Chapter One #2
The church at Longbourn was small, plain, and old, its stone walls steeped in centuries of prayer, gossip, and the slight feeling of damp that afflicted every building in Hertfordshire between September and May.
The Bennets had been christened, married, and buried here for as long as anyone could remember, and a good deal longer than that, as Elizabeth well knew.
She knew because they had told her.
The resident church ghosts were among her oldest acquaintances.
Old Reverend Hackett, who had presided over the parish in the reign of King George the Second and still considered the current incumbent a dangerous radical for having once preached a sermon on charity.
Mrs Turnbull, a farmer’s wife who had died in the pew during a particularly tedious Easter sermon in 1742 and had simply never got up.
Young Thomas Briggs, dead at fourteen of a fever, who had been sweet on Elizabeth since she was twelve and still blushed, or performed whatever ghostly equivalent of blushing was available to him, whenever she walked in.
They were all present this morning. None of them could leave, of course, but Elizabeth knew they would not have missed her wedding even if they could have been elsewhere. Like the ghosts of Longbourn, they loved her, and they had been talking about little else for weeks.
Elizabeth entered the church on her father’s arm, Jane on his other side, and immediately felt the familiar press of spectral attention; a prickling along her skin, a subtle shift in the air, as though the room held more people than the eye could count.
Which, of course, it did, though only she could see them.
Jane glanced across at her, serene and radiant in a way that only Jane could manage, and squeezed their father’s arm.
Mr Bennet, escorting two daughters at once, looked as though he could not decide whether to be proud or upset, that he was losing the only two daughters with whom he considered he could have sensible conversation.
The living congregation was impressive enough.
The pews were full: the Lucases, the Phillipses, the Longs, the Gouldings, the Hursts, and many other locals Elizabeth had known her whole life, all beaming proudly at her.
Lady Matlock sat in the front pew beside Lord Matlock, her posture flawless, her expression gracious, her hat architectural.
Elizabeth had been nervous about meeting them, but the earl and countess had proved so warm, so genuinely kind, that her anxiety had melted within a quarter of an hour.
Georgiana was with them, her expression one of pure delight.
Caroline Bingley sat with the Hursts in the row behind; her gown was of such aggressive elegance that it seemed designed less to celebrate the occasion than to register a formal protest against it.
Her smile was fixed, brittle, and did not reach her eyes.
Kitty and Mary sat together with Mrs Bennet, Kitty’s eyes drifting rather more often than was strictly necessary toward Colonel Fitzwilliam, handsome in his red coat.
At the altar, two grooms waited. Bingley was beaming so broadly that he looked in danger of levitating from sheer happiness, bouncing slightly on his heels as though the effort of standing still were almost more than his good nature could bear.
And there was Darcy.
Elizabeth’s breath caught. Not dramatically, not visibly, but in the small, private way that had become habitual whenever she saw him unexpectedly.
He stood straight, his dark coat immaculate, his hands clasped behind his back.
He was watching the door, and the look on his face was so openly, unguardedly hopeful that Elizabeth felt her heart turn over.
He looked like a man who was not entirely certain this was really happening, and was bracing himself against the possibility that it might not.
Then he saw her, and his whole face changed.
She had seen Darcy smile before; rare, swift smiles that transformed his features and vanished before anyone could properly appreciate them.
But this was something else. This was joy, unmasked and undefended, directed entirely at her.
For a moment Elizabeth forgot about ghosts, secrets, the stone in her chest, and simply walked toward him.
“Took your time,” murmured Old Reverend Hackett from his customary position near the baptismal font. “The tall one’s been sweating like a sinner at Judgement Day. The ginger one’s been grinning like a fool since he arrived.”
Elizabeth pressed her lips together hard.
“Ooh, but he is handsome,” sighed Mrs Turnbull, drifting closer for a better look at Darcy. “Those shoulders! That jawline! I had a cousin who had a jawline like that, though he was considerably shorter and had a terrible squint.”
Elizabeth fixed her gaze on Darcy’s cravat and thought desperately about arithmetic.
“Ten thousand a year,” young Thomas said mournfully from somewhere near the organ. “I haven’t got ten shillings.”
“You haven’t got a pulse, Thomas,” Reverend Hackett pointed out. “Priorities, boy.”
Elizabeth bit the inside of her cheek so hard she tasted copper.
Her father glanced down at her, and she arranged her features into what she hoped was bridal serenity rather than the suppressed hysteria of a woman receiving unsolicited commentary from three dead parishioners during her own wedding ceremony.
Mr Bennet placed Jane’s hand in Bingley’s first, and Bingley received it as though he had been handed a holy relic, his face shining.
Then her father turned to Elizabeth, and placed her hand in Darcy’s.
His fingers closed around hers, warm and steady, and he squeezed once; a private communication that said more than any words the vicar was about to pronounce.
“Dearly beloved,” the vicar began, and Elizabeth gave herself over to the ancient words, to the cool stone, to the warmth of the hand holding hers.
Behind her, the ghosts settled. They were quiet now, even Mrs Turnbull, even Thomas, watching as people do who understand, perhaps better than most, that some moments are sacred.
They had watched Elizabeth grow from a startled child who could see them into the woman standing here today, and whatever she was walking toward, they would not follow. Longbourn’s dead belonged to Longbourn.
The vows were spoken twice over. Jane’s voice was soft and sure.
Bingley’s cracked on “I will”; he laughed at himself, half the congregation laughed with him, and even Darcy’s mouth twitched.
Elizabeth heard her own voice, steady and clear, making promises she meant entirely, all except one that snagged, just slightly, in her throat.
Forsaking all others. She had not forsaken the dead.
She had never been able to, and she did not know if that counted.
It was not the sort of question one could put to a vicar without inviting an uncomfortable conversation.
Darcy’s voice was low, sure, and carried a note of wonder that he did not seem to know was audible. When he said “I will,” there was something in it that went beyond the words; not rehearsed, not composed, but raw and grateful and entirely his.
The ring slid onto her finger. Cool metal, a perfect fit. His thumb brushed over her knuckle as he settled it, and warmth flooded up her arm and into her chest, displacing, for a moment at least, the weight she carried there.
“Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.”
From the congregation, Mrs Bennet produced a sob of such magnificent volume that it startled a pigeon from the rafters.
Lady Matlock, to her eternal credit, did not flinch.
Caroline Bingley’s smile had calcified into something that could have been chipped off her face with a chisel.
Georgiana Darcy was crying, though Elizabeth was sure they were tears of happiness; Colonel Fitzwilliam put his arm about her shoulders and gave her his handkerchief.
Two couples, newly wed, turned to face the congregation.
Jane was crying too, beautifully as only Jane could, and Bingley was looking at her as though the sun rose and set in her face.
Elizabeth caught Darcy’s eye and found him watching her, not the congregation; watching her as though he intended to memorise this moment down to its smallest particular.
Elizabeth Darcy, the name strange and new, stepped out of the church into the pale September sunshine, her husband’s arm beneath her hand, and did not look back.
She did not need to. She could feel them watching; Reverend Hackett standing straight, Mrs Turnbull dabbing at eyes that could not actually produce tears, Thomas raising his hand in a shy, hopeless wave.
And in the house beyond the lane, Aunt Irene sat in her chair by the cold fireplace, watching over a family that could not see her, and would not leave her post until the walls of Longbourn themselves came down.