Chapter Thirty-Two
The church at Meryton smelled of beeswax and roses, the familiar scents taking on new meaning as Elizabeth stood in the vestibule with her father’s arm beneath her hand. Through the open doors, she could see the church filled to capacity, every pew occupied with well-wishers.
The Bennets occupied the front pews on the left, her mother already dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief whilst simultaneously beaming with such radiant satisfaction that Elizabeth half-expected her to stand and proclaim her triumph to the assembled crowd.
Kitty and Lydia sat with unusual stillness, their behaviour remarkably restrained.
Elizabeth had seen them eyeing Colonel Fitzwilliam’s uniform with obvious appreciation as they entered, whispering to each other behind their fans, but they had settled into proper decorum once the ceremony began to draw near.
Mary sat beside them with her prayer book open, her expression showing solemn approval of the proceedings. Even she seemed caught up in the significance of the day, her usual stern piety softened into something approaching genuine pleasure.
On the right sat the Matlocks in prominent position, Lord Matlock’s austere features showing what might have been approval as he surveyed the full church, Elizabeth’s friends and neighbours all turned out in their Sunday best to see her wed.
Lady Matlock smiled warmly, her expression genuinely kind as she caught Elizabeth’s eye.
Beside them, Georgiana fairly beamed, her happiness for her brother evident in every line of her posture.
The girl’s usual shyness had been overcome by joy so profound it transformed her features.
The Gardiners sat near the front, her dear aunt and uncle. Mr. Gardiner caught her eye and nodded with quiet encouragement, his steady presence a comfort. Beside him, Mrs. Gardiner smiled with tears already gathering, her expression showing the genuine affection she had always held for her niece.
And there, scattered throughout the remaining pews, were all the familiar faces of Meryton.
The Longs and the Gouldings, Sir William Lucas holding forth despite his daughter Charlotte’s obvious attempts to quiet him.
Charlotte herself sat in prominent position beside her husband, Mr. Collins, whose obsequious expression suggested he was already planning the fawning congratulations he would offer at the wedding breakfast.
Mr. Collins and Charlotte were staying a t Lucas Lodge, of course, but Mr. Collins had attended Longbourn yesterday, his effusive expressions of delight at witnessing his patroness’s nephew’s wedding delivered with such excessive enthusiasm that Elizabeth had been driven to escape to her room to avoid prolonged exposure.
He was clearly hoping to curry favour with Darcy, to establish some connexion that might elevate his own consequence despite Lady Catherine’s conspicuous absence from the proceedings.
But Elizabeth’s attention moved inexorably to the man standing before the altar, and everything else faded to insignificance.
Darcy stood waiting for her, his dark coat impeccably tailored, his expression showing none of his usual reserve.
Instead his face was open, vulnerable in ways she had rarely seen, his eyes fixed on her with an intensity that made her breath catch.
Behind him stood Colonel Fitzwilliam, his role as groomsman apparently less important to him than the frequent glances he directed towards Jane, sitting in the Bennet pew.
This was different from London. That hasty ceremony had been spoken by an impostor whilst Elizabeth watched helplessly, trapped in Anne’s failing body. This was real. This was hers.
The organ swelled with music she had known all her life, the familiar hymn that had accompanied countless Meryton brides down this same aisle. Her father’s arm tightened beneath her hand.
“Ready, Lizzy?” Mr. Bennet asked quietly, his voice carrying emotion he rarely displayed.
“More than ready, Papa.”
They began their measured walk down the aisle.
Elizabeth was aware of the watching crowd, of her mother’s barely stifled sobs of joy, of the whispers that followed her progress.
But her focus remained on Darcy, on the way his expression transformed as she drew nearer, warmth flooding his features until he looked years younger.
When they reached the altar, Mr. Bennet placed her hand in Darcy’s with careful solemnity that suggested the moment held deep significance for him. His fingers were warm and steady, closing around hers with gentle pressure that steadied her nerves.
Mr. Bennet stepped back to join his wife, but not before catching Elizabeth’s eye one final time.
His expression showed everything words could not convey, the deepest pride and profound affection.
She saw him mouth silently, “My Lizzy,” before turning away, and felt tears threaten despite her determination to maintain composure.
The vicar began the ceremony, his voice carrying through the church with ceremonial gravity. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this Man and this Woman in Holy Matrimony.”
Elizabeth heard the words properly this time. Heard them directed at her, spoken for her benefit rather than for an impostor wearing her face. Each phrase settled into her consciousness with significance the London ceremony had lacked.
“Marriage is an honourable estate,” the vicar continued, “instituted of God in the time of man’s innocence, signifying unto us the mystical union that is betwixt Christ and his Church.”
The familiar words washed over her, beautiful in their antiquity and gravity.
Elizabeth had heard this service countless times throughout her life, had attended weddings of neighbours and distant relations where these same phrases were spoken.
But hearing them now, knowing they applied to her, transformed their meaning entirely.
“I will,” Elizabeth said when the vicar posed the question to her, and felt something settle into place in her chest. These were her words. Her vows. Spoken freely and with full understanding of what they meant, with her own voice and her own will, uncoerced and genuine.
“I, Elizabeth Bennet, take thee, Fitzwilliam Darcy, to my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I give thee my troth. ”
“Those whom God hath joined together,” the vicar proclaimed, his voice ringing with authority, “let no man put asunder.”
The ceremony complete, Darcy leaned down to kiss her with tenderness that made Elizabeth’s eyes sting with tears she refused to shed. When they drew apart, his smile was radiant, transforming his usually serious features into something approaching pure joy.
They processed back down the aisle together, Elizabeth’s hand tucked into Darcy’s elbow. The congregation rose in a rustle of fabric and murmured congratulations. Behind them, Colonel Fitzwilliam offered Jane his arm to escort her from the church.
Outside in the churchyard, well-wishers pressed forward immediately.
Elizabeth endured the attention with as much grace as she could muster, Darcy’s steady presence at her side making it bearable.
Mrs. Bennet’s voice could be heard above the general commotion, proclaiming her daughter’s excellent fortune to anyone within earshot.
“Ten thousand a year!” Mrs. Bennet was saying to Mrs. Long, her voice carrying despite her apparent attempt at discretion. “And such a fine estate in Derbyshire! My Lizzy will want for nothing, I assure you!”
Mr. Collins pushed through the crowd with determination that bordered on aggressive, his expression showing such exaggerated delight that Elizabeth braced herself for the inevitable effusiveness.
“Mrs. Darcy!” he exclaimed, bowing so deeply that Elizabeth worried he might actually topple forward.
“What felicity! What unparalleled joy to witness this most auspicious union! I am quite overcome with delight at seeing my patroness’s esteemed nephew allied with one of my own cousins, however distant the connexion may be.
Lady Catherine would be in raptures, I am certain, were circumstances not keeping her in Bath with poor Miss de Bourgh.
Though I assure you, I shall write to her immediately with a full account of the ceremony’s magnificence! ”
“How very kind of you, Mr. Collins,” Elizabeth managed, her tone suggesting the exact opposite of appreciation for this promised correspondence.
Darcy’s hand covered hers on his arm, squeezing gently in silent sympathy. “Mr. Collins,” he said with polite but firm dismissal, “you must excuse us. There are many guests waiting to offer their congratulations.”
Mr. Collins bowed again, releasing them with more flowery protestations, but Elizabeth was already moving away, grateful for Darcy’s intervention.
A figure in military dress uniform caught her attention, and Elizabeth recognised Colonel Forster from the militia approaching through the crowd. He bowed over her hand with respectful courtesy before turning to Darcy.
“Mr. Darcy, Mrs. Darcy, forgive the intrusion,” Colonel Forster said quietly, his tone suggesting the matter was of some importance despite the celebratory atmosphere.
“I did not wish to trouble you on such a happy occasion, but I thought you would want to know that Mr. Wickham has been committed to the Fleet.”
Elizabeth felt Darcy’s arm tense beneath her hand, though his expression remained carefully neutral.