Chapter 31 Married, At Last
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
MARRIED, AT LAST
The morning of the fifteenth of January dawned cold and still.
A light rain had fallen before sunrise, but not enough to cause inconvenience to anyone who would attend the wedding.
Elizabeth awoke before anyone else in the house and spent several quiet minutes watching the pale light spread across the winter sky before rising to dress.
A soft knock at the door announced her Aunt Gardiner—a welcome visitor, for Elizabeth had been rather unsettled since the previous evening.
Her mother had joined her before bed and, with much awkward delicacy, attempted to explain certain marital duties.
The effort had left Elizabeth with more confusion than enlightenment, and she was grateful now for her aunt’s sensible presence.
Mrs Gardiner, perceiving her niece's discomfort and having known of her sister's intentions the night before, smiled kindly. “You look as though sleep did not find you easily, my dear. Tell me—was your mother’s conversation last night as alarming as I suspect?”
Elizabeth could not help laughing. “Alarming, no—though I fear it was not particularly instructive either.”
Her aunt chuckled softly. “Then perhaps I might supply what she could not—though I promise to do so with far less drama. We shall have a little talk before your sisters arrive and the maid brings tea.”
Relief warmed Elizabeth’s heart. “I should like that very much, Aunt.”
“Would you prefer to ask questions, or shall I tell you what to expect?” Mrs Gardiner asked gently.
Elizabeth felt her cheeks warm. “I do not even know what questions to ask,” she admitted. “Mr Darcy has kissed me a few times, and I confess that one or two of those were perhaps more… enthusiastic than propriety might approve. But we have never—” She broke off, blushing furiously.
Mrs Gardiner smiled with quiet understanding.
“That is as it should be, my dear. There is no shame in your ignorance; such things are not spoken of openly even among engaged couples. But there is also nothing to fear. Intimacy in marriage, when founded on affection and respect—as yours surely is—need not be something to dread.”
Elizabeth drew a slow breath, her heart still fluttering furiously in her breast. “Mama spoke as though I should prepare myself for great suffering and duty—told me to lie still and think of England—and yet, you make it sound as if it could be almost… pleasant.”
Her aunt’s expression softened further. “It can be very pleasant indeed with the right man. Your husband will learn your comfort as you learn his. The key, my dear, is tenderness and trust. The two of you will come to know one another intimately, and very soon, far better than anyone else in the world. You once told me that friendship had grown between you, and I cannot imagine a better foundation for marriage.”
Elizabeth’s blush deepened, a smile tugging at her lips. “I cannot imagine William being anything less than patient. He is far more careful of my comfort than I sometimes deserve. We have spoken a little of such matters, and he has never—has never—” She faltered, unable to finish.
Mrs Gardiner gave her niece’s hand a gentle squeeze. “Then you will do very well, I think. These things are learnt together, not taught. When affection and respect already exist, the rest will come naturally.”
A sound in the corridor made them both glance towards the door. Mrs Gardiner smiled knowingly. “Now, you must begin preparing for the day. You have a long morning ahead—and I daresay your sisters and mother will soon fill this room with enough noise to drive away all thoughts of tonight.”
Elizabeth laughed softly, the last of her nerves easing. “Thank you, Aunt. I do trust William—and knowing that we have built a solid foundation as friends since November comforts me more than I can say.”
Mrs Gardiner rose and adjusted Elizabeth’s shawl with a fond touch. “Good. Hold to that, my dear. Friendship and trust—those are what make a marriage strong.”
Elizabeth nodded, her smile lingering as her aunt withdrew.
For a moment she remained by the window, watching the pale morning light spill across the garden, and thought how strange it was that in just a few hours she would be Mrs Darcy.
The thought, far from daunting her, filled her with a quiet, steady joy.
As expected, the preparations of that morning passed swiftly, and before long Elizabeth found herself stepping into the carriage with her father and Mary. Her mother and the rest of her sisters, along with her aunt and uncle, had already gone ahead to the church.
The short drive seemed both endless and fleeting. Elizabeth spoke little, her thoughts fixed upon the ceremony soon to come—each turn of the wheels bringing her nearer to the moment that would unite her life with Mr Darcy’s.
Elizabeth’s pulse quickened as the carriage neared the church despite her efforts to appear composed. Beside her, Mary reached across and took her hand, giving it a gentle, reassuring squeeze.
“You are very calm,” her sister observed with a gentle smile. “Far calmer than I should be, were it my own wedding day.”
Elizabeth returned her sister’s smile, her eyes bright with anticipation. “Perhaps it is not calmness you see, but eagerness,” she said softly. “How could I be anything but happy when I am to marry a man who has become my dearest friend? No, Mary, what you see is anticipation.”
Mary’s eyes glistened with unshed tears. “You deserve every happiness, my dear sister. I can think of no one more worthy of you. Mr Darcy has proven himself to be a very good man.”
Mr Bennet gave a soft chuckle. “Well, my Lizzy, it is far too late to change your mind now. However, I would be tempted to hide you away if you only said the word.”
Mary laughed quietly, and Elizabeth joined her, her heart light. The familiar teasing only added to her happiness. She would miss her family, but she was looking forward to marrying her William more.
When the church came into view, her breath caught, her joy so full that it escaped her in a soft, incredulous laugh. Her heart fluttered as her father helped her alight from the carriage.
The moment she stepped inside, Elizabeth’s eyes were drawn at once to the front—to him.
Darcy stood near the altar, tall and composed, and she thought she detected the slightest tension in his stance; as soon as their eyes met, his expression softened. The look he gave her—so full of warmth and certainty—made her chest tighten with emotion.
In that instant, all the bustle and chatter faded away. The world seemed to narrow to the two of them, and Elizabeth knew—without the smallest shadow of doubt—that she was walking towards her truest friend.
Her father offered his arm. “Shall we, my dear?”
Elizabeth’s smile was radiant. “Yes, Papa.”
With that, she began her walk down the aisle—her heart full, her steps sure, her future waiting at the end.
From his place at the front of the church, Darcy stood motionless, his hands clasped behind his back to still their faint tremor. He was not nervous, but keenly impatient, in a manner that made every moment stretch unbearably.
A soft stir from the vestibule drew his attention. He turned towards the door—and then he saw her.
Elizabeth entered on her father’s arm, the faintest blush colouring her cheeks as she gazed at him.
Light from the windows caught the soft curve of her face, the chestnut glint in her hair.
Darcy drew a slow breath, scarcely aware he had done so.
Every thought, every doubt that had ever plagued him proved inconsequential in that moment.
How could he have ever believed her beneath him, that she was unsuitable for him? The memory of that proud, misguided man seemed to have existed in another life entirely. What stood before him now was all he had ever hoped for and far more than he deserved.
As she approached, her eyes met his, and the world narrowed to that single, steady gaze. She smiled—just a little—and the tremor in his hands ceased entirely.
When she reached him, he bowed to her father before taking her hand. It trembled faintly in his own, but the warmth of it was enough to steady him.
The vicar began to speak, but Darcy barely heard the opening words. Soon he focused, and hearing the familiar words of the marriage ceremony spoken aloud with her hand in his, gave them a weight and sanctity that humbled him utterly.
When his turn came, his voice was low but unwavering. “I, Fitzwilliam Darcy, take thee, Elizabeth Bennet, to be my wedded wife…”
He felt her hand tighten in his as she repeated her vows, her voice clear and steady.
In the times since their courtship, she had become his dearest friend, his equal, his heart’s peace—and now she was his. His wife.
Darcy drew a slow breath, allowing the truth of it to sink into his mind, his heart, his very soul.
He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the rector’s solemn words wash over him.
When he opened them again, Elizabeth was smiling up at him, radiant and sure, and he knew—utterly and completely—that every trial, every moment of pride and pain, had led to this. To her. To them.
In a daze of wonder, he moved with her still on his arm to sign the register, scarcely believing that what he had longed for was finally his. They made their way outside, and boarded the waiting carriage.
Darcy took the purse of coins his coachman handed him, and as the carriage rolled away, he tossed the contents high so that the coins scattered across the drive, clinking brightly against the cobblestones.
Cheers rose from the gathered servants and onlookers, particularly the children, their eager hands darting to collect the silver as it gleamed in the morning light.