Chapter 14
FOURTEEN
The small stone church was hushed as Elizabeth made her way down the aisle on her uncle’s arm.
The handful of guests rose at her entrance; the Gardiners’ children, solemn-faced in their best clothes, Georgiana and Viscount Grenville - both beaming with delight, Brigadier Fitzwilliam’s wife looking elegant beside an empty seat, and a few other Darcy’s relations whose names Elizabeth had not yet committed to memory.
But it was Darcy himself who captured and held her attention. He stood tall and straight-backed at the altar, his expression a curious mixture of awe and terror that might have amused her under different circumstances. As it was, she found it oddly comforting to know he was as nervous as she.
When she reached his side, Mr Gardiner placed her hand in Darcy’s with a squeeze that conveyed both blessing and warning. Darcy’s fingers trembled slightly against hers, another small revelation that steadied her own racing heart.
The clergyman began the service with solemnity, but Elizabeth found it difficult to focus on his words.
Her mind kept darting between the enormity of what she was undertaking and the most peculiar details like the slight asymmetry of Darcy’s cravat, suggesting he had fidgeted with it, or the faint scent of beeswax from the altar candles, or the way sunlight through the stained glass cast multicolored patterns across the stone floor.
”Dearly beloved,” the clergyman intoned, “we are gathered here…”
Elizabeth felt rather than saw Darcy’s gaze upon her. When she dared to look up, she found his dark eyes fixed on her face with an intensity that made her breath catch. The rest of the church seemed to fade around them, leaving only this moment, this connection.
”Fitzwilliam Darcy,” the clergyman’s voice broke through her reverie, “wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony?
Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live? ”
”I will,” Darcy replied, his voice steady and certain in a way that sent a curious warmth spreading through Elizabeth’s chest.
And then it was her turn.
”Elizabeth Morley, wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony?
Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honour, and keep him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live? ”
Elizabeth opened her mouth to respond, but found the words momentarily stuck in her throat. Obey him? Serve him? The vows suddenly seemed archaic and constraining, a reminder of all she had sought to avoid.
Panic fluttered in her chest. Her gaze darted to Darcy’s face, certain to find expectation or command there.
Instead, she saw only patient understanding, and something more.
A glimmer of humour in his eyes, a slight quirk at the corner of his mouth, as if he too recognised the irony of these words being applied to their most unconventional union.
The knot in her chest loosened, and suddenly, unexpectedly, Elizabeth felt the beginnings of a smile tug at her own lips.
Her eyes dropped, unthinking, to his hand, and there it was.
The simple gold band she had given him days ago, gleaming dully in the church’s half-light.
She knew what lay inside that unassuming circle of gold: égalité.
Her promise. Her challenge. The reminder that this union, for all its constraints and expectations, would belong to them alone.
This was her Darcy, who had structured the entire marriage settlement to preserve her independence. Who looked at her now not as a possession to be claimed but as a partner to be cherished.
”I will,” she said, the words coming easily now, infused with a certainty that surprised her.
The rest of the ceremony passed in a blur of ritual and response.
When the moment came to receive her ring, Darcy’s hands were perfectly steady as he slipped the band onto her finger, a simple gold circle that would identify her as his wife to the world.
She noticed the slight catch in his breath, the momentary tightening of his jaw that revealed the depth of his emotion despite his composed exterior.
”Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder. ” the clergyman declared.
And then, with a solemnity that belied the joy dancing in his eyes, he pronounced them husband and wife.
Darcy leaned forward, pressing a kiss to her gloved hand that was both proper for their surroundings and unmistakably tender.
When he drew back, the expression on his face, open, vulnerable, radiant with happiness, stole Elizabeth’s breath more effectively than any passionate embrace could have done.
”Mrs Darcy.” he murmured, a smile breaking across his features like sunrise.
Elizabeth found herself smiling back, the weight of her fears suddenly seeming distant and insubstantial. “Mr Darcy.” she replied, her tone light despite the solemnity of the occasion.
They turned to face their small gathering of witnesses, hands still joined. The faces before them reflected joy, approval, and in Brigadier Fitzwilliam’s case, barely suppressed mirth as he caught his wife’s eye and made an exaggerated gesture of wiping away a tear.
As they walked back down the aisle, Elizabeth felt the fluttering movement of her child, a butterfly-like sensation that seemed, in that moment, like a blessing on their union. Her free hand moved instinctively to her abdomen.
Darcy, ever observant, glanced down at the gesture. “All is well?” he asked quietly, concern evident in his voice.
”Perfectly well,” she assured him, allowing a genuine smile to warm her features. “Our child appears to approve of the proceedings.”
The joy that transformed Darcy’s countenance was so pure, so unguarded, that Elizabeth felt something long-frozen within her begin to thaw. Perhaps Aunt Gardiner had been right. Perhaps this marriage, whatever its origins, might yet become something precious.
As they stepped into the autumn sunlight, Brigadier Fitzwilliam was the first to approach, clasping Darcy’s hand with enthusiastic force.
”Well done, cousin!” he exclaimed. “You managed to say your vows without stammering, fainting, or spontaneously combusting from nervous tension. I consider that a triumph worthy of celebration.”
Darcy’s expression suggested he was contemplating whether fratricide would be excused on one’s wedding day, but his retort was cut short by Georgiana’s arrival, her eyes bright with tears of happiness as she embraced first her brother and then Elizabeth.
”Welcome to the family,” she whispered, her smile radiant. “Though I confess I’ve considered you a sister since Pemberley.”
Elizabeth returned the embrace, touched by the genuine warmth in Georgiana’s welcome. Before she could respond, however, the youngest of the Grenville children broke away from his mother and tugged at Darcy’s coat.
”Are you going to kiss her?” the boy demanded with the directness only a child could manage. “Mama says people kiss at weddings.”
A collective laugh rippled through the small gathering. Darcy, to Elizabeth’s surprise, knelt to address the child at eye level.
”Your mama is correct,” he said gravely. “It is customary. Would you approve of such an action?”
The boy considered this with utmost seriousness before nodding. “I suppose. But not for too long. We are meant to have cake after.”
”A reasonable stipulation,” Darcy agreed, rising to his feet. He turned to Elizabeth, his eyes dancing with more mischief than she had ever seen in them. “Mrs Darcy? Shall we adhere to custom while respecting young Master Grenville’s concern for promptness?”
And before the entire assembly, Fitzwilliam Darcy, the proud, reserved Master of Pemberley, gathered his new wife into his arms and kissed her with enough enthusiasm to bring a blush to Mrs Gardiner’s cheeks and a whoop of approval from Brigadier Fitzwilliam.
When he finally set her back on her feet, Elizabeth was laughing, her earlier fears momentarily forgotten in the simple joy of the moment.
“I believe you have scandalised half our guests,” she murmured.
”Only half?” Darcy replied, his voice low enough that only she could hear. “Then I must try harder at the wedding breakfast.”
Her laughter joined the chorus of congratulations as they made their way to the waiting carriages. She was Elizabeth Darcy now. And though the name still felt new on her tongue, the hand that held hers felt like home.
* * *
The wedding breakfast had lasted longer than either of them anticipated.
By the time they retired to their chambers at Darcy House, evening shadows stretched long across the polished floors and the distant church bells had just finished chiming nine.
Elizabeth found herself alone in an elegant bedchamber that was to be hers.
She had dismissed Molly, her maid, with minimal ceremony, preferring to ready herself for bed without assistance.
There was something liberating about undoing the buttons of her wedding gown herself, about letting her hair down with her own hands rather than submitting to another’s ministrations.
As she slipped into a simple nightgown, one she had chosen for practicality rather than seduction, Elizabeth caught sight of her reflection in the tall looking glass.
The last time she had waited in a bridal chamber, she’d been three-and-twenty and giddy with love. Thomas had seemed so charming then, so eager. She’d worn a white nightgown, virginal, delicate and felt beautiful.
Thomas had blown out the candles before approaching her bed.