Page 86 of Resilience

She was dressed with elegant simplicity, her rose gown pale and unadorned compared to the finery Elizabeth once expected that her youngest sister would require. Georgiana Darcy walked behind her, serene and composed.

The church was full; entirely full. Friends and neighbours packed the pews and stood along the walls. Even the local widows and spinsters–the vigilant guardians of propriety–were present, whispering not with censure but anticipation. Whatever judgments that may once have been made regarding Lydia’s first choice of husband, today they had been set aside.

Miss Deborah and Miss Matilda Jenks both dabbed at their eyes with their handkerchiefs. They and Miss Poole had been kinder to Lydia than anyone, and Elizabeth blessed them for it.

Elizabeth’s gaze shifted instinctively to Darcy beside her. He was straight and composed as always, but she knew him too well not to see his quiet satisfaction. Pemberley’s people had come. Lambton’s people had come. Lady Catherine, who had recently taken up residence in Pemberley’s dower house to dote upon the grandson of her sister, sat beside her brother in a prominent pew. Lady Matlock was resplendent, and Lady Priscilla watched her husband Colonel Brandon as he waited beside the groom.

Colonel Brandon waited near the chancel, dignified as ever, years fading from his face as he grinned back at his wife.

And finally…John Willoughby.

Elizabeth watched the groom closely as he turned to receive his bride. There was no trace of the restless charm that once unsettled ladies by the dozen. What she saw in his eyes was reverence. Relief. Something perilously close to awe. The groom glowed with happiness as he watched his bride take her place beside him.

Lydia simply smiled as she and her uncle approached.

Mr Collins’s voice was steady, solemn, and filled the church as the ceremony began.

This, Elizabeth thought, was the true astonishment of it all.

Not that Lydia had married again. Not that she had married well. But that she had married right. When Mr Gardiner placed Lydia’s hand into Willoughby’s, Elizabeth felt something inside her ease at last. Not triumph. Not vindication. Peace.

The introduction of Mr and Mrs John Willoughby was met first with an awed hush. Then a sigh so collective it seemed to lift the very roof off the church. As Lydia turned around, now Mrs Willoughby, the church broke into congratulations and cheers so loud that Mr Collins was obviously quite shocked by such a din in a church.

Outside, it was the very best sort of chaos.

The church bell rang. The doors opened. Lambton surged forward in anticipation of seeing the bride and groom. Farmers, tenants, shopkeepers, servants in their best coats, all of the locals had turned out to see the oft pitied Mrs Wickham start anew.

Hats waved. Flowers thrown onto the path. All of those whom Wickham had hurt were now beaming as if Lydia’s happiness were their own. The day had the air–not of a scandal redeemed–but of a fairy tale set right.

Lydia and Willoughby emerged into the sunlight, Georgiana and Colonel Brandon behind them, and for the briefest moment Lydia’s eyes met Elizabeth’s across the crowd. There was gratitude in her gaze…and courage.

Elizabeth instinctively reached for Darcy’s hand. He took it instantly, lacing his fingers through hers.

“This,” he murmured into her ear. “Is what comes of patience.”

Elizabeth smiled, watching her sister laugh as rose petals, rice, and grain rained down around her. “This,” she replied. “Is what comes of resilience.”

~The End~

Epilogue

One year later

Lady Winsford waited with care in a corner at Lady Stedham’s ball. She did not approach her prey while his wife stood beside him, nor while the Darcys, the Fitzwilliams, and the Matlocks clustered nearby. She watched as Colonel Brandon noticed her, then turned away with his wife. She waited–composed, intent, beautifully attired, her mourning long since cast off–until Mrs Willoughby was drawn away into conversation with Mrs Darcy and Miss Darcy.

“You are improved,” Lady Winsford said softly, as Willoughby turned at her address. “I knew you would be.”

He bowed from the neck with civility rather than warmth. “Lady Winsford.”

“I have followed your progress,” she continued, her eyes bright with something that was no longer hope, but desperation. “Combe Magna prospers. Your income is generous. So is mine…and I–” She paused “I am free.”

Willoughby regarded her warily. “I am happy to hear that your circumstances are secure.”

She leaned closer. “My husband left me everything. A house. A fortune. Independence. What we lost need not be lost forever. We thought we only had one chance for happiness, we spoke of it once, do you remember? It need not be true.”

His expression turned to pity, and he looked about as if he would rather be anywhere but where he stood. He looked about for rescue before finally giving his reply.

“We were both wrong, Lady Winsford,” he said calmly. “There is not only one opportunity for each person to be happy. I found happiness later…elsewhere.”