Chapter Twenty-Four Back to Previous Chapter It is to be expected that two sisters who had shared as much as Jane and Elizabeth Bennet would also be not only willing but happy to share their wedding day. Thus, a date was fixed, and the preparations begun. Mrs. Bennet descended upon London with her daughters in tow, storming her favourite warehouses like a campaigning general and spending lavishly on the girls' wedding clothes (and a few incidentals of her own--only a gown or two, perhaps a few bonnets, nothing at all out of the way). Jane and Elizabeth, like most young ladies, took a decided interest in their clothing, but even they grew tired of choosing fabrics and fitting garments, and after a few days were happy enough to return to Longbourn. Even while they were away, their gentlemen were often at Longbourn, waiting upon their friend Tilney. Henry was always glad of his friends' company, even though it meant listening to a constant panegyric upon the merits of his sisters; a forgivable circumstance, since he had subjected his friends to similar treatment before his own marriage. Mr. Bennet often joined them, and Henry was pleased to see him taking pains to become acquainted with his future sons-in-law. Indeed, there was little to trouble Henry, except for some very strange behaviour on Catherine's part. One morning, she received a letter from Fullerton. Normally, Catherine would read such a letter to Henry, or at least pass on the news from home. However, she read this particular letter gravely, and then slowly folded it into her lap, an oddly distant expression on her face. "Catherine?" asked Henry in concern. "What is it? I hope you have not had bad news from Fullerton." Catherine jumped as if startled upon being addressed, staring at him wildly, her hand at her throat. "Oh, no," she said finally. "Everyone is well, and Mamma sends her love." "You look pale," he said. "Are you well?" "Yes, perfectly. Excuse me, beloved, I must write back--" and she hurried away with a distracted air, clutching the letter tightly in her hand. A half hour later Henry walked into the breakfast room, where Catherine sat at the writing table. She hastily pushed a sheet of paper into the almanac and slammed it shut, glancing sideways at Henry, and then guiltily away. After a long, astonished moment, he asked her, "What in the world are you doing?" "Oh! I am writing to Mamma, to be sure." "By your air, I thought you to be passing intelligence to Bonaparte, at least." She smiled and said, "Such nonsense, Henry! You did startle me, however." "Then I beg your pardon. Send Mrs. Morland my love." "I will." Henry stayed for a moment, watching her curiously, but she made no move to return to her task until he left the room. Such secretive behaviour, so unlike the usual open, good-natured Catherine, was a puzzle. Henry felt he should understand it, should see the reason behind it, but the solution danced just out of his grasp, teasing him. It is probably something simple, he told himself. Something so obvious that you will berate yourself for missing it. He attributed the strangeness to her desire to be away from Longbourn, and he was longing to be home at Woodston himself, but they both wished to attend the weddings. Henry had arranged for them to leave Longbourn on the very day of the weddings, not long after the departure of the newlyweds, the Bingleys to Netherfield and the Darcys to Pemberley. Henry had determined to speak to Darcy about repaying the expenses he had incurred on Lydia's behalf. Before he had the opportunity, however, Mr. Bennet leapt into the breach. The three gentlemen were in the billiards room at Longbourn. Bingley had been detained at Netherfield, directing the fitting-up of what was to be Jane's sitting room. Henry and Darcy were shooting billiards, while Mr. Bennet watched; they were engaged in a rather idle discussion of fishing tackle when Mr. Bennet abruptly changed the subject. "Darcy," he said with an unusually businesslike air, "Lizzy has told me that you were put to some expense in the arrangement of my youngest daughter's marriage after Henry had left town. Please accept my sincere gratitude for your pains, and I am sure that Henry joins me in this. If you will be so good as to present my agent with the total, I will arrange for repayment." Darcy was silent for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his face remained grave, and his voice was softer than usual. Henry knew that his friend was trying to control strong emotion. "Pray do not trouble yourself, sir," he said. "The amount paid was nothing, compared to the good that it did, and I remain at all times at the service of your family." "It could not have been a negligible sum," Mr. Bennet persisted. "Such as Wickham are not easily bought." "I had the advantage of long acquaintance with Wickham. I understand him, and knew what was required to persuade him to take the proper course." "Nevertheless, you must indulge me," Mr. Bennet replied with a smile. "It is not as though my daughter brings a fortune with her." Darcy's eyes flashed as he looked at the older man. "I beg your pardon, sir, but I must be permitted to disagree with you. In granting your permission to marry Elizabeth, you have given me that which I know is most precious to you. I can ask for nothing more, but only assure you that Elizabeth is equally precious to me, and that she will want for nothing that is within my power to provide. I acted on Lydia's behalf upon the same principle. The circumstances were distressful to Elizabeth, and I did what I could to make her comfortable. Pray do not speak to me of fortunes or repayment." Henry had known that Darcy would refuse to accept repayment from Mr. Bennet, and that Mr. Bennet would gently press him, and would be politely rebuffed. It was all part of the social dance demanded by common civility. Henry had already decided that he would make private arrangements to repay Darcy--honour allowed nothing less--but Darcy's words stopped him cold. He is right, Henry admitted to himself. Money is nothing, when one has more than enough. What Darcy and Lizzy have together--the life they will build--is worth so much more; it is something that cannot be quantified. Darcy can no more place such a worldly value upon his marriage than I could upon my own. Henry understood at that moment why Darcy had refused repayment, and understood that he would no longer press his friend to accept it. Lost in thought, he was startled to realize that Darcy had been calling his name. "What? What is it?" he asked in mild confusion. "It is your shot," said Darcy with a smile. "Of course," Henry muttered, trying to ignore the amused looks exchanged by his companions as he lined up his shot. The day before the wedding, Mr. Bennet summoned Henry into his library. "Shut the door, please," he said. Henry obeyed, wondering what caused his father's grave appearance. Mr. Bennet walked to a large canvas-wrapped object propped against a bookcase. He undid the wrappings to reveal a large portrait. "This is for you," he said to his son. It was a portrait of Henry's mother. He had only seen the miniature, and the full-length portrait before him took his breath away. Elizabeth Bennet gazed lovingly at her son, her dark eyes full of humour and intelligence. She wore an amber-coloured gown, cut very wide at the shoulders and low in the neckline, displaying the odd, slope-shouldered look of ladies' portraits of that time, as though her collarbones had been removed. In an age of elaborate hairstyles, hers was fairly simple: unpowdered, piled to a reasonable height on top, with a few curls hugging her neck. The resemblance to Henry's foster mother, her second cousin, was pronounced. There was a strong likeness to the portrait that had once hung in Eleanor's bedroom at Northanger Abbey, which Henry knew now graced her sitting room at Windlestrae. "It is lovely," said Henry, much moved. "But I cannot take it. It should be with you, Father. Why have you not hung it at Longbourn?" "That would hardly be politic in the presence of the current Mrs. Bennet," his father replied. "It hung in the drawing room until my second marriage. I had it put away then--for you, son. I always hoped, in the face of all evidence to the contrary, that I would find you someday. I now reunite you with your mother. Take the portrait, Henry. It has been kept for you." "Thank you, sir. It will have a place of honour." "That is well. It is a good portrait," he added thoughtfully. "It was a wedding gift from old Mr. Drummond, painted by a fellow called Gainsborough. His portraits were all the fashion at the time. I'll have it wrapped up well and put with your luggage." Happy for all his fraternal feelings was the day on which Henry Tilney saw his two most deserving sisters married to the gentlemen of their choice. The brides were lovely in their new gowns and veils; Jane's paleness complemented her fair beauty, and her trembling was not visible to most present. Elizabeth's consciousness took the form of a glowing colour that brought a special lustre to her dark eyes. Mr. Bennet led his daughters up the aisle, and Elizabeth and Darcy stood witness as Jane and Bingley exchanged vows, their mutual happiness clearly evident to all present. Even the most jaded and cynical observer would have to admit that Jane and Bingley were extremely well-suited, for she was beautiful and he rich; but their true friends knew that their mutual affection and equable natures would render their marriage one of great contentment. Then it was time for the second ceremony, and Mr. Bennet took Elizabeth's hand and placed it into Darcy's. To those who knew him well, Darcy's face showed the depth of his emotion, and his love for Elizabeth. She lifted her eyes to her intended's, and the connection brought a smile to both their faces--smiles that spoke of a future of considerable happiness, and of a union that would grow stronger with time and an increase in intimacy. By her ease and liveliness, his mind would be softened and his manners improved; and from his judgment, information, and knowledge of the world, she would receive benefit of greater importance. It would be a union that would teach anyone who cared to notice what connubial felicity really was. Seeing his favourite sister and his closest friend so happily disposed, and Jane and Bingley no less happily, Henry turned to the wellspring of his own connubial felicity--that is, Catherine--who favoured him with a wide smile of pure delight, and clasped his hand in hers. For one who professed herself the happiest woman on earth, Mrs. Bennet wept loudly and copiously throughout the ceremony. Fortunately, Hill had tucked several extra handkerchiefs into her mistress's reticule, so Mrs. Bennet could shed all the tears of joy that she liked. Her tears, however, had not prevented Mrs. Bennet from providing a lavish wedding breakfast, with several kinds of hot and cold rolls and bread and toast, cold meat, and two wedding cakes. It was a spread sure to be talked of extensively in the neighbourhood, much of which was in attendance. An unexpected addition to the party was the cousin of the brides, Mr. Collins, and his wife. Lady Catherine de Bourgh's perturbation with the match between her nephew and Elizabeth was extreme, and Mrs. Collins had hastily suggested a visit to Lucas Lodge till the storm had blown over. They arrived in time for the wedding, and Mrs. Collins did not have to work very hard to persuade her husband to accompany her to the church, despite his patroness' disapproval. Mr. Collins mitigated the betrayal to Lady Catherine's sensibilities by taking full advantage of the excellent opportunity to lavish his attention upon Darcy. Not long before, Mr. Bennet had pointed out to his cousin that Darcy had more property, and more clerical livings, at his disposal than did his aunt. Mr. Collins had immediately perceived the wisdom of his cousin's advice and took pains to act upon it. Fortunately for Darcy, Mr. Bennet early perceived the mischief he had caused and rescued his newest son-in-law from the worst of Mr. Collins' depredations. Charlotte rejoiced in the match, especially since she had recognized Mr. Darcy's attachment long before, and was glad that her friend Eliza had finally been made to understand the advantages of it. Not having married for affection herself, she did not think it important in marriage, but saw every advantage owned by the mistress of Pemberley. Henry was pleased to see Charlotte, and more so to find her as seemingly contented with her situation as Elizabeth had claimed. She spoke with housewifely pride of her poultry and cow, and of her husband's garden, and she glowed with her pregnancy, which had reached the visible stage. When Henry spoke with her, she never showed the least symptom of having experienced an emotion toward him stronger than warm friendship. She was kind to Catherine, and the two ladies could often be found together in earnest conversation. Henry was so busy speaking with the guests at the wedding breakfast that it was some time before he noticed that Catherine had gone missing. Thinking perhaps the noise and excitement had been too much for her, Henry looked for her in their bedchamber, but it was empty. The door to his father's library was open, and he looked inside. To his surprise, Mr. Bennet and Catherine were sitting in two of the wing chairs by the fireplace. "Ah, Henry," said his father genially. "Catherine and I found ourselves in agreement that the breakfast was a terrible crush and came away for a little quiet. Will you join us?" "I would, but it is nearly time for the brides and grooms to leave. You will not want to miss them." "I am likely to miss my daughters in any event. You two will not be long behind them." He sighed. "This house will be entirely too quiet tonight." "I have never before heard you complain about too much quiet, sir," said Henry with a grin. "There is a difference between a well-ordered sort of quiet and the quiet that accompanies the absence of those you love best." "Then you must visit us at Woodston," said Catherine. "You may be sure that I shall." They all went into the passage just as Elizabeth descended the stair, dressed in an elegant traveling costume. "Oooh, Lizzy," said Catherine with a touch of envy. "That is a perfectly charming habit." "Thanks to my mother's taste," Elizabeth replied with a smile. "She insisted that Jane and I have the most fashionable clothes for traveling. I dare say that at the end of my journey, they will be as stained and dusty as anything less elegant would be." "I can never fault your mother's taste," said Mr. Bennet, taking Elizabeth's hand and smiling at her fondly. "Thank you for your generosity, Papa," said Elizabeth. "I shall be the best-dressed lady in Derbyshire!" "I am glad to do you this last service, my Lizzy. I will tell the others that you are preparing to leave," said Mr. Bennet. He went into the dining parlour, followed by Catherine, but Henry remained behind with his sister. "Well, Mrs. Darcy," said Henry. "You look very fine, indeed! Mrs. Bennet was right to outfit you so well." Elizabeth smiled up at her brother. "You are the first person to call me by my new name." "Had I known you wished it, Mrs. Darcy, I would have used it all morning," said Darcy, also dressed for traveling, as he descended the stair. "I have waited long enough to do so." "You have indeed, Mr. Darcy," said Elizabeth archly, giving him her hand. "But it is my experience that when the objects you most wish for are acquired, they are appreciated all the more. Therefore, I expect to be as well cherished and cared for as the most valuable family antique at Pemberley." "You may depend upon that, madam." Darcy lifted her hand to his lips. "We must not laugh too much at Fitzwilliam, Henry," said Elizabeth in a confiding manner. "He has not yet learnt to be laughed at. I aim to teach him, however." "You could have no better tutor," Henry assured his new brother. "Yet I already have had such fine tutelage from you, Tilney," Darcy rejoined. "I am astonished that my wife thinks I am in need of more." "You are," cried Henry and Elizabeth simultaneously, and all three laughed. "You must forgive me for indulging myself in a moment of gravity on such a joyous day," said Henry. "I have not had a moment alone with you today. I give you joy--I know you will have it; I give you whatever blessings are at the disposal of an obscure country priest; and I am very proud of you both. You have overcome pride and prejudice to be together. Your union will be the stronger for it, and your happiness the more deeply felt. God bless you." Tears sparkled in Elizabeth's eyes as she embraced Henry. Darcy shook his hand. "Will you and Catherine come to Pemberley for Christmas?" "Perhaps; though I know Catherine is looking forward to having our first Christmas at Woodston." "Then come next summer," said Elizabeth. "For a nice long visit, mind." "We will certainly come when we can. Whether the visit will be nice, however, is surely a matter of concern for the hosts, rather than the guests." Before Elizabeth could retort, Joseph, Darcy's groom, came in. "The carriage is ready, sir," he said to his master. With many embraces and tears, the newlyweds were packed into their respective vehicles and driven away. The guests went away soon after, and when they were gone, Henry and Catherine changed into their own traveling clothes and prepared to depart. The remaining members of the family dutifully trooped out to see them off. Kitty embraced them, Mary suffered herself to be kissed, and Mrs. Bennet, still in a high state of amiability from the day's events, shook hands with great cordiality. Henry expected no more from his father, who was not a demonstrative man. Mr. Bennet shook his son's hand, adding a pat on the shoulder, a show of great affection; and then to Henry's pleased surprise, he kissed Catherine and gave her a lengthy and warm embrace. "Be well, my dear," he said to her. Then they were in the post-chaise, and the postilion was guiding the horses down the drive. The ladies waved their handkerchiefs, and Mr. Bennet held up his hand in farewell, until they were lost from sight. As the chaise approached the outskirts of Woodston, Catherine leaned forward eagerly, taking in all the sights. Henry watched her indulgently; after all, it was only her second glimpse of what was to be her home. The sun shone brightly on the village as they passed through it. Several men tipped their hats as they recognized the rector, and the ladies looked curiously at his wife, whom they had waited so long to see. The chaise was through the village in a moment, past the neat houses and little chandler's shops, and then through the green gates and up the semi-circular sweep. Henry handed Catherine down as the door opened. Mrs. Dove, the housekeeper, waited in the doorway. The dogs stood on no ceremony, but came running to greet them. Bear, the Newfoundland, no longer a puppy but grown to an enormous size, romped happily around Henry's feet. Catherine scooped up "her" terrier, little Ruby Begonia, and the creature writhed with delight as her fellows, Rags and Angus, demanded equal attention. Eventually they were all in the house, and the chaise was being unloaded. Catherine set down Ruby and looked around her new domain with all the eagerness she had felt the first time she had been there but had been too conscious to show. Henry whispered something to Mrs. Dove, and she replied, "Yes, Mr. Tilney, all is in readiness." "Catherine," said Henry, turning to her with a smile, "pray step into the drawing room. There is something for you to see." Mrs. Dove looked at Catherine expectantly, and she remembered, with a blush, that this was her house, and these her servants to command. "We will have tea in the dining parlour, Dove," she said. "Some cold meat, please, or sandwiches if possible. I am sure that Mr. Tilney is hungry after our long journey." The housekeeper curtsied and said, "Yes, Mrs. Tilney." Henry watched proudly as Catherine stepped surely into her place as the mistress of Woodston parsonage. When the housekeeper was gone, he led his wife into the drawing room. Catherine gasped in surprise. The room was no longer cold and unfinished, but charmingly fitted up--indeed, fitted up precisely as she had imagined! The various shades of green in paper, upholstery, and hangings; the disposition of the furniture; it was exactly how she had pictured it! She spun around, taking it all in, silent in her mingled delight and astonishment, until she noticed a framed picture hanging on one wall. Curiosity propelled her to it, and once again she gasped in surprise. "Henry! This is Kitty's drawing!" It was the drawing of the room once executed by Kitty Bennet to Catherine's specifications. Kitty had embellished it with watercolours, Henry had it framed, and it was a charming representation of the room in which they now stood. In answer to the look of curiosity that Catherine turned upon him, Henry said, "Kitty showed me the picture, and I decided to have the room furnished accordingly as a surprise." "It is perfect!" Catherine looked at the picture again and added, "We must invite Kitty to visit us." "We will." They walked to one of the windows that went all the way to the floor and looked out at the apple trees. They had lost all their leaves, and the little cottage was visible beyond. "I am glad that it is still there," said Catherine. "It is such a very charming sight; very picturesque, do not you think?" "Indeed. I am gratified that my lectures on the picturesque have done you so much good." "Oh, they have." "Well," he said, smiling down at her, "now that the drawing room is finished, what improvement shall we plan next? For no home should be without constant improvement, and the attendant noise, dirt, and disorder." Catherine was silent for a moment; then, still looking out the window, she said, "I think we should fit up a nursery." Her words, uttered so casually, struck Henry like a blow. He said as evenly as he could, "And why do you say that, my sweet?" Catherine turned from the window and smiled. "Because if my calculations are correct, we shall have need of one come next May." Henry stared at her wonderingly. As he had thought he would, he berated himself for his blindness. Catherine's news explained so much--her indisposition, her odd behaviour. Emotions swirled within him: happiness, apprehension, astonishment, and an overwhelming urge to ride back to Longbourn and tell his father. Slowly he became aware of Catherine, still standing by the window, watching him anxiously. "Cat! My love! Here, sit down." He guided her to the sofa and pushed her down into it. She laughed up at him. "Henry! I shall not break!" "No, no, of course not." He regarded her thoughtfully. "How long have you known?" "A few weeks--since just after Lizzy got engaged." "Why did you not tell me then?" "You were so busy with the weddings and everything, the time never seemed right. I decided to wait until we were home at Woodston." "You have kept quite a secret! Have you told no one?" "Well, I wrote to Mamma when I began to suspect, you know, and told her my symptoms. She agreed that I was expecting, and send me instructions on how to reckon the date of my confinement. That day, when you surprised me in the breakfast room at Longbourn, I was performing the calculations." She blushed. "I required the almanac, you see." "I do see. But why did you not tell me then?" "I am sorry, Henry! But I was a trifle overwhelmed, you know. Even though I suspected--I could not speak of it then, I was not ready to speak of it." She looked up at him pleadingly. "Do you understand? It was so much to think about--me! A mother! Mamma says I am a sad, shatter-brained young housekeeper as it is. How am I to be a mother?" Henry squeezed her hand. "I have every confidence that you will be a fine mother, Cat. If our children inherit half your good nature and generous heart, I will consider myself blessed." She smiled. "Thank you, Henry. I really am very happy about the baby. I alternate between moments of panic and moments where I feel quite confident. Mamma says that is natural." "So your Mamma knows. Have you told anyone else?" "I told your father, just before we left Longbourn. He seemed so unhappy about Lizzy and Jane leaving home that I felt sorry for him, and wished to cheer him up." "Yet more evidence of my sweet Catherine's generosity! I dare say he was tolerably cheered?" "Oh, yes! He was very kind, and promised to visit us after the birth." She paused a moment, blushed again, and added, "I also confided in Mrs. Collins. I hope you do not mind, Henry. Actually, I asked her so many questions about her own situation that she guessed. You cannot imagine how comfortable it is to talk things over with another woman--one who truly understands." "I cannot imagine, no more than I can imagine why, in the midst of this confessional frenzy, you neglected to inform the person most intimately concerned in the business beside yourself--your own husband!" Henry was teasing her, but Catherine answered him seriously. "I wanted to tell you, but--at first, as I have already explained, I was not quite ready; then I wanted to wait until we were home. I did not want to share the news with everyone--not yet." "You cannot even be selfish when you work at it, Cat! Wishing to keep the news to yourself, you still shared it with my father--and for such generous reasons!--and Mrs. Collins. I suspect my cousin will be somewhat disconcerted by the news. If his wife has not yet told him, my father will take great pleasure in the office." Catherine looked up at him gravely. "You have not said if the news makes you happy, Henry." He smiled, sat next to her, and took her hand. "It makes me very happy. I only wish I'd known earlier so that I could have been more of a comfort to you." She returned his smile, and said, "You are always a comfort to me. More than a comfort; you know that." He kissed her hand. “My dear little Cat! How much our children shall love you! Though I suspect not nearly as much as their father does.” Mrs. Dove announced that the tea was laid out in the dining parlour. When they had refreshed themselves, Henry and Catherine went round their house hand-in-hand, planning and dreaming of a future together that would be as fine as any authoress ever provided for a hero and heroine. Continued in Next Chapter ~ Table of Contents By A Lady Comment on this story Home ~ Site Map ~ Contact Original Images and Content Copyright © 2002 by Margaret C. Sullivan. All Rights Reserved.