The Wrong Name

Fitzwilliam Darcy stood upon the alter, every muscle in his body taut. To all those assembled he appeared calm and composed. Not unlike the gaudy statues that dotted around the Hunsford church. Inside however, his mind was alive, a maelstrom of emotions and last-minute doubts. Sweat beaded at the nape of his neck and slithered down his back. Seeking a distraction, his eyes turned toward the assembled congregation and began meticulously counting the number of pews. Anything to assuage the feeling that this was a terrible mistake. The sound of laughter, bright and clear like that of a bell drew his eye, like a moth to a flame, to Miss Elizabeth Bennet.  

She was as devastatingly beautiful as he remembered. Her fine eyes were lit up with amusement and one of her dark curls had worked its way free from its confines and was resting tantalisingly just above the swell of her chest as she shook her head back and forth in unrestrained glee. The object that had given her such delight was seated beside her, in the form of Charles Bingley, who looked was looking very pleased with himself. Darcy’s heart twisted as he continued to stare at the pair, too far away to hear their conversation but unable to look away. 

“Mr Bingley! You are terrible sir!” Elizabeth covered her mouth with her hand.  

“Tis the truth! The bow street runner was most displeased when he arrived at Hurst House.” Bingley snickered. 

“Displeased?” Elizabeth raised a questioning brow, mirth sparkling from her eyes. 

“Why yes! After all he thought he was summoned for a gruesome murder and instead found Caroline wailing about the loss of Pemberley!”  

“Mr Bingley!” Elizabeth choked out between gales of laughter.  

Bingley shook his head, his grin widening.  “We never did find out who summoned the runner. I would not have thought that there was anyone left in London who would call for help for my sister!”  

Darcy felt a hand clamp down on his shoulder and turned to see his cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam standing beside him.  

“Darcy, did you hear me? I said that all is arranged with the parson and we shall begin as soon as Anne arrives.” The Colonel cast his eye over Darcy, concern marring his brow. 

Darcy swallowed thickly, unable to meet his cousin's eye, he quickly turned back to his previous occupation of watching Bingley and Miss Elizabeth. “Yes, of course.”  

The Colonel’s brow wrinkled in thought as he took in Darcy’s discomposure. He knew not why Darcy had finally capitulated to their aunt’s demands and finally agreed to marry Anne, but he was sure Darcy was doing it for all the wrong reasons. His mind wandered back to late November, when Darcy arrived suddenly back from Hertfordshire and had locked himself in the study of his London townhouse, drinking bottle after bottle of port and staring blankly at the fire. The Colonel had tried to find out what plagued his cousin, but Darcy was steadfast in his refusal to answer, so the Colonel had left him to his thoughts. A bout of merriment rang out from somewhere in the assembled crowd and the colonel watched as Darcy’s hand tightened into a fist. Interesting. The Colonel’s gaze roved over the crowd until it alighted on a petite young woman seated beside Bingley.  

“She is rather lovely” the Colonel mumbled appreciatively, “Is she Bingley’s latest angel?”  

“No. She is not.”  

The vehemence in Darcy’s voice took the Colonel by surprise, but as this was the most emotion Darcy had displayed in months, he decided to push.  

“How can you be sure? They seem very cosy seated down there together.” 

“She is not of our station.” Darcy bit out. “She may be a gentlemen’s daughter, but her mother comes from trade. She has relatives that live in Cheapside and an uncle who is an attorney. If that isn’t bad enough, her entire family are uncouth, her mother the town gossip, her younger sisters determined flirts. All whilst her father hides away in his study laughing at their expense.” 

The Colonel’s brows rose in astonishment at both the statement and the red flush that crept up Darcy’s cheeks. “You know her?”  

“Yes, her father’s estate is borders Netherfield. She is Bingley’s closest neighbour.”  

The Colonel looked in askance, but Darcy said no more. Looking between his cousin and the beautiful brunette seated at Bingley’s side the Colonel was suddenly struck by a thought. “No, surely not!” He mumbled and taking a step to the side, the Colonel studied his cousins face, noticing the look of utter dejection and longing in his gaze.  

“Darcy-” The Colonel’s gentle voice was cut off by a flare of the organ as the doors at the back of the church opened.  

Darcy’s breathing came in short sharp bursts as he watched his frail cousin, amble up the aisle his uncle’s arm.  Her pinched expression reminding him how displeased she was with the small wedding he had insisted on. Her demands of a massive wedding in St Paul's whilst the entire ton looked on were abhorrent to him. He was marrying Anne out of duty; he would not put on a show of lavish love just to stroke her ego. God’s, he wished that women of the first circles were more like Elizabeth Bennet. Somehow, he knew that she would have no objections to a small wedding, she was not one to put on airs and demand to be paraded around as the centre of attention. Though, a small part of his mind whispered, that if Elizabeth had wished it, he’d have attempted to book Westminster Abbey itself. 

Darcy shook himself; he needed to stop thinking about Elizabeth Bennet. It was a cruel twist of fate that had brought her here to Rosings, to witness the very union he was entering into in order to purge her from his mind. He had a duty to fulfil to society, to Pemberley, to Georgiana. He chanted the familiar mantra over in his mind. Taking a deep breath, he steadied himself and took Anne’s proffered hand into his own catching the avaricious gleam of triumph in her expression he shuddered and quickly turned towards the parson. 

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today-”  

The sound of the parson slowly faded away as the thrumming of his heart grew louder. His mind screamed for him to flee, but his feet remained steadfast upon the alter and his gaze became unfocused, his mind conjuring images of Elizabeth in the place of Anne.  

A coughing sound from Richard brought him back to reality. Snapping his eyes up, he met the exasperated gaze of Mr Collins.  

“I said, Mr Darcy, to repeat after me.” The nasally tone of the man’s voice grated upon Darcy and the tips of his ears pinked at the tittering of the crowd behind them. 

Unable to speak, Darcy nodded tightly and quickly looked at the congregation. His aunt and uncle looked at him with displeasure. Quickly Darcy moved his gaze to Bingley, the amusement in Bingley’s face which seemed to say that Darcy could expect to be jested at later for his inattention. Finally, Darcy allowed himself one last look at Elizabeth. Her beautiful face carried none of the displeasure or amusement of the others, her eyes instead shone with guileless empathy and a touch of concern. 

“I Fitzwilliam, take thee Anne.” The parson said slowly and a touch more loudly than necessary, as if speaking to someone who was rather dense.  

Darcy closed his eyes and tried to still the trembling of his hands. He opened his mouth once, twice, but no sound came out. A painful squeeze of his hand brought his attention back to Anne, who was glaring at him as her nails bit into the palm of his hand, hard enough to pierce through the flesh. 

Oh Gods, how could he do this? But he had to do this, there was no choice he reminded himself. The banns had been called, the settlement had been signed, the notice sent to the papers. 

The room spun around him and Darcy felt like he was no longer in his body, instead he was watching the entire nauseating affair from above. He watched with trepidation as the pallid Fitzwilliam Darcy in front of him coughed, murmuring an apology as he wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve and opened his mouth once more to speak.  

“I Fitzwilliam take thee Elizabeth.”