Mr. Darcy Takes the Plunge

“Of course, sir. Your parents have already kindly requested our presence, and Owen and I are honoured to attend. Now, please excuse me. I really must continue with my duties.” 

She hurried to her office and went over the list of tasks to be accomplished before she could catch a few hours of sleep. Darcy sipped his warm drink and thought he might abscond with a scone and retire to his bedchamber. 

The workers hustled and bustled around the enormous room, nervously glanced at their young master, and wondered why, of all places, he was in their midst on the eve of his nuptials. 

Darcy’s family, friends, and fiancée were all in their beds, snoozing, snuggling, snogging, or snoring; but the young man did not want to be alone with his wayward thoughts. The servants’ chatter, however, did nothing to alleviate his torment; and he caught segments of their conversations as they scurried about the kitchen. 

“ … and where’s the tureen fer that blasted clear meat soup? What’s it called? Consummate?” 

“Nay, it’s consommé, mate.” 

“Ain’t there larger punch bowls? I thought we had a couple.” 

“They’re on the top shelf. Careful of your noggin. You don’t wanna get bonked.” 

“Ah, Susie me luv, if yer offerin’, I wouldn’t mind gettin’ boinked.” 

“Oh, shove off, Randy, and go to bed!” 

“I’ve done finished the cider, Kate. Now what should I make, luv?” 

“Lud, I can’t remember what vegetables bloody Eggleston wanted me to pick. Was it potatoes, turnip, carrots, and ravish?” 

“That’s radish, corkbrain! And if Eggy hears you, he’ll be givin’ you a headache to sleep with.” 

“Why can’t I just leave them apple cores and peelings here tonight? Them horses can wait fer a treat. It’s too bloody cold out, the stable’s too far, and I don’t want to go all the way.” 

“Oh stop bein’ such a baby, and just go do it!” 

“See this here iron pan? Keep pesterin’ me, and it and yer backside are gonna become intimate!” 

“Well, now, that’s a fine way to talk, ain’t it? You need to learn gooder social intercourse.” 

“Don’t dare touch them biscuits! I’m savin’ ‘em fer Nick, Kate.” 

“AARGH!!!” The astonished servants froze in their places and gaped as Pemberley’s heir sprang from his chair and ran out the kitchen door into the frosty night without first donning a coat. 

After cooling off in the frigid air, Darcy returned to his lonely bedchamber and attempted to get his mind out of the smutty gutter by familiarizing himself with the beautiful words he would have to repeat during the wedding ceremony. He located his well-worn Anglican Book of Common Prayer and found next to it his copy of the ‘good book’. He picked up the latter and muttered, “Better yet, I should peruse this one; there are certain passages I should know, in the biblical sense.”

The gentlemen had thought the previous evening’s female clamour was rather diverting; however, on the morning after the night before, their aching heads wished for quietude and calm. George Darcy was not suffering from the repercussions of imbibitions of spirits but rather from the spirited activity rampant in his home. A giggling bridesmaid, giggling maids, and giggling maidens joined the cacophony of yipping, yapping, and barking dogs. Shrieks of laughter followed shrieks of shock as a wet Maltese, that resembled a drowned white rat, shook itself in Georgiana’s chamber; and squeals of delight resounded as the beautiful brides presented themselves to admiring family, friends, relatives, and one another. 

Ellis Fleming, Thomas Bennet, the Earl of Matlock, and the Viscount Wentletrap were all a little worse for wear; and Mrs. Reynolds, who was already overworked, was asked to prepare a batch of her remedial elixir. Pemberley’s excellent housekeeper had not been bestowed that accolade without having earned it, and the tincture had already been brewed the evening before in anticipation of its requirement. The remedy was in the gentlemen’s hands and upset stomachs post-haste; and as the morning wore on, the men’s mental capacities proportionally increased from bags of hammers to their normal intensive intelligence. 

Mrs. Bennet had heard a new wedding rhyme that was supposed to be lucky, and she insisted her daughters and Miss Darcy should have every advantageous start to good marriages. Therefore, each bride incorporated into her preparations something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue, and a silver sixpence in her shoe. 

Georgiana proudly wore her late grandmother’s strand of lustrous pearls, and the required silver coin had been sewn into the lining of the left foot of her new pair of dainty slippers. Pretty jewelled hairpins, belonging to her mother, held her blonde tresses in place; and both her silk gown and the ring Ellis had given when he proposed were blue. 

Jane and Elizabeth wrapped delicate pieces of lace from Mrs. Bennet’s own wedding gown around their fragrant bouquets, and sixpences had been sewn into satin slippers. They donned pearl earrings borrowed from their Aunt Gardiner and blue ribbon garters. The mother of the brides watched as pretty new bonnets with lace veils were carefully placed upon her daughters’ coiffed tresses. Mrs. Bennet lovingly kissed her daughters’ cheeks and tried her best to hold back tears, to no a-veil. 

In Fitzwilliam Darcy’s dressing room he and Crispin Knott argued, as usual, over the gentleman’s attire. The elderly valet had been chastised over his choice of cravat and knot and was quite put out. “Sir, with all due respect, there is no need for such a tie-rant on your wedding day. Please stop fidgeting and allow me to finish this complicated new knot.” 

“Knott, I am the one who will actually tie the knot this afternoon. The choice is mine, and I insist upon a white silk knotted in the Oriental. Please fetch that neckcloth; and while you are at it, these trousers have been de-pleated. Please have them pressed again.” 

Behind Darcy’s back, the valet made a face and asked, “Will there be anything else, sir?” 

“Well, what do you think about the plain ivory waistcoat? I know you prefer the embroidered one; but I have a vested interest in looking my very finest today. Yes, despite your worthwhile advice, I shall wear the less fussy one.” 

Knott sighed and peevishly capitulated to his singularly fussy master. “Suit yourself, sir!”

The newest structure on the manicured grounds of the grand estate known as Pemberley was a small wooden chapel with a pretty bell tower. Its construction had been ordered immediately following London’s scandalous ball at Matlock Manor, and the local Anglican bishop had consecrated the building just days before the Darcy family returned to Derbyshire. The chapel was a freestanding edifice erected on the vast lawn near a certain seven-foot hedgerow where, one sultry summer afternoon, four handsome young men had encountered four lovely young ladies and three romances had blossomed. The estate’s staff had worked long and hard to have the place of worship prepared in time for the wedding. Hugh Wickham, Pemberley’s steward, had jokingly mentioned they were all in a steeplechase against time. 

On the morning of the wedding, the pretty little building smelled of freshly hewn timber, paint, polish, flowers, and greenery from the orangery. Chimes rang out from its gabled belfry in a most a-pealing and in-spiring manner. A young hawk sat, unnoticed, atop a nearby tree and watched as the group of finely dressed humans flocked to the chapel’s front door. 

The senior Mr. Wickham had designed, supervised, and physically worked on the construction of the little church; and because Pemberley’s exemplary steward was also an accomplished organist, he was asked to play the chapel’s small pipe organ during the wedding. Although he had a Bach-ache from so many hours of manual labour, he was honoured to provide the music for the ceremony. Through correspondence, the three brides had selected their favourite pieces from Mr. Wickham’s repertoire; and as soon as people began to file into the chapel, he performed Air on the G String. 

Miss Mary Bennet sat in the left-hand second-row pew with Lydia, Robert, and Kitty. Her youngest sister listened to the pretty piece of music for a while and then whispered, “Mary, is that song by Mozart, the opera-