Chapter Twenty-Two
Longbourn awoke to cheerful disorder. Mrs Bennet, having scarcely slept for excitement, had been in motion since before breakfast, convinced in rapid succession that the flowers would not arrive, the cook had forgotten the wedding breakfast and that somebody had mislaid one of the brides.
Hill assured her, with the calm confidence born of thirty years' service, that none of these disasters had occurred.
Kitty and Lydia contributed very little beyond increasing the confusion.
Both were dressed long before they were required, only to change ribbons, retie sashes and begin the process all over again.
Mary attempted several reflections upon the solemn nature of matrimony, but found herself abandoned in the middle of each observation as another crisis demanded attention.
Mr Bennet disappeared into his book room. "My presence appears entirely unnecessary," he observed. "If anybody requires me, I shall be where I am least likely to be trodden upon."
Mrs Bennet declared such behaviour heartless, though she had already hurried away before he had quite finished speaking.
Upstairs the atmosphere was altogether calmer. A now very increased Mrs Gardiner fastened the last buttons upon Jane's gown before turning her attention to Elizabeth, who stood by the window drawing on her gloves.
"There," she said, stepping back with satisfaction. "I believe we have done all we can."
Jane joined her sister at the window. "Are you happy?"
Elizabeth smiled. "Very."
Jane slipped her arm through hers. "I never imagined we should be married together."
"Nor I. If somebody had told me a few weeks ago that I should marry Fitzwilliam Darcy, I should have laughed in their face."
"And now?"
Elizabeth looked down at the gardens where they had played together as children. "Now I cannot imagine marrying anybody else."
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Darcy had attended enough weddings to know that grooms were expected to wear a particular expression.
It was one he had often observed in other men—a look of absent-minded happiness, as though they had ceased to notice the congregation entirely.
He had always supposed it an indulgence of romantic excess, assumed for the benefit of admiring relations and sentimental ladies.
He now owed every one of those gentlemen an apology.
Colonel Fitzwilliam had been speaking to him only moments before, offering some cheerful observation which, under ordinary circumstances, Darcy would certainly have answered.
Bingley had asked a question about the order of the service.
Somewhere behind them the church continued to fill with neighbours and acquaintances, the low murmur of conversation echoing gently beneath the ancient stone roof.
Darcy heard none of it. His eyes remained fixed upon the church door.
"Darcy."
He did not answer.
Fitzwilliam tried again. "Darcy."
"Hmm?"
"I merely wished to discover whether you had abandoned the power of speech altogether, or whether you intended to recover it before the vows."
Darcy glanced sideways. "I beg your pardon."
"There is no need. I have been amusing myself by conducting both sides of the conversation."
Bingley, who had spent the last several minutes attempting to smooth a crease from one glove with very little success, looked anxiously between them.
"Do you suppose they have been delayed?"
Fitzwilliam smiled. "My dear Bingley, there are two brides, one Mrs Bennet and at least three younger sisters involved in the proceedings. I should think punctuality would be nothing short of miraculous."
Bingley appeared to consider this. "Yes," he admitted. "I believe you are right."
The colonel looked back at Darcy. "You see? Between the two of you, I feel positively composed."
Darcy's mouth twitched despite himself. Before Fitzwilliam could continue, the quiet murmur that filled the church changed to hushed expectation. Conversations faltered, heads turned towards the west door and then, quite naturally, silence spread through the congregation.
Darcy's heart gave one extraordinary, painful beat. The doors had opened and the organ began.
Mr Bennet entered first, Jane upon one arm and Elizabeth upon the other.
Jane was, as she had always been, exceedingly lovely.
Her happiness became her, softening every feature until she seemed almost luminous.
Yet the moment Elizabeth met his eyes, Darcy forgot that another bride stood beside her.
The whole church appeared to narrow until there was only one woman walking towards him.
Afterwards, if anybody had asked him what Elizabeth had worn that morning, he doubted he could have answered with any certainty. There had been white silk, certainly, and flowers somewhere amongst the soft curls that framed her face, but those were details that scarcely seemed to matter.
He saw only Elizabeth. Her eyes were bright with happiness and her cheeks glowed with a colour that no London jeweller nor Paris dressmaker could ever hope to improve upon.
She smiled as though there were nobody else in the church but the two of them, and he felt in his soul that he had never before understood what beauty truly was.
Years would alter them both. Time would silver her hair as surely as it would his own, laughter would leave its gentle traces about her eyes and life would change them in a hundred ways neither of them could yet imagine.
It did not matter. However many years were granted to him, however the world might alter around them, he knew with complete certainty that Elizabeth Bennet would always be the most beautiful, the most precious person he would ever behold.
As she walked towards him upon her father's arm, he could think only that every road he had travelled, every mistake he had made and every improbable turn of fortune that had brought them together had been worth this single moment.
As Mr Bennet drew nearer, he felt Elizabeth's eyes never once leave his own. She smiled just a little wider and, without the movement being obvious to anybody else in the church, gave the smallest shake of her head.
Darcy frowned in puzzled enquiry. Her smile deepened. But it was only when they reached the chancel steps that he understood. She had been trying not to laugh.
"Steady," she whispered as her father placed her hand in his.
"I am perfectly steady," Darcy murmured.
Elizabeth's eyes danced. "Liar."
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If the ceremony had been marked by quiet happiness, the wedding breakfast was loud and joyous.
Mrs Bennet declared every quarter of an hour that she was the happiest mother in Hertfordshire, weeping over one daughter before embracing the other. Mr Bennet bore it all with remarkable composure, observing only that two weddings together seemed a remarkably efficient way of doing things.
Colonel Fitzwilliam had somehow established himself at the centre of proceedings.
Before long George, Lucy and Edward had persuaded him to demonstrate the correct method of fencing with a cake knife, whilst Kitty and Lydia declared themselves perfectly convinced that no officer in England could possibly be half so entertaining.
Even Mary, though she attempted to maintain an air of proper reserve, was obliged to conceal more than one smile behind her wine glass.
Darcy watched it all with quiet satisfaction. The room was louder than any gathering he would once have chosen to attend, yet he found himself unwilling to miss a single moment of it. Wherever Elizabeth was, disorder seemed to acquire a curious charm.
Elizabeth caught his eye from across the room. Without a word she inclined her head very slightly towards the open terrace doors.
The gardens lay warm beneath the afternoon sun. Somewhere beyond the orchard a blackbird sang, whilst from the house came the muffled sound of laughter and Mrs Bennet announcing to somebody that she had always known Mr Darcy would make an excellent husband.
Elizabeth smiled and they wandered a little farther, neither in any haste to return to their guests.
The old oak beneath which Elizabeth had so often sought refuge with a book during her childhood cast a broad patch of shade across the grass, and it was there that Darcy stopped and turned to face her.
"It seems impossible," he said quietly, "that this morning you were Miss Elizabeth Bennet."
"And now?"
His expression softened with that look of quiet wonder which had scarcely left him since the ceremony. "Now you are my wife."
She smiled, lifting one hand to smooth an imaginary crease from the lapel of his coat. "I rather like the sound of that."
"So do I."
He cupped her face with such tenderness that it seemed a question rather than a touch.
His thumb traced lightly along her cheek before slipping behind one soft curl that had escaped from her intricate coiffure.
His hand lingered for a moment at the nape of her neck, his fingers warm against her skin, and he smiled as though he still found it extraordinary that he was permitted to touch her so freely.
"You are looking at me as though you cannot quite believe I am real."
"I am still deciding whether I might be dreaming."
She laughed, the sound low and affectionate. "I assure you, Mr Darcy, I am entirely real."
"I know, Mrs Darcy. My heart."
He bent his head then and kissed her, slowly, as though they possessed all the time in the world.
She met him before their lips touched, rising instinctively to him until one of his arms encircled her waist and drew her gently against him.
There was nothing hurried in the embrace.
It carried none of the uncertainty of the inn, nor the desperate relief of their reunion in Gracechurch Street.
It was simply the deep certainty of two people who had found the place where they belonged.
His lips lingered against hers and she answered him with gentle confidence.
When he deepened the kiss she welcomed him without hesitation, her fingers slipping from his shoulders to rest lightly against the back of his neck.
He felt her smile against his mouth and answered it with one of his own, a happiness so complete that it seemed almost to overwhelm him.
His hand drifted slowly from her waist, following the graceful line of her back before settling once more at the curve where her neck met her shoulder. The faintest shiver passed through her and she closed her eyes, leaning a little nearer still.
"I have spent an unconscionable amount of time," he murmured against her lips, "wondering what it would feel like to kiss my wife."
"And?"
"I fear it has ruined me for every other occupation."
She laughed again, softer this time, and rested her forehead against his. "That is fortunate."
"Why?"
"Because I have every intention of occupying a great deal of your time."
He looked at her for a long moment, his eyes searching hers with all the affection that words could never quite express. "I cannot think of anything I should like better."
For a heartbeat neither spoke. The future, which had seemed so uncertain only weeks before, now stretched before them.
There would be journeys made together, mornings shared without farewell, evenings before the fire, children God willing, and all the thousand ordinary happinesses that had once seemed beyond imagining.
Elizabeth touched his cheek. "You know," she said softly, "I once informed you that you were the most vexing man in the world."
"I remember it rather well."
"I was quite right."
He smiled. "You still think so?"
"Without the slightest doubt." Her eyes danced with familiar mischief. "Only now I find I would be exceedingly disappointed if you were any other sort of man."
Darcy laughed, then stole one last lingering kiss. "Then I shall endeavour," he said, offering her his arm, "to remain just vexing enough."
"I think," she replied as she slipped her hand through it, "you manage it perfectly."
Together they turned back towards the house, where the sounds of laughter drifted across the gardens. Elizabeth looked up at her husband and smiled. She had, after all, married the most vexing—and most wonderful—man in the world.