it fitting that they attend service where the officials that had the duty of dispensing licenses could see them, St. Paul's Cathedral. He also hoped that the grandeur of the church would impress his feckless sister-in-law enough to quiet her for at least a day but did not give it overmuch hope.
Lydia giddily donned her best dress and fussed about her adornments, eagerly thinking over all those who would see her at the famous cathedral.
Breakfast was an awkward affair. Chamberlayne, overwhelmed by the grandness of the breakfast room and number of servants, thrice spilled his tea and once dropped a soft-boiled egg on the floor. Lydia was so excited by the prospect of venturing into London that she chattered incessantly.
Breakfast over, the carriage again swallowed them before disgorging them into the mass of those attending mid-morning services. Darcy, disappointed, noted that Lydia paid much more heed to those around her than to the service.
When a few of the congregants whispered, discreetly pointing at Darcy, he realized that though this was not Easter, some felt they were witness to a resurrection, but none approached.
On the way back, Lydia importuned for some entertainment, but the Darcys sternly rebuked her.
They returned to the house and dressed for dinner.
Lady Catherine left Sunday service near bursting with frustrated indignation. That her own nephew had defied family duty and convention, that her planned vengeance had failed, that she had been forced to capitulate to her nephew in the matter of her own parson's inheritance, that she was abandoned by Miss Bingley just as the matter went against her. It was galling in the extreme.
Lady Catherine had not anticipated Wickham's death, but it was a minor loss — she felt the waste of coin more, but deprived of a confidant, she could not plot her next move. She felt Darcy had blocked her in at every turn and wanted someone to see a fresh angle for her, though she could not put it to herself in so many words.
Mrs. Collins left the service without waiting for her husband to descend to the congregation and encountered her husband's aggravated patroness in the church yard.
"Your husband gave the sermon very ill," she told the parson's wife, happy to have some — any — outlet for her vitriol. She was surprised to hear the woman assent heartily.
"I think that his head has been turned by the Crockham estate," Mrs. Collins said bluntly. "He has not the head for affluence. Mr. Darcy's generosity could not be more unfortunate."
Charlotte had seen plainly that Lady Catherine was in a mood to criticize, and as she could not trade wry observations about him with Lizzy, who could be trusted to see his shortcomings, another would have to do.
"Generosity? It was no generosity; it was traitorous betrayal of his family. To give the resources his forefathers so carefully won over the generations and give of it in such abundance for the sake of a farmer's daughter, a farmer's family." She became heated as she spoke of the wrongs she endured, smacking at a tombstone with the ferrule of her parasol.
"It was most unfortunate, whatever the motivation, for Mr. Collins, who depended so entirely upon your decisive character to direct his own. Now that he feels himself independent, he will doubtless run headlong into peril."
"And we cannot even think of Darcy forced to belittle himself by coming to his wife's cousin's rescue, as they obviously care little for him," Lady Catherine said, unhappily seeing no opportunity for vengeance in the scenario Mrs. Collins presented, ignoring, as she did, the consequences to herself in her husband's promised ruin.
"Mr. Collins still would be benefitted by your correction of his shortcomings," Mrs. Collins said, appealing to Lady Catherine's pride, hoping to turn that powerful force upon her stubborn husband.
"I shall correct my parson as I see fit," Lady Catherine said haughtily, and Mrs. Collins hastily thanked her. Encouraged by a small victory, Lady Catherine considered her parson's wife's value as a confidant, then acted with her wonted decision.
"Pray, come take tea with me, Mrs. Collins," she said. "The summer evenings are long, and you should be able to return home when the road is still well lit."
"Thank you, I should be honored," Mrs. Collins said, smiling inwardly.
As swiftly as possible after breakfast, Darcy led them to the carriage and directed the driver to Doctor's Common. Both country girls were overwhelmed by the grim traffic of lawyers and clerks going about their business, and Chamberlayne, distracted by the looming buildings, twice tripped over his own feet.
There, Darcy presented a letter from Mr. Bennet swearing that there was no reason Lydia might not wed (it had taken her father some drops of brandy to convince himself that her elopement did not constitute a barrier) and declare that the two would be married at the Meryton parish, where both currently resided. Chamberlayne gave his name, county and service, and swore that he could marry her without impediment, cutting himself off before declaring that he would raise Wickham's child as his own.
After proving his identity and swearing that he knew of no reason the couple could not wed, Darcy was allowed to pay the fee and receive the license.
With a much lighter heart, he brought them back to the carriage.
Their return to Hertfordshire was swift, too swift for Lydia but not enough for Elizabeth, whose nerves were tattered by her vigilant watch and worry that Lydia would disappear any moment she but closed her eyes. It was with great satisfaction that she observed their approach to Meryton, where she trusted her troubles would soon end.
"And Mr. Darcy fought and killed Mr. Wickham?" Charlotte asked, surprise breaking through her careful demeanor. She had seen the charming young officer at his best, recommending himself to her friend, and the thought of him having engaged in an elopement — two within a month — fighting a duel and losing his life, was hard to accept.
"He did," Lady Catherine said, relieved to be able to speak of these much pressing matters, even to a person so lowly as her parson's wife. "He intercepted them on the road to Scotland and killed him with one blow, or so the servant said."
Charlotte rocked back, stunned by the revelation, struggling to put this together with what she knew of the seemingly cool-blooded Mr. Darcy. Perhaps the elopement was less of a divergence from his natural character than all had judged.
"Will there be aught of… trouble… from his passing?" she asked.
"I should think not," Lady Catherine said. "He was nobody, really. A mere steward's son, and a disgraced soldier running from his duty at that."
"So you do not expect any legal trouble for your nephew from this matter?"
"I do not see how it might," Lady Catherine admitted. "Only the servants, myself and Darcy, himself, know of it."
"And you would not seek to involve the authorities?" Charlotte asked.
Catherine paused. The thought of wrecking devastating vengeance upon her wayward nephew was alluring. She had only a faint notion of the legal processes involved in an investigation of death by duel but knew that the Crown had long banned such fights and was strict about punishing offenders, at least in town.
Seeing her hesitate, Mrs. Collins spoke again, "Of course he is still your relation…"
"He has made it clear that he only cares for himself and nothing for his blood relations," Lady Catherine snapped.
"And yet, all who know Darcy know that they are relations of de Bourgh," she said.
"True, and so I must stay my hand, even if he deserves my retribution," Lady Catherine said bitterly.
"Perhaps I might help you think of some appropriate action," Mrs. Collins suggested, eager to keep the lady's confidence after the day's promising start.
Lady Catherine accepted negligently, and Charlotte thanked her warmly.
The lines creaked as the waves pushed and pulled the small boat as it lay by the Laconia. Romney climbed aboard and smiled to see his captain awaiting his return.
"All is well, Mr. Romney?" Wentworth asked heartily, clasping hands with his first mate.
"Very well, thank you sir, glad to be back aboard. One can scarce credit the trouble civilians take over every matter."
Interest piqued Wentworth's face. "Then you must tell me of it. This evening, please join me in my quarters after dinner."
"Of course, sir. It would be my pleasure."
The crew of the small boat quickly rowed back over to the waiting ship, the name "Spaniel" still visible in the fading light.