A Perilous Match

Chapter 14

One Month Later

St George’s Church, London

T he grand church of St George at Hanover Square, stood tall before Elizabeth, its imposing structure looming as she gazed up at the entrance. The stone steps beneath her feet vibrated faintly with the murmur of the crowd within. The church’s facade with its portico supported by six Corinthian columns gave the building a refined elegance.

Elizabeth knew that the interior would be teeming with people. After all, it was not every day that the Marquess of Dorset was to be wed. She had been reminded more than once that there were no other eligible bachelors of such rank in society. Mr Darcy—she still thought of him thus—was the youngest marquess in many years, and that it should be she, Elizabeth Bennet, who was to marry him, seemed almost beyond comprehension.

“My dear, are you ready?” her father asked, drawing her attention. Mr Bennet was dressed in his Sunday best, or rather, an elevated version of it, as her mother had insisted that the family be attired in new garments for this grand occasion.

Her soon-to-be husband had most generously offered to cover the costs for the entire family, and Lydia and Kitty had taken full advantage, ordering the most elaborate gowns they could have made on such short notice. Elizabeth shuddered to think of the expense, especially since everything had been so hastily arranged. Parliament was to reconvene next week, and Mr Darcy was expected to take his seat in the House of Lords. The wedding had to be concluded before that.

“Well then, let us proceed,” her father said, offering his arm. She took it without hesitation, and together they ascended the steps to the entrance, which was held open by the ushers. She had braced herself for the sea of people awaiting her, but when she saw the hundreds of faces turn towards her as she entered, she could not suppress a gasp.

Her father squeezed her hand lightly. “Steady on, my dear. Focus on your groom,” he murmured.

“I am not certain that will help,” she replied, her voice trembling slightly.

“I imagine it will,” her father said, reassuringly.

Elizabeth was uncertain as to what her father truly thought of her impending union with the man the Bennet family had known as Mr Darcy. She had confided her conflicting emotions to no one but Jane.

As she walked down the aisle on her father’s arm, she found it oddly comforting to dwell on troubles that were not her own, and her thoughts turned to her sister’s predicament. Jane had become fond of Colonel Fitzwilliam, with whom she had promenaded more than once. Her heart still belonged to Charles Bingley, but so grave was the pain he had inflicted upon her, Jane considered her options now with great care, fearful of being hurt once more.

Indeed, as Elizabeth passed Colonel Fitzwilliam, seated with the rest of the Fitzwilliam family, she wondered what it might be like if he were to become Jane’s husband. To have Jane and herself each married to a member of the Fitzwilliam family—there was a certain solace in that thought.

Yet, Mr Bingley remained Mr Darcy’s dearest friend. When Elizabeth saw Jane, she noticed that her sister was not focused on her, but on Mr Bingley, who sat in the row behind the Fitzwilliams. No, commendable as Colonel Fitzwilliam’s intentions might be, there was no denying who would ultimately claim Jane’s hand.

“Elizabeth, you must let go,” her father whispered, and she realised that she had been wool-gathering so much that she had not noticed they had reached the front of the church, where Mr Darcy stood waiting to take her from her father.

She was getting married. She was getting married to Mr Darcy. She would walk out of this chapel as the Marchioness of Dorset. How could this be true?

Her breathing quickened, and she suddenly feared she might swoon in front of all these people. All her life, she had been amused by her mother’s raptures, but now she feared it would be she who might require smelling salts.

“Take a deep breath,” Mr Darcy said softly, his voice warm and his presence unexpectedly reassuring. She looked at him and almost forgot where they were. He inhaled, and she mirrored his action, her heart rate gradually slowing.

“Are you ready?” he asked, and she nodded. Then, Elizabeth took her place beside her husband-to-be, prepared to become his bride.

***

“A grand wedding it was,” Lady Matlock said later that day, as the families and their closest friends and political allies gathered at the Matlock townhouse in Mayfair. As the groom’s uncle, the Earl of Matlock had agreed to host the wedding breakfast. Elizabeth took this as a sign that he, at least, approved of the union. The same could not be said for the entire family.

“It was indeed. I had not expected so many people,” Elizabeth replied, still overwhelmed by the sheer number of guests.

“My dear, your husband is a marquess, and a young one at that. Everyone will wish to ingratiate themselves with him. Besides, he is related to my husband, an earl, and his great-uncle is a duke, as you know,” Lady Matlock said, nodding towards the Duke of Norfolk, who was sipping sherry in a corner, a woman by his side.

“Is that the Duchess of Norfolk?” Elizabeth asked, her curiosity piqued.

“Indeed, but you are aware that she is persona non grata in certain circles,” Lady Matlock said, though it was impossible to discern from her tone whether she approved or disapproved of this situation.

“Because she is Catholic?”

“Because he is not. Were they of the same faith, it would hardly be an issue. Of course, he would not have a seat in Parliament. She is also much younger, as you may know—the duke is five-and-seventy, and his wife but five-and-forty.”

“Is that so?” Elizabeth said, astonished.

“You are not yet well-versed in the ways of the ton, are you, my dear? But that is to be expected. Imagine if I came to… where is it your family reside? Merton?”

“Meryton,” she corrected.

“Ah, yes, Meryton. I should not know a shopkeeper from a knight. But do not worry, I shall take you under my wing. I did the same for Lady Aspen.”

Elizabeth looked up, surprised, for she had been under the impression that Lady Aspen was thoroughly familiar with the workings of society.

“I always thought that Lady Aspen was born into the highest circles.”

“She was. Her father was an earl as well, but rather impoverished. And, of course, there are no heirs, so the title reverted to the Crown when he died five years ago. Dreadful business. That is why she is so eager to make a good match for her sister. You know she had designs on Fitzwilliam.”

Elizabeth’s mouth grew dry at this revelation. She had had no inkling of such intentions.

“I did not know. I thought the only person who had designs on him was his cousin.”

Lady Matlock clicked her tongue. “By no means. Miss Anne harbours no designs on anyone but the gentlemen she encounters in her romance novels. It was my sister-in-law, Lady Catherine, of course, who entertained such a notion. A flight of fancy, to be sure. Lady Catherine is prone to them. But I heard you had the misfortune of her company?”

Elizabeth was uncertain how to respond. It was true she had endured that particular misfortune, but she was not about to step into what was clearly a long-standing dispute between Lady Catherine and her sister-in-law.

Instead, she decided to focus her attention on another subject. “Pray, could you enlighten me regarding Phillip Darcy? I am still unclear on the relationship between the Darcys. My husband did not explain much beyond his own immediate family.”

“Phillip? Of course, we have no close connection to him. He is on the Darcy side, naturally. As you know, the Dowager Marchioness of Dorset is your husband’s grandmother. The late marquess, whose death has caused all this upheaval, was her stepson, born from Fitzwilliam’s grandfather’s first marriage. Victoria, that is, his first wife, died in childbirth. The old Marquess was alone for several years before he married his second wife.”

Elizabeth took note, trying to keep track of the various family members.

“They had two sons, Fitzwilliam’s father, George, and his younger brother, Morris. Phillip is Morris’s son. Morris died several years ago, drowned during a fishing trip. Silly boy. Who ventures out in a storm to fish? But then, Morris was always a rattlepate. George was ever the marchioness’s favourite son, and Fitzwilliam her favourite grandson. However, Phillip found favour with his uncle, who, of course, became Marquess once their grandfather died.”

Elizabeth frowned. “Did Phillip have designs on the marquessate?”

“No, not any more than any distant relation of a titled gentleman has designs on said title. Everyone dreams. I dream of becoming queen one day—not with the current regent, of course. But no, indeed, up until this recent turn of events, both Phillip and Fitzwilliam were removed from the marquessate. After all, the previous marquess had a son, who also had a son. Who could have foreseen that all three would be taken from this earth within forty-eight hours? Dreadful.”

She glanced over her shoulder before continuing, quieter now.

“I will say that Phillip was very close to his uncle and had his own ideas about how the marquessate ought to be managed. But he and Fitzwilliam are close. I am certain he will be instrumental in aiding Fitzwilliam in his new duties.”

Elizabeth nodded, though she would not admit to anyone that she was not particularly fond of Phillip Darcy. Indeed, she found herself harbouring an antipathy towards him that ran almost as deep as her dislike of Caroline Bingley. Phillip, Caroline, and Lady Aspen all shared one characteristic in common—they were rather high in the instep and looked at Elizabeth as though she were beneath their notice. When, in fact, the Bennets had always occupied several rungs above both the Bingleys and the likes of Phillip Darcy.

It was true that Lady Catherine, who had deliberately abstained from attending the wedding, had outranked Elizabeth before her marriage, but she no longer held that power. The same was true for Lady Aspen.

“Elizabeth,” Lady Matlock said, “you look pale. Have you had anything to eat? If not, then you must try these buns.” She led Elizabeth to the banquet table, where hot rolls were waiting along with an assortment of spreads. “Do not worry, there is much more to eat than this. There is an entire banquet room set up in the back, but I had the butler ensure that the cooks prepared some simpler fare. I wished your family to feel at home.”

Elizabeth paused and looked at Lady Matlock, who seemed to realise her error immediately.

“I meant… I meant I wished to ensure there was food your family was more accustomed to. I did not think dishes like rago?t de mouton or fricassée de volaille would necessarily be palatable.”

Elizabeth forced a smile, knowing that Lady Matlock had meant no harm. Indeed, of all Darcy’s relations, she seemed the most amiable. Still, the lady’s blunder reminded Elizabeth once more that she had much to learn about the new role she now occupied.