Chapter 14
Fourteen
Elizabeth smoothed the pale yellow silk of her wedding dress, smiling to herself as she imagined how Fitzwilliam’s eyes would glow when he saw it.
She contemplated how he would view her hair, remembering her own satisfaction as she had seen in the mirror the style on which Jane and Mary had worked so hard.
Fitzwilliam had told her she was beautiful so many times, she believed that he believed it.
However, she had grown up with so many messages that she was not one of the pretty Bennets, that her features were too pointy, that she was too short, that her bust was too big for her body to look well in clothes—and she found it quite hard to believe that someone who was not in love with her would find her beautiful.
But somehow, in this dress, on this day, with seed pearls woven into her hair, and a single, perfect pearl on a diamond necklace—a piece of the Darcy family jewels—she finally believed that she could be beautiful.
“Your flowers, Lizzy,” Jane said, hurrying from the carriages to give her the flowers she had requested from Netherfield Park’s conservatory.
Elizabeth gasped in pleasure as she saw—and smelt—the blossoms. A late November wedding meant no wildflowers—which were her favourites—but she had chosen heliotrope for Great Devotion, red roses for Ardent Love, and cream-coloured and pink camellias for Steadfastness.
Sprigs of myrtle helped the bouquet to smell nice, although she smelt lavender, somehow, as well.
She supposed that someone had thought to include a bundle of dried lavender into the arrangement.
“It is perfect!” she said happily.
Jane kissed her cheek and then hurried into the church. Elizabeth and her papa were the only ones still on the church porch.
“I hope you will be very happy, my dear,” Elizabeth’s father said.
“I will be. I am, already. Fitzwilliam has shown himself to be one who takes care of the people he loves, and he somehow—I do not know how I am so lucky—somehow he loves me.”
“Of course he loves you. Who could not?”
Elizabeth smiled, knowing how silly her father’s question was. But she did not need multitudes to love her. She was very satisfied with the love of the best man she had ever known.
Mr Greene, the parish clerk, opened the heavy inner doors to signal that the vicar was in place at the altar, and Elizabeth stepped inside the church alongside her father. Her hand on his arm, they began to walk down the aisle.
The first step she took, she was looking down with care, but then she remembered to look up at Fitzwilliam, and the rest of the walk, she saw only him.
His eyes—as dark as they were—shone and, when she finally reached him, and her father transferred her hand from his arm to Fitzwilliam’s, she saw them glow.
She blinked back tears in her own eyes, and she was surprised to see that his eyes, too, were full of tears.
“Happy tears?” she murmured—just as he mouthed the same question.
They nodded to one another, and Elizabeth revelled in Fitzwilliam’s wide smile.
The vicar coughed, and they both turned to him, finally, laughing a little at their own besotted behaviour.
It seemed to Elizabeth that she blinked and the wedding was over.
She was vaguely aware that the vicar had said all of the expected words, and that she had repeated her vows to Fitzwilliam, but the only thing she truly remembered of the ceremony was hearing her beloved’s deep voice as he said his vows.
To have her and hold her, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health.
Even more stirring to her was when he repeated the words “to love, and to cherish, ‘til death us do part.” Most memorable of all was when he slid a golden ring onto her finger as he said, “With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow.”
After that, Elizabeth felt almost startled to realise that there were other people in the church.
As the vicar led them to the vestry to sign their names in the registry, a collective murmur arose from the wedding guests as they whispered and—yes, that was Lydia’s voice—chattered.
After they signed their names, the colonel and Jane stepped forward to sign as witnesses, and Elizabeth realised it was the first time she had glanced at the colonel that morning.
The vicar opened the doors of the vestry again, and as Fitzwilliam escorted Elizabeth out into the main church aisle, the church bells began to ring.
Everyone in the church fell silent once more but stood, and Elizabeth made herself sweep a smile over them before she turned her head up to look at her husband—her husband! —once again.
He was looking down at her, and he had such a tender expression of care and devotion, she felt her eyes fill again.
“Happy tears,” he whispered as they burst into the chilly churchyard.
Then, heedless of propriety, he lifted her into a twirl before he set her down again and asked, “Where is your cloak?” As he fetched the brand-new heavy wool cloak from her family’s carriage, Elizabeth saw that her entire family, the colonel, and Georgiana had seen that twirl, and there were some giggles and smiles among her sisters.
Others from the congregation spurted out of the church as Fitzwilliam clasped the cloak around her.
She saw Charlotte smiling and waving, and she lifted her own hand, and she heard some shouted well-wishes that were mostly drowned out by the bells.
There were the Longs, the Gouldings, the Lucas boys and Sir William bouncing in excitement…
. She waved at the various friends and neighbours as Fitzwilliam led her to his own carriage.
The church bells were still ringing as they rode to Longbourn for the wedding breakfast.
The wedding breakfast was everything her mother wished for, and Elizabeth complimented her efforts and the result.
The food was plentiful and delicious, and there were almost enough chairs for people to sit here, there, and everywhere.
The vicar and Elizabeth’s father gave sweet toasts, and every small touch from her groom—his hand on the small of her back, his firm press against her elbow, brushing against her own hand as they reached for food on the one plate they shared—sent a frisson of energy up her spine.
She met Fitzwilliam Darcy’s relations. The Earl of Matlock, who urged her to call him Uncle Henry, was a big, affable man, and the countess, or Aunt Helen, was tall and very elegant.
The viscount, who did not urge her to call him Thomas, was as tall as his father and Richard, but he was much slimmer and apparently much more a dandy.
His dress coat was a shade brighter blue than the dark blue worn by his father, and his waistcoat was eye-watering in its bright pattern.
Elizabeth briefly felt a flash of gratitude that her Fitzwilliam did not follow the usual fashion of young men wearing coloured waistcoats, instead wearing dark waistcoats with subtle stripes or, very occasionally, an ivory or tan waistcoat.
Today was one of those unusual days—he wore a navy coat and trousers but an ivory waistcoat with thin, barely-visible yellow stripes.
Elizabeth suddenly remembered that he had asked her what colour her gown would be, and she wondered if he had purchased or altered a waistcoat with compatibility in mind.
The most notable thing about Viscount Cromford was that he wore an elaborate quizzing glass around his neck. He spent a good deal of time peering through his quizzing glass, and the message seemed clear: he thought himself much too good to be milling about with these sorts of people.
On the other hand…as she watched, Mr Bingley walked towards the viscount, calling out, “Lord Cromford, it has been too long!” The viscount had been facing the other direction and spun when he heard his name, but then he bowed to the potted myrtle located next to the French windows, rather than to Mr Bingley, who had been striding through the opened doors when he called out but was much nearer to the viscount the moment of his bow.
She saw Mr Bingley hesitate, look over his shoulder to the dwarf myrtle, and then turn back to bow to the viscount.
The tiniest portion of a giggle bubbled out of Elizabeth’s mouth before she clamped her lips tight. She vowed to ask Fitzwilliam, later, if Thomas’s eyesight was extremely poor.
The viscount’s wife, Henrietta, was pretty in a rather vacuous way, but she was almost silent the entire duration of the wedding breakfast. Elizabeth might have thought her a mute except for the fact that, when they were introduced, and Elizabeth had said, “I am honoured to meet you,” the viscount’s wife responded in a very low voice, “Yes, I am sure. I must say, Darcy, you are quite the philanthropist, expanding the family circle in such a direction.”
Elizabeth was startled by such blatant rudeness, but Fitzwilliam smoothly replied, “No, cousin, it is Elizabeth who is the charitable one. I am thrilled that she deigned to approve my suit, and I will be happy every day for the rest of my life, thanks to her.”
He kept his tone even, as if Lady Cromford had not insulted Elizabeth, but he put his right hand over Elizabeth’s hand on his arm and gave it a little squeeze. She squeezed his arm in response and gratitude.
The countess took a single step to close the gap between herself and her daughter-in-law, saying to the latter, “Remember our talk, dear.”
Elizabeth did not know what she meant, but Lady Cromford did—she frowned and was silent the rest of the celebration.
Having packed the day before, having talked to all her family and her dearest friend then, Elizabeth could not wait to leave. After an hour, she whispered to Fitzwilliam, “Are you ready to leave? We have stayed the necessary interval, and I am certainly ready.”