Chapter 5
Chapter Five
DARCY
How on earth was this his life?
Darcy felt almost drunk—not on spirits, but on sensation: the faint aroma of lavender and roses in his nostrils, the familiar wedding service in his ears, the enormity of beauty that Elizabeth’s person granted the ceremony with her shiny, curling hair, her joyful smile, her amazing jewel-toned eyes.
And, of course, the steady warmth radiating from Elizabeth’s body, somehow reaching his skin through impediments of silk gloves, muslin gown, lawn shirt, and wool coat—
Speaking of impediments, the vicar had just said, “I require and charge you both, that if either of you know any impediment, why ye may not be lawfully joined together in Matrimony, ye do now confess it.”
Of course, neither he nor Elizabeth said anything during the vicar’s momentary pause. But from his right Darcy heard a low “meow.”
A moment of mortification occurred, and Darcy briefly closed his eyes.
It was Richard, of course, the catlike sound referencing their aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, whom they sometimes called (but always behind her back!) Lady Cat.
She would say that there were impediments, indeed, in disparity of rank and class and fortune.
But her major charge would be that he had no right to marry anyone other than her daughter Anne.
However, if Lady Catherine knew of his betrothal and wedding (which she did not), and if she really did take the time to complain (which she probably would), she would be completely wrong to do so.
There was nothing legal saying that he must marry Anne de Bourgh; neither was he bound to her by honour.
Lady Cat had begun saying, shortly after his father died, and therefore years after his mother died, that there was a “cradle betrothal” between him and Anne, but he had never heard that from anyone else, there was no indication on paper that there ever was such a betrothal, and neither he nor Anne wished for such an alliance.
Elizabeth probably felt him stiffen or saw his eyes close.
She probably did not know it was Richard who had meowed during their wedding service, and if she did, she would not have understood why—she knew nothing about his aunt’s fantasy— but she swiftly tried to comfort Darcy by giving his arm a squeeze.
He opened his eyes, smiling reassuringly at her, and they both turned their attention back to the vicar.
“Fitzwilliam George Andrew Darcy, wilt thou—”
“I object!”
Richard’s meow was nothing to this new interruption. Darcy was stunned, and he turned slowly around to see who had spoken.
The vicar had stopped, too, and Elizabeth whipped around and said, “Mr Collins, whatever can you mean to interfere in such a way?”
“There is an impediment! This man is engaged to Miss Anne de Bourgh!”
“I am not!” Darcy said. His voice was not loud, not the least bit blustering, and was drowned out by several louder voices, all of which said, “He is not!”
Darcy had seen the speaker—a man of medium height but substantial girth, a man clothed in a parson’s black cassock-like coat—and he knew that this was the heir of Longbourn that Elizabeth had told him about.
But this Mr Collins fellow was of little importance—it was Elizabeth who mattered!
He immediately swung his eyes back to his bride.
Had this lie hurt her? Was she upset, unsure—?
But she stood there, by his side, a pillar of marble in a world of shifting cobblestones.
She said, “Mr Collins, you are incorrect. Mr Darcy has been by my side since early May, and we have been formally betrothed since early August. His family is here and is able to confirm that he is not engaged to his cousin.”
Despite all the proofs that his bride was uncommonly clever, Darcy was still surprised that she had remembered the de Bourgh name of the “domineering” aunt he had referenced months ago, that she had, moreover, put it together with this outrageous claim.
His Uncle Henry stood and said, “I am the Earl of Matlock; Anne de Bourgh is my niece, and Fitzwilliam Darcy is my nephew. I can categorically state that the two are not engaged to marry, and they have never been engaged to marry.”
Aunt Helen stood as well, saying, “As the countess, I attest that my husband speaks the truth; I will further state that, not only is Fitzwilliam Darcy not betrothed to Anne de Bourgh, he has never even courted another woman, let alone become engaged to another woman, other than Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
The viscount started to stand, as well, but the vicar waved his arm as if calling a halt, and he said, “It is clear that there is no impediment; therefore, I would ask that everyone take their seats. Mr Collins, you may either take a seat and keep your mouth closed or leave the church, but this wedding will go on without further interruption. Do I make myself clear?”
Mr Collins bobbed his balding head, which had reddened from his clerical collar to the top of his crown. He took his seat, although he did not manage to do so silently, as a gulping noise escaped his lips.
As Elizabeth turned back towards the vicar, head held as high as if she was a queen, Darcy caught her eyes and mouthed the word “sorry.” Of course, she gave him a fierce frown, but she then smiled so brilliantly, he wished to bask in her light.
Instead, he listened to the vicar’s voice: “Fitzwilliam George Andrew Darcy, wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy state of Matrimony?
Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour, and keep her, in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only to her, so long as ye both shall live? ”
Darcy said, “I will.”
He did not recognise his voice. It sounded somehow both light and solid, as if his ecstasy gave it wings but his strength of commitment made it immovable. Having mixed metaphors quite drastically, he forgave himself his odd sounding voice and instead listened for Elizabeth’s.
He barely heard the vicar’s voice, although the service was certainly familiar to him.
Elizabeth was being asked to obey and serve him, but Darcy wished for none of that.
However the rest of her vows were wonderful; she was being asked to love him, to keep him in sickness and health, and to forsake all others.
Her voice rang out, the delightful contralto voice, so steady and sure: “I will.”
It was not long before he repeated the vicar’s words, all the familiar phrases—to have and to hold, for better and worse, to love and to cherish, and at the end, I plight thee my troth.
They all meant so much, and as he said them, he felt that his eyes were making love to his wife.
She repeated her portion to him, as well, including that last, important phrase, and thereto I give thee my troth.
They had been married for some time now, really, privately, for weeks and weeks, but making the promises publicly meant more than he had realised, and he felt the complete commitment he had already made somehow swell into even greater commitment.
It was impossible to be greater than complete, of course, but that was how he felt.
But…it was not yet quite complete. The vicar led him in further vows: “With this Ring, I thee wed, with my Body, I thee worship, with all my worldly Goods, I thee endow….”
As Darcy slid a gold ring onto Elizabeth’s finger, she gasped in pleasure. The ring was as smooth as any band made out of solid gold, but there were chips of diamonds, amber, and topaz all along the band, smoothed down to be flush with the gold band.
Darcy watched as Elizabeth’s eyes widened in surprise. She looked up and silently mouthed, I thee love.
The vicar kept speaking, but Elizabeth and Darcy were beyond listening to others, certainly uninterested in looking at others. After the prayers, after they were declared Man and Wife, they remained standing still, looking at one another.
Darcy felt a heavy hand on his shoulder, the tap of a cane on his leg. “Go sign the register, Darce, or it is not official,” Richard whispered.
That woke them up. They hurried to the register, signed, and watched while Richard and Jane signed as well.
Darcy heaved a sigh. It was done. They were finally wed.
He had a small surprise planned for Elizabeth, and he gave her a brief, chaste kiss while Richard, Jane, and three stragglers exited the church. He hesitated, wanting everyone outside to be ready for their egress.
“Are you well, William?” Elizabeth asked. “Should we not go….”
“Oh, yes, I am well. I just wished to savour our first few moments of wedded bliss. Now, let us go to this unwieldy wedding breakfast your mother has been working so hard on.”
He lifted his bent arm, and Elizabeth slipped her hand in to hold on, and they went out of the double doors—
And into a seeming pink-and-cream-coloured snowstorm of rose petals! Elizabeth murmured through her brilliant smile, “Autumn damask, of course,” proving to Darcy that she remembered as well as he did the time they had showered each other with Autumn damask petals in Netherfield’s rose garden.
Elizabeth’s pleasing laugh rang out as they swiftly moved through the petals and into the waiting wedding carriage.