Chapter 34 #2
Darcy drew a slow breath and passed a hand over his face.
He had not yet found the moment to inform his friend and now he questioned whether he wished to do so at all.
“No, he does not. Yesterday was consumed entirely by his explanation of how Miss Bingley came to be established in Curzon Street instead of being settled away from Town as agreed. Hurst was not inclined to indulgence, and little else was accomplished beyond disagreement.”
He paused, frustration evident despite his composure.
“Bingley leased this house originally; the Hursts remained only because he declared his intention of returning. Given the present tension between Hurst and Bingley, I doubt they will long continue under the same roof. Bingley may prefer to behave as if nothing has transpired, but Hurst is not of a disposition to forget what has been left undone. He does not so readily dismiss what he considers a failure of judgement.”
When the Netherfield party arrived at Millwood Cottage the following day, Darcy informed Elizabeth that Bingley had departed.
“He did not say where he intended to go, only that he no longer felt comfortable at Netherfield. As the rent had been paid for a twelvemonth, he told the Hursts they were welcome to remain. He, however, would remove himself. I presume he has returned to London and will stay at his club, but I cannot say with certainty.”
Elizabeth raised her brow. “Will you maintain the connexion?” she asked, as ever direct in reaching the heart of the matter.
Darcy drew a slow breath. “I do not know. He is young—but no younger than I was when the responsibility of Pemberley fell to me. I have lately observed in him a want of steadiness I did not formerly perceive. At present, I find myself more in accord with Hurst than with Bingley.” He paused.
“Still, time—and distance—may restore what familiarity once concealed.”
His words faded. For a moment, neither spoke.
“Jane declined to visit this afternoon for fear of encountering Mr Bingley again,” Elizabeth said at last. “I shall send her a note to inform her he has departed.”
Then, her expression shifted, a spark returning to her eyes.
“But,” she added, glancing upward at him with unmistakable mischief, “I suggest we slip into the garden. Surely we may find a convenient hedge behind which to conceal ourselves and indulge in a few stolen kisses.”
Darcy’s lips curved despite himself. The gravity of the morning did not wholly lift, but neither did he resist the invitation. Within moments they had escaped into the hedges, and if anyone marked their absence, none chose to remark upon it.
The morning of her wedding arrived sooner than Elizabeth had expected and still did not seem soon enough.
Although the past weeks had contained more interference and complication than she might have preferred, none of it had shaken her confidence in the choice she had made to marry Fitzwilliam Darcy.
She looked forward to quieter days ahead—days in which her happiness would require no defence and she might pass her hours in untroubled communion with her husband.
When her grandfather led her to the altar, where her intended awaited her, William met her gaze across the narrow space between them, his expression softening with a warmth that steadied her at once.
The steadiness of his expression did not conceal the warmth in his eyes, and Elizabeth felt her breath catch at what she read there. He looked not only resolute, but unmistakably eager.
The church itself seemed to recede. She was dimly aware of others nearby, of the colonel standing beside William as his witness and of Jane positioned just behind her own shoulder, yet it was William’s gaze that held her entirely.
Her smile deepened as she regarded the man who had won both her affection and her trust. Already she knew her love for him had grown beyond what it had been on the day of his proposal, and she felt certain it would deepen still further once they were alone.
The knowledge that she would soon belong to him as entirely as he belonged to her stirred something low and steady within her, lending brightness to her gaze.
Elizabeth attended to the ceremony only as much as was required, answering at the proper moments, her attention fixed upon her husband.
When his voice, low and unwavering, spoke the words, “with my body I thee worship,” a frisson passed through her, sudden and unmistakable.
The sacred promise lost none of its gravity, yet acquired in that instant a far more intimate meaning.
She felt the subtle press of his fingers about hers, deliberate and assured, and understood that he felt it too.
When it came her turn to speak, she was obliged to draw a steadying breath before repeating after the rector, a man she had known nearly her entire life.
It was impossible not to feel a trace of mortification that she should stand before him entertaining reflections decidedly less reverent than the moment demanded.
Regardless of the thoughts flooding her mind, her voice did not falter as she spoke the solemn words although it carried an emotion she could not entirely conceal.
As she formed the vows, the memory of the kisses they had already shared rose unbidden—the quiet press of his mouth upon hers, the careful restraint that had rendered each stolen moment more charged than the last.
After her Aunt Rosalind has spoken with her the night before, she knew there was far more intimacy yet to be discovered between them, and the knowledge no longer embarrassed her. It steadied her.
The recollection sent another frisson through her, swift and electric, and she became acutely aware of the way his fingers tightened about her own—firm, assured, and far less composed than his countenance suggested.
The words she spoke felt less like obligation than invitation, less like duty than promise fulfilled.
If her voice softened upon the final vow, only he appeared to notice. The look he returned was knowing and wholly unashamed, and for a fleeting instant she felt her composure tremble beneath its warmth.
Once the vows were completed, the couple knelt before the rector to have the marriage solemnised. William leant towards her and whispered so softly that only she could hear.
“Elizabeth,” he murmured, “you have no notion how long I have waited for this moment. Thank you for choosing me.”
When the rector finished, William rose first. As he helped Elizabeth to stand, his thumb moved almost imperceptibly against her glove, tightening ever so slightly.
In that slight touch she felt the full reciprocity of her own emotion, and once again she was quietly grateful that the arrangement her grandfather had once attempted had not come to pass.
All too soon, they had signed the register and moved to exit the church. William paused as they stood in the porch before stepping outside where their guests waited in cheerful anticipation, ready to see them off.
“Elizabeth,” he murmured, bending closer as though merely to adjust her shawl.
Before she could respond, he drew her gently towards him and claimed a kiss. The kiss was swift, warm, and far less restrained than propriety might have recommended. While it may have lasted no more than a heartbeat, it was unmistakably deliberate and meant as a claiming.
For an instant she forgot the church, the guests, and even the carriage beyond the doors. When he released her, his composure appeared entirely restored; hers, she suspected, was not.
It was certainly not the chaste formality expected of newly married couples within the porch of a parish church—but it was, in her estimation, perfect.