CHAPTER 49
Excellent Geography
The ring had been in his rooms since the previous evening, and Mr. Darcy had slept less for knowing it.
The jeweller had shown it to him in lamplight: a narrow gold band, newly made, set with one small diamond and two emeralds, none large enough to offend restraint, all together lovely enough to make restraint a poor defence.
Inside, where no one but Elizabeth might read it, her name had been engraved.
Elizabeth.
He had chosen the engraving before he had trusted himself to think too long upon it.
Now the box lay upon the small table near his gloves, looking far too slight to account for the disorder it had made in his thoughts. His man had set out his coat, linen, gloves, and hat with the calm of a person who had never in his life been unsettled by a ring.
“You will want the dark coat, sir?”
“Yes.”
“The new gloves?”
“Yes.”
“Travelling coat to be sent on with the trunk?”
“Yes.”
His man paused only long enough to convey that Mr. Darcy was not, perhaps, at his most expansive.
Darcy closed the ring box, opened it again, and then closed it once more before he could become ridiculous over gold and three small stones.
It was a bright late-March morning, sunny with that uncertain English generosity which made every window look hopeful and every shadow still remember winter.
The pavements below his rooms had dried in patches.
Carriage wheels struck light from the street.
Somewhere beyond the open crack of the window, a boy was calling violets with more cheer than accuracy.
Darcy put the ring into his waistcoat pocket.
It did not weigh enough.
That seemed absurd. It was only a ring, smaller than the coins he had carried carelessly for years. Yet it altered the fall of his coat, the position of his hand, the movement of his breath. He knew where it was with every step.
He had thought of bringing something from Lady Anne’s jewels, but the thought had not survived a moment’s examination.
He had no right to burden Elizabeth’s hand with family history before the family had earned the privilege of touching her.
Nor would he make the first ring he gave her an appeal to Pemberley, to his mother’s memory, or to some injured claim of inheritance.
This ring was not old. It had no witness but his choosing.
He hoped it would be enough.
His man adjusted the fall of his coat, stepped back, and said, “The carriage is ready, sir.”
Darcy nodded.
He picked up his gloves. Then, because one dignity had survived, he did not touch the ring box again.
Uncle Edward was already seated in the carriage when Darcy descended. Colonel Fitzwilliam stood beside it, looking far too awake for a man who had declared, more than once, that weddings were most usefully conducted after luncheon.
Richard looked him over, then smiled.
“Well. No one shall accuse you of levity.”
Darcy handed his hat to the footman and stepped in. “I shall try to bear the disappointment.”
Uncle Edward’s eyes rested on him with steadier kindness.
“You slept poorly.”
“I slept sufficiently.”
Richard laughed under his breath. “That is a confession in the language of the condemned.”
Darcy looked out at the street as the carriage moved.
London had chosen to be almost handsome.
Sunlight caught upon windows, wet stone, brass knockers, the pale fronts of houses.
Buds pricked at the square trees; a few had been deceived into believing spring a settled arrangement.
Women crossed pavements with light cloaks held close; gentlemen walked with the self-importance of men improved by weather they had not made.
“You are not being tried, Fitzwilliam,” said his uncle.
Darcy turned back.
“No,” he said. “That is not the form today.”
Richard’s amusement softened, though he looked away quickly, perhaps to spare him the observation.
Uncle Edward did not. “She is coming to marry you.”
“I know.”
His uncle’s expression altered only slightly. “Knowing is not always the same as believing.”
Darcy had no answer worth making.
The ring sat in his pocket. Elizabeth was coming to church.
At some point in the next hour, if all went as it ought, he would place it on her finger.
The law would speak, the church would witness, Mr. Bennet would perform his office, Mrs. Bennet would be prevented from performing several of hers, and Elizabeth would become his wife.
His wife.
The thought did not become easier by repetition.
The church stood in a street made bright by morning, its stone still cool despite the sun. The steps had been swept. A carriage drew off as they arrived; another waited its turn. Inside, the air held the faint chill of old stone, beeswax, damp wool, and flowers.
There were flowers.
Not masses of them, not anything theatrical or overheated, but spring had been admitted with judgment: narcissus, hyacinths, a few bowls of violets, pale greenery set where the eye might rest upon it without being commanded to admire.
Darcy knew without being told that Mrs. Albright had either directed it or approved it.
Even nature, in Portman Square’s orbit, seemed to understand that abundance must be governed.
The guests had already begun to gather.
Darcy saw Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner first, calm, attentive, and properly placed. Mr. Gardiner bowed with warmth but no fuss; Mrs. Gardiner looked at Darcy as if weighing whether his colour was satisfactory and deciding, charitably, not to mention it.
Bingley stood near the aisle with Jane beside him. His happiness was visible but somewhat better governed than Darcy had expected. Jane wore blue-grey ribbons and the pearl pins Elizabeth had chosen for her; her eyes were bright, but her smile was steady.
Miss Bingley stood a little behind them, perfectly dressed and perfectly observant. She inclined her head to Darcy with more respect than curiosity, which he considered a mercy.
The Bennet ladies were not dressed alike, but some common intention governed them.
Blue-grey and cream appeared in ribbons, gloves, and bonnets, softening Mrs. Bennet, giving Kitty consequence, making Lydia look almost orderly, and suiting Jane so well it seemed invented for her.
Miss Mary Bennet wore the colour with grave obedience, as if harmony were a duty she had determined to perform.
Mrs. Bennet’s bonnet was very becoming, which appeared to distress her almost as much as being managed.
Mr. Bennet stood near his wife, quieter than Darcy had ever seen him. He watched the door rather than the company. That, at least, seemed proper.
Miss Hall, Mrs. Hall, and Mrs. Belwick had taken places from which they could observe everything and approve very little too quickly.
Mr. Hartwood and Mr. Beaker were together, both dressed for solemnity, though Mr. Hartwood looked kindly enough to be mistaken for merely a wedding guest, while Mr. Beaker looked as if he had balanced the service in a ledger and found no error.
Colonel Fitzwilliam stood near Darcy without appearing to guard him. Uncle Edward placed himself on Darcy’s other side.
Darcy looked again toward the church door.
It opened.
Only then did Darcy understand the arrangement.
Her family was already seated. Her friends were already placed. Every person who might have claimed a moment of her before the service had been admitted only as witness.
Elizabeth entered with Mrs. Doddridge at her side.
She came as she had lived in Portman Square: attended, proper, and under her own command.
Her cloak was pale; beneath it, as she moved forward, he saw the ivory silk.
The gown was clear in line and restrained in ornament, the lace fine where the light caught it, the whole of it simple only to those who did not understand what restraint could cost. She did not look like Mrs. Marwood’s heiress, though nothing in her denied it.
She did not look like Longbourn’s daughter, though her family sat in evidence.
She looked like herself, made visible without apology.
Darcy’s hand closed once at his side.
Mrs. Doddridge walked beside her with perfect composure. If she felt the weight of the moment, she carried it as she carried Elizabeth’s propriety and half the household’s secrets: firmly, plainly, and without inviting comment.
Elizabeth’s eyes found him.
She smiled.
It was not large. It was not meant for the church, the guests, the Bennets, or the record of the day. It was only enough to alter the air between them.
Mr. Bennet rose when required. He did not hurry toward her. Perhaps he had been instructed. Perhaps, for once, he understood without instruction. He met Elizabeth near the proper place and offered his arm with a seriousness that gave the gesture more dignity than Darcy had expected of him.
Elizabeth accepted it.
When Mr. Bennet placed her hand where it must be placed, he looked once at Darcy.
There was less play in his eyes than usual. “She is not easily persuaded, sir.”
“No,” said Darcy quietly.
“Remember it.”
“I shall.”
Mr. Bennet gave a small nod and stepped back.
The service began.
Darcy had stood in courts, chambers, rooms of accusation, rooms of negotiation, and once before his father with the whole future of his life collapsing in a silence neither man had known how to break.
None of them had prepared him for the difficulty of answering plainly when happiness itself stood beside him in ivory silk.
His voice did not fail. This surprised him.
Elizabeth’s hand was steady. That did not surprise him at all.
He heard the words, though not all of them in order.
He heard his own name and hers. He heard promise made lawful.
He heard the small rustle of Mrs. Bennet’s handkerchief and the even smaller corrective movement from Mrs. Gardiner beside her.
He heard Richard draw breath once behind him, as if the moment had caught him unawares despite every effort to remain amused by it.
He heard Uncle Edward say nothing at all, which was somehow more affecting.
Then came the ring.