Chapter 30
Everything was still.
The faint scent of beeswax and evergreen hung in the air, mingling with the cold breath of early spring that crept in through the old stone walls. The morning sunlight, pale and new, streamed through the high windows, striking motes of dust into gold.
Darcy stood near the altar of the Longbourn chapel, his gloved hands clasped before him, and tried to steady the rhythm of his heart.
He had imagined this day a hundred times since his return to Hertfordshire, yet the reality felt nothing like those dreams. There was no grandeur, no sweeping joy—only a quiet certainty that reached down into his very soul.
The pews were filling slowly. A few familiar voices murmured, the rustle of muslin and the scrape of shoes echoing faintly on the flagstones. He scarcely noticed them. His thoughts were turned inward—toward the woman who would soon walk through that door.
Elizabeth.
Even now, her name held a power over him that no title or fortune could rival. She had been the cause of his greatest despair, and the source of his salvation. Because of her, he had learned to live.
He glanced toward the window, where the light struck the frost upon the glass. In the shimmer, he thought of another cold morning—a stream bordered by birch trees, her breath misting in the air, her hand reaching for his.
So much had changed since then. The ache of doubt had been replaced by peace. The world felt new, yet familiar, as though he had been allowed to live it properly at last.
He could still remember that Christmas day with startling clarity. Their arrival back at Hunsford, arm in arm, had sent ripples through the quiet parsonage like a stone through still water.
Mrs. Collins had recovered first, her practical nature swiftly overcoming surprise.
After a single, startled gasp, she had smiled and offered sincere congratulations.
Mr. Collins, however, had not borne the revelation with such composure.
He had gone quite white, stammered something about Miss de Bourgh, and sunk heavily into the nearest chair, fanning himself with a handkerchief.
When speech returned, it came in a torrent—his patroness’ certain fury, the ruin of his own good name, the inconceivable audacity of such an engagement.
Darcy had endured it in silence for perhaps a minute before advising the man, with as much restraint as he could muster, to hold his tongue—or have it held for him.
Unfortunately, the fool’s predictions of Lady Catherine’s reaction had been underestimated.
Her outrage, when she learned of the engagement two hours after her parson did, had made even Collins’ theatrics appear mild.
The memory of her voice still rang sharp in his mind—every syllable dripping with disbelief and condemnation.
Her fury had been such that, for his own composure’s sake, he had been compelled to quit Rosings altogether.
Yet in a strange way, he owed her for that. For it allowed him to escort Elizabeth home to Longbourn without delay, there to seek her father’s permission properly.
The recollection of Elizabeth’s parents’ astonishment nearly drew a chuckle from him. Mr. Bennet’s shock, Mrs. Bennet’s absolute silence—he doubted he would ever see their like again. It was, he reflected, quite possibly the only time in Mrs. Bennet’s life that words had entirely failed her.
Mr. Bennet, suspecting some elaborate jest, had refused to take the matter seriously at first. It had taken Elizabeth the better part of an hour to persuade him otherwise—and longer still to secure his blessing.
Darcy’s grin deepened as he recalled her final argument: her declaration that, should her father persist in denying her, she would tell her mother at once that he had refused a husband with ten thousand a year and then run away to Gretna Green—leaving him to bear both his wife’s wrath and the loss of his most sensible daughter.
Even now, the memory made his chest tighten with affection and amusement. How clever she was. How impossible not to love.
With effort, he forced the smile from his lips; it would hardly do to be caught grinning for no reason before the altar.
He smoothed a hand down his coat sleeve, scarcely believing the steadiness of it. He had thought once that this moment would never come, that she would never look upon him with anything but disdain. Yet here he stood, waiting for her.
The murmur of conversation quieted. Somewhere near the back, the door opened, and a breath of cold air drifted through the church.
He turned.
And all thought fled.
Elizabeth entered upon her father’s arm, radiant and serene, and Darcy’s breath stopped in his throat. The world and every sound in it seemed to fall away. There was only her—the living embodiment of every dream he had once dared to wish.
∞∞∞
Two hours later, Darcy found himself leaning back in his chair, his gaze drifting over the guests who had gathered at Longbourn for the wedding breakfast.
Across the room, Bingley was chuckling at something Jane Bennet had said. The sight of them together drew an involuntary smile from him; it was impossible not to be pleased by their happiness.
Although we must deal with my aunts and uncle, he thought to himself wryly, there are at least some good things about being back in our own world.
At Jane’s side, Mrs. Bennet was talking animatedly with the Gardiners, who had travelled from London for the occasion—even though they had only recently been at Longbourn for Christmas.
He had not yet spoken much with them, but he looked forward to the opportunity.
They seemed every bit as kind and sensible as they had been in that other life.
He let his eyes move around the table. Georgiana was there, bright and composed, listening to something Richard was saying. Her laughter rang out—light, unburdened—and his chest tightened with gratitude. She was free. Wickham was nothing more than a distant memory.
Darcy had seen to that.
As soon as he could tear himself from Elizabeth’s side at Longbourn, he had written an express to his man of business in London, as well as another to his steward at Pemberley, ordering them to gather every note and obligation bearing Wickham’s name.
Those, combined with the debts he had already incurred in Meryton—debts Darcy had settled in full, though not the soldiers’ debts of honor, which were their own doing—were sufficient to see him confined to the debtor’s prison for the remainder of his life.
Even so, Darcy had to remind himself that this Wickham was not that Wickham, and it would be unjust to punish a man for sins he had not committed. But the knowledge did little to ease the instinctive bitterness that name still evoked, and Darcy determined to not allow the man free of his prison.
At least Georgiana was safe now, and Richard greeted him with the open affection of family. The sight of his cousin’s good-humored smile and his sister’s easy contentment as they spoke with Elizabeth filled Darcy with a quiet peace unlike any he had ever known.
Not long later, a gentle touch drew him from his thoughts. Elizabeth’s hand rested lightly on his arm.
“Are you ready, my love?” she asked, her bright eyes lifting to his with that look that never failed to steady him.
He looked down at her, and the corner of his eye caught the glint of light upon her ring.
The finger that had once borne a fragile snowdrop now shone with a band of white diamonds and small emeralds—designed to echo the bloom itself.
He had commissioned it himself especially for her, using stones repurposed from pieces among the Darcy family jewels.
“Quite ready,” he told her, covering his hand with her own.
Together they made their farewells, and within minutes, they were seated in the waiting carriage.
The coachman called to the horses, and the wheels began to turn, carrying them away from Longbourn toward London, where they would spend their wedding night—as well as a few quiet weeks before going on to Pemberley, where Richard would deliver Georgiana to them.
“Are you excited to see Darcy House properly?” he teased, glancing down at her. “I am amazed you even agreed to spend time there after seeing it in such a state before.”
She laughed, her eyes bright with mischief. “As long as the bank does not attempt to take possession of it, I shall be quite content.”
He chuckled and leaned in to kiss her, one hand rising to cup her cheek—
A pointed cough stopped him short.
They both turned sharply.
Across from them, lounging with infuriating nonchalance, sat the fae. His eyes gleamed with mirth.
“My apologies for interrupting,” he said, his grin far too knowing. “I merely wished to discover whether you were content with having been returned. Tell me, Mr. Darcy—do you still wish you had never been born?”
Darcy stared, caught between outrage and disbelief. “Most certainly not,” he said vehemently.
The fae’s smirk deepened. “Excellent. Then my work here is done.” He inclined his head with exaggerated grace. “My congratulations upon your nuptials—and I wish you as many happy Christmases together as you desire. Now—” he gave a languid flick of his fingers— “as you were.”
With a faint shimmer of light, he vanished.
Darcy and Elizabeth gaped at the empty seat. For several seconds neither spoke. Then Elizabeth gave a soft, incredulous laugh.
“Well,” she said at last, “if we are indeed losing our minds, at least we are doing so together.”
Her laughter—bright and unguarded—filled the carriage, and the sight of her sparkling eyes and the curve of her smile drew him in once more. He leaned closer, his voice low and warm.
“He did tell us to continue as we were,” he murmured.
She tilted her face toward his, her answering smile trembling against his lips as he kissed her. Her hands slid into his hair, and his arms drew her closer. The kiss deepened, unhurried but full of promise, the soft thrum of the wheels beneath them like a heartbeat.
There was nothing to stop them now—nothing but the narrow confines of the carriage and the few miles that remained between them and London. Soon they would be at Darcy House; soon there would be no interruptions, no separations—nothing between them but love.
When at last they parted, foreheads resting together, he let out a quiet breath that was almost a laugh. How strange that a single wish, once born of despair, had brought him here—to this life, this moment, this woman.
He closed his eyes and whispered against her temple, his heart full to overflowing.
“I am so very glad,” he said, “that I was born to love you, Elizabeth Bennet.”
“Elizabeth Darcy,” she corrected him with a smile, “unless you are already regretting your choice.”
“Not a chance,” he murmured, once again claiming her lips with his own.
Her new name sounded like a promise, bright and enduring—and in that quiet, perfect moment, he knew just how much of a difference a Darcy could make.