Waiting to leg-shackle the disgraced couple upon their return were Mr. Hugh Wickham, Mr. Bartlett Piers, and the Reverend Mr. Wingrave; the parson’s mousetrap was to clamp down on Caroline and George in a pretty little chapel in Lambton the following evening. 

With money provided by her outraged uncle, the uneasy bride, in company with the parson’s wife, went shopping the next morning in the small market town for a new dress to wear at her impromptu wedding. Caroline Bingley was in a daze and hardly noticed the pretty ivory gown with palest of blue pinstripes. It was the only readily available option in her size; and the young woman knew she would probably never don it again, for it just did not have enough vibrancy for her taste. Mrs. Wingrave thought the frock was quite fetching and said, “Miss Bingley, orange you glad you could not squash yourself into that appalling pumpkin-pigmented garment? Who on earth would have the ghastly fashion sense and audacity to wear such a horrid hue?” The older woman was mortified to realize her companion was, in fact, already attired in an atrocious carroty creation. 

At the chapel later that same evening while waiting for the menfolk, Mrs. Wingrave could not help but notice the bride was extremely fretful. Earlier in the day, the clergyman’s wife had the onerous task of explaining certain aspects of married life to the unfortunate, motherless bride. However, the matron correctly assumed Miss Bingley’s apprehension was unrelated to that awkward conversation. 

When asked the reason for her anxiety, Miss Bingley said, “This is all very sudden. I … am … ” Caroline had begun to worry she was about to become a tenant for life with a loose fish. While shopping, she had overheard whispered remarks about George Wickham being quite the rake. Unwilling to admit to Mrs. Wingrave, or herself, that she had possibly made a very grave mistake, Caroline raised her chin and voiced a totally different concern, “I am afraid I will not remember what to do during the ceremony.” 

“Ah. Well, my dear, it is very simple. You only need remember three things. First is the aisle you will have to walk down; second is the altar where your groom will be waiting; and third is the hymn we will sing during the service.” Miss Bingley nervously gulped and nodded her head in understanding. 

When everyone was finally in place, the ceremony commenced. Armin-arm with her uncle, Caroline stared straight ahead and softly repeated the three words she needed to remember. As she approached the petrified groom, he was horrified to hear, “Aisle-altar-hymn. Aisle-alter-him. I’ll-alter-him.” On the other hand, the rest of the tiny congregation hoped it just might be possible. 

It was done. Caroline Bingley became Mrs. George Wickham during a wedding ceremony conducted by candlelight. Unfortunately, their passion burned for only a wick. In spite of that, with her marriage Caroline got a new name and a-dress. She should have been pleased by the fact her new address was a cottage on a three-hundred-foot cliff at the very edge of Pemberley’s border; and perhaps Caroline was content, or it might have been a big bluff. Regardless, one thing was certain … the Wickhams were a fastidious couple. He was fast, and she was tedious. 

Any thought of those two actually reproducing would be almost unbearable and rather inconceivable; so, fortunately for the world, Caroline proved to be quite impregnable. Mr. and Mrs. George Wickham remained childless and childish. Of course, people may only be young once; but they can be immature forever.

While Jane and Elizabeth shopped with their mother and Mrs. Gardiner, Darcy had arrived at the Bennet townhouse and was directed by Baines to the sitting room to await Elizabeth’s imminent return. Mr. Bennet read the newspaper while his two youngest children sat on the floor, under the watchful eye of Miss Edwards, the governess. Lydia played with her favourite porcelain doll, Miss Michelle, which Robert’s tin soldier was persistently attempting to engage in a kiss. 

“Papa, please tell Robert to stop. Mish does not care to be kissed. Gag a maggot, boys are icky!” 

“You keep on believing that for another fifteen years or so, Lydia. However, I highly doubt your eldest sister would agree with you about kissing a soldier. I am reasonably certain Jane does not consider Colonel Fitzwilliam the least bit icky. Robert, leave Miss Mish alone.” 

Darcy was more often at the Bennet home than his own and was already considered another member of the family rather than a visitor. Mr. Bennet nodded as the young man entered the room and picked up a discarded section of the newspaper. Cato the Philoso-fur immediately leapt onto his lap, and Darcy stroked its gingery coat as he perused the articles. After a few moments he commented, “I see the Prince Regent has coined a new phrase. Whenever someone curses luridly, ‘Prinny’ says, ‘He swears like Lady Lade.’ I daresay Lady Letitia Derby’s profanity could not hold a candle to my aunt, Lady Catherine der Bug … I mean de Bourgh. Her long-winded cusses would make a sailor blush.” 

Prissy and missish Miss Catherine entered the room, frowned with reproof at the mention of bad language, curtsied to Mr. Darcy, and then said to her sister, “Lydia, as requested, I have done a reproof, edited, and written out a good copy of the foolish folly you and Robert composed.” 

Mr. Bennet put down his Morning Chronicle and reached for the handwritten sheets containing the story, which was titled The Hanson Barberin. The tale was inspired by Robert Bennet and composed in collaboration with his precocious seven-year-old sister, Miss Lydia. The anecdote was then edited by strait-laced one-and-ten-year-old Miss Kitty, who somehow missed expurgating a certain section pertaining to where a young lady was kissed. Their father settled back in his chair, adjusted his spectacles, and began to read aloud:

“Once upon a time there was a handsome barbarian. A barbarian is a barber who works in a library. His name was Mister Daresay because he always said, ‘I daresay’. Mr. Daresay loved books. He slept between the covers, wore a dust-jacket, ate from a bookplate, and put a bookworm on his hook when he went fishing. One day his dog-eared hound, Mythter E. Tail, started to eat a spine-chilling mystery novel; and Mr. Daresay had to take the words right out of his mouth.

Mr. Daresay did his barbering in the library. He shaved and cut hair for lots of customers who were aristocrats. The library had more nobles than the royal court because of all the titles.

Mr. Daresay had a good friend who was a Knight. Sir Cular wrote handbills for Mr. Daresay’s excellent barbering. Whenever Sir Cular read a book from Mr. Daresay’s library, his Page was always at his side. Sir Cular had a sister, Miss Bizzy Lennet. Mr. Daresay and Miss Lennet loved one another very much. One day the handsome barbarian got all gooshy and kissed her in a very private place.