Chapter 3 #2
Then the vicar was pronouncing them man and wife, and Mr. Darcy—no, Fitzwilliam, she supposed she should call him now, though the name felt foreign on her tongue—was bending to place a brief kiss upon her lips, the barest brushing of warm flesh that nonetheless caused her heart to leap traitorously.
It was done. She was Elizabeth Darcy, bound in the eyes of God and society to this proud, enigmatic man who now possessed legal authority over her person, her property, and her future.
The receiving line afterward was a torture of gossip-hungry well-wishers.
Elizabeth maintained her composure through her mother’s effusive tears, Mr. Bingley’s mien of determined optimism, and Sir William’s obsequious congratulations.
Through it all, Mr. Darcy stood beside her, a solid presence that radiated tension but also, unexpectedly, support.
When Mrs. Long made a pointed reference to the “unusually swift courtship,” it was Darcy who responded with cold civility before Elizabeth could formulate a retort.
“Mrs. Darcy and I recognized our compatibility without need for prolonged formalities,” he said, his tone discouraging further comment. His hand came to rest at the small of Elizabeth’s back, a proprietary gesture that nonetheless provided reassurance.
Properly chastened, Mrs. Long regained her silence, along with a tight smile, and the matter was closed.
The brief wedding breakfast that followed at Longbourn was mercifully short. Elizabeth picked at the food on her plate, too conscious of her new husband seated beside her and the journey awaiting them afterward. London. His house.
Their marriage bed.
The thought sent a flush of heat to her cheeks that had nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with the memory of his intense gaze during their vows.
However much she might mistrust his motives or resent their circumstances, Elizabeth could not deny that Fitzwilliam Darcy affected her physically.
“Elizabeth.” His voice startled her from her thoughts. “If you have finished, the carriage is prepared. We should depart soon to reach London before nightfall.”
She nodded, not trusting her voice, and rose to make her farewells.
Jane embraced her tightly, whispering reassurances in her ear.
Her father’s hug was brief but heartfelt.
Her mother alternated between tears of joy at having a daughter so advantageously matched and distress at losing her.
Her younger sisters seemed caught between envy and awe.
Then she was being handed into the luxurious interior of Darcy’s traveling carriage, the finest conveyance she had ever occupied, with cushioned leather seats and curtained windows.
Mr. Darcy followed, settling himself opposite her as the door closed, sealing them in privacy as the carriage began to move.
Elizabeth gazed out the window at Longbourn retreating behind them, her childhood home growing smaller until it disappeared around a bend in the road. When she turned back, she found her husband watching her, his expression unreadable.
“Are you comfortable?” he asked.
“Yes, thank you.” She smoothed her skirts, searching for something appropriate to say. “Your carriage is very fine.”
“It is designed for comfort during long journeys.”
Silence fell between them, thick with unspoken thoughts. Elizabeth searched for a neutral topic of conversation.
“I thank you for the book,” she said finally. “It was... thoughtful.”
Darcy inclined his head. “I recalled your mention of Wollstonecraft during our conversation in the cottage. I thought you might appreciate continuing your study of her work.”
Elizabeth recalled their conversation. He had been listening to her, not merely enduring her opinions as she had assumed.
He glanced out the window for a moment. “I hope you will find the library at my London house sufficient for your interests. It is not as extensive as Pemberley’s collection, but it contains a fair selection of works on various subjects.”
“You are very generous,” Elizabeth said, uncertain whether she was referring to the library or his general treatment of her.
“It is not generosity to provide one’s wife with reading material,” Darcy replied, his tone sharpening slightly. “It is a simple recognition of your intelligence and interests.”
The statement, delivered with such matter-of-fact certainty, caught Elizabeth off-guard. Here was evidence again that he had indeed paid attention to her character, beyond what necessity demanded.
“Most men would not consider a woman’s intellectual pursuits worthy of accommodation,” she said carefully.
“I am not most men.” His gaze was direct, challenging. “And you, Elizabeth, are not most women.”
The use of her given name, spoken in that deep voice with an undercurrent of something she could not identify, sent another unwelcome flutter through her midsection.
“No,” she agreed softly. “I suppose we are neither of us quite ordinary.”
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “On that, at least, we are agreed.”
The carriage hit a rough patch in the road, jostling them. Elizabeth gripped the seat to steady herself, and for a brief moment, Darcy’s hand covered hers, warm and solid. He withdrew it almost immediately, but the brief contact lingered like a physical imprint on her skin.
The journey continued mostly in silence after that, interrupted by occasional comments about the passing scenery or brief stops to change horses.
As the rural landscape gave way to increasingly urban surroundings, Elizabeth felt anxiety building within her.
By the time they crossed into London proper several hours later, her hands were clenched tightly in her lap.
Darcy noticed her tension. “Have you visited London before?”
“Only briefly,” she admitted. “My aunt and uncle Gardiner live in Cheapside. I stayed with them for a fortnight last winter.”
If he disapproved of her connection to trade, he gave no sign of it. “London can be overwhelming initially. I maintain a relatively modest household in town compared to some of my acquaintance.”
Elizabeth nearly laughed at the idea that anything Darcy considered “modest” could be anything but opulent by her standards. Before she could respond, the carriage turned onto a wide street lined with elegant townhouses and slowed to a stop before one of the largest.
Light spilled from the windows onto the darkening street, and as the carriage door opened, Elizabeth saw a row of servants assembled on the steps to greet their master and his new bride.
“Welcome to your London home, Mrs. Darcy,” her husband said quietly, offering his hand to assist her from the carriage.
As Elizabeth placed her fingers in his, she was struck by the significance of this moment, the threshold of her new life.
Whatever Mr. Darcy’s true motives for marrying her, whatever future awaited them beyond this elegant facade, one thing was certain: from this moment forward, nothing would ever be the same.
With a deep breath, she stepped from the carriage to face her future as mistress of a world she had never imagined entering—and as wife to a man whose heart and secrets remained unknown to her.