Chapter 7 #2
The sun broke through the clouds as the carriage stopped before the church. The bells were ringing. Villagers stood near the gate, children had climbed onto the low wall, and every head turned when my father helped me down.
I heard almost nothing.
Not the bells. Not the murmurs. Not my mother asking behind me if anyone had checked the train of my dress.
The church door stood open.
Darcy stood at the end of the aisle.
I saw him immediately.
Dark coat. White cravat. Square shoulders. Bingley at his side, unable to hide his own happiness as he searched for Jane.
Darcy wasn't searching for anyone.
He was looking at me.
His face was grave, perfectly composed. The master of Pemberley, as the world knew him.
Then our eyes met.
And everything gave way.
Curious about what else you could read?
Search for Lokepub on Google and browse at your own pace.
His lips parted with a soft breath. His hands dropped from behind his back. The tension in his shoulders melted away. It was only an instant, but I saw the man behind the name, behind the fortune, behind all the years spent revealing nothing.
He had been counting the hours.
Now he was counting only the steps between us.
My father moved forward.
I walked at his side.
Each step echoed on the flagstones, interminable and yet too quick. White roses perfumed the air near the altar. Pale ribbons decorated the pews. My mother sniffled loudly somewhere behind us.
I never took my eyes off Darcy.
His gaze lingered for a moment on the sapphire, then rose to my face. A dark heat burned there, contained only by the church, the guests, and the ceremony that had not yet begun.
My breath faltered.
My father covered my hand with his.
“A few more steps, Lizzy,” he murmured.
Then we were before him.
Darcy bowed to my father.
My father took my hand and placed it in Darcy's.
Darcy's fingers closed around it immediately.
His palm was warm. So was mine, despite the gloves.
My father stepped back.
Darcy and I stood face to face.
“You came,” he murmured, so low that only I could hear.
The phrase reminded me of Georgiana at the ball, but in his voice, it meant something else.
You are truly here. You have truly chosen to become my wife.
“I promised you I would.”
His thumb pressed gently against my fingers.
The pastor began.
His voice rose beneath the vaults, mingling with the cold smell of stone and the green scent of the branches Charlotte had sent the day before.
He spoke of the commitment we were about to make, of fidelity, of honor, and of shared life.
Ancient words, spoken before us by thousands of men and women, worn smooth by centuries of use like the wood of the railing beneath countless hands.
Yet they had never seemed to belong to anyone else.
Darcy turned to me when the moment came for the vows.
“I, Fitzwilliam, take you, Elizabeth…”
His voice was grave, lower than usual, with that assurance I knew from drawing rooms, and beneath which I heard, for the first time, something give way.
His eyes never left mine. His fingers tightened on mine as he moved through the words, as if they demanded a physical effort from him and he needed my hand to provide it.
“…to be my wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, as long as we both shall live.”
The silence that followed seemed to hold the entire church.
“I give you my word.”
These were no longer the words of the rite. This was a man who had traversed a year of pride, refusal, and new beginnings to arrive at this moment, and who was giving it to me as one gives something dearly bought.
To me.
My throat tightened when it was my turn.
“I, Elizabeth, take you, Fitzwilliam…”
His first name did not tremble on my lips.
It found its place there with an ease that overwhelmed me.
I spoke each word looking into his eyes, without thinking of Pemberley, or of his name, or of the three counties that would soon separate me from Longbourn—only of this man who had learned to listen, who had let his pride shatter rather than lose me,
and who had brought my books into his house before bringing me.
“I give you my word.”
The ring was blessed.
Darcy took my hand with a care that contrasted with the visible tension in his jaw.
He removed my glove, finger by finger, and the cold air of the church touched my bare skin before sixty people.
The gesture was perfectly proper. It felt unbearably intimate.
His thumb caressed my palm, so briefly that only I knew it, before he slid the ring onto my finger.
“With this ring, I thee wed.”
His voice trembled.
Not enough for others to notice. Enough for me.
The gold came to rest at the base of my finger, warm from his hand. Darcy didn’t let go of mine.
The pastor continued. Prayers rose around us, but I barely heard them.
I looked at the ring, his hand around mine, the face of the man who was now my husband, and I thought of what it had taken to bring us here beneath these vaults—two proposals, an eight-page letter, a lake, a furious aunt, and all the patience this quiet man possessed.
My husband.
The pastor pronounced us married.
A murmur rippled through the church. Darcy drew breath like a man reaching shore after believing he would drown, and the corner of his mouth finally lifted, slowly, into that rare smile he never showed in public—yet gave to me now, before all of Hertfordshire.
“Mrs. Darcy,” he murmured.
Heat rose to my cheeks.
“Mr. Darcy.”
We could not kiss before the altar. He looked at my mouth a moment too long, and I felt the kiss he didn’t give more keenly than if he had.
?
Jane and Bingley took our place before the pastor.
Seated in the front row with Darcy’s hand closed over mine, I watched my sister advance on our father’s arm. Bingley had none of Darcy’s defenses. His happiness lit up his face with an almost indecent openness.
Jane saw it.
Her smile bloomed.
A tear slid down my cheek.
Darcy wiped it away with the tip of his thumb before it reached my chin.
I turned my head toward him.
“You have the right,” he murmured.
“To cry?”
“To let me touch you.”
His fingers lingered a moment against my skin.
Then they found their way back to my hand.
No one could separate us now.
The thought sent a soft vertigo through me.
?
The wedding breakfast transformed Longbourn into a house too small to contain so much happiness.
My mother made several toasts, including one to herself for raising two daughters capable of attracting such wealthy men.
Mr. Bingley applauded. Darcy lowered his eyes to his glass to hide what looked dangerously like a smile.
He failed. Under the table, his hand found mine and didn’t let go for the rest of the meal, and I understood that this man with his reputation for arrogance was, that day, the happiest man in Hertfordshire—and no one in that room saw it but me.