When the hour of her marriage was upon her, Elizabeth had no thoughts of extraordinary pomp and splendour. She found that she cared only for two things: that all required parties made it to the church in time to prevent the ceremony from being put off, and that she left the building as Mrs. Fitzwilliam Darcy. She could tolerate a great deal else as long as those two matters were assured. She was beyond pleased, however, to share the joyous occasion with the sister closest to her heart.
As it turned out, the correct words were said, several pairs of suspiciously shiny eyes were observed, and the signatures recording this life-altering event in the register were perfectly legible—even Bingley's.
There had been a moment during the ceremony when Fitzwilliam appeared to have been restraining laughter, of all things. Elizabeth asked him to account for it as they approached the carriage.
He did laugh then, a low rumble of delight let loose upon the chill air. “It was almost too much to stand there and be serious and contained.” He pressed his lips closed, mimicking a staid, proper gentleman. Despite his attempts, his smile broke forth in all its brilliance. “I never expected to be so happy at my wedding,” he confided in a quiet voice. “I never expected you.”
His revelation kept Elizabeth blushing and smiling and contemplative all the way to Longbourn. Jane and Bingley, who rode with them, even emerged from their world of two to remark upon her unusual quietness.
Elizabeth had not expected Fitzwilliam, either. In November, she had gone to the ball at Netherfield intending to make a conquest of a very different sort of man. She had not really thought beyond that evening, however. Mr. Wickham, handsome and charming as he was, had few prospects. What would have resulted from a closer acquaintance with him? Would they have spent their time disparaging Mr. Darcy and bemoaning their mutual lack of riches, and if so, how long would such misfortunes have entertained them? Would she have had to watch as he, inevitably, found another pretty face with perhaps a pretty dowry to accompany it?
She looked at her ring and marvelled. Somehow, that had not been her lot. She had been blessed with Fitzwilliam instead of the man her vanity had merited.
She turned to her husband only to find him staring at her.
“Elizabeth?” he said.
In answer, she drew closer to him and laid her head upon his shoulder.
The house was all movement and merriment. Elizabeth caught snatches of conversations around her even as she replied to the kind congratulations of her friends.
“Mr. Bennet!” Her mother's voice was easily distinguishable. “I told you when Netherfield was let that it was a fine thing for our girls, and I was right! Oh, how beautiful they look! Mrs. Bingley and Mrs. Darcy!”
Mr. Hurst exclaimed just then, and her father's reply was lost in the general cacophony.
“Fitzwilliam is so happy,” Elizabeth heard Georgiana say to Kitty, “and Mr. Bingley, too!”
Elizabeth flitted about, unable to settle anywhere. This was not home—or, rather, it was her old home now, and she was eager for her new one. The restlessness receded in some ways and flared in others whenever she stood next to Fitzwilliam.
The couple had just concluded a conversation with a neighbor, and Elizabeth was glad of the respite. Until Fitzwilliam gave her a questioning glance and reached for her hands, she did not realise how much she had been fidgeting. He did not wait for her to speak, but led her from the parlour while the group's attention was elsewhere. They almost ran to his favourite room, where he shut the door and kissed her with a fierce passion that softened into tenderness.
“We had better go back,” Elizabeth said at last.
“While we are still fit to be seen?”
She laughed, and so did he, and the rest of the day floated by. The house was cleared of guests, and her single trunk was brought down, the majority of her things having been sent ahead to London. Goodbyes flowed, accompanied by a few tears and an abundance of well wishes. There was talk of seeing one another again soon, for what were twenty-five or thirty miles of good road? Surely they would be meeting forever in town or at Longbourn and Netherfield until the Darcys removed to Pemberley in March.
That evening, Elizabeth sat alone in her new room, finishing the last of her preparations, which was a letter to her husband to accompany the modest present of pen, ink, and paper that she had bought for him in Meryton.
My dear Fitzwilliam,She paused, having much more to say, yet feeling eager to end the letter and go to her husband. She added a line telling him how very handsome he had looked at their wedding. Then she dared to ask a rather intimate question, realising that what might not be considered proper between acquaintances was permissible and even expected between a married couple, and she signed her name.
I am sure I could find words enough to keep us talking until dawn, but I have an inkling you will not want to spend the whole night in conversation, and to say the truth, neither will I. So I will tell you now what I most wish you to know: I love you. I desire you. I miss you, even as I write this.
Thank you for caring enough to overlook my discourtesies and correct my misapprehensions. Thank you for extending your protection to my family and even my friends. Thank you for sharing yourself with me. It has been an honour and a delight to come to know you. It is humbling, my love, but I will not be daunted. I shall meet the challenge of having been granted far more than I deserve.
My gift is a selfish one, for I hope you will write to me often, about trifling matters as well as serious ones. Even when, as with your very first letter, I am not wise enough to admit it at once, I shall always want to hear from you.
Rather than waiting, she gathered her gift and her courage and went to Fitzwilliam's room.
When Elizabeth awoke for the third time the next day, she was alone in bed, but a letter was on the pillow next to her. Fitzwilliam had answered her question quite to her satisfaction, and he even asked one of his own.
This, she thought, was a very promising beginning.
Elizabeth's eye was drawn again and again to the view outside the carriage. “How beautiful are these endless woods!” she said. “I cannot wait to explore them. If there is a cabin within a mile of this spot, you can point me in that direction and leave me here to wander about. I shall be quite comfortable.”
“I certainly shall not,” Fitzwilliam said. “I would not see you for days, and that would never do. However shall I explain to Mrs. Reynolds that I have misplaced my wife?”
Charlotte chuckled. Georgiana did not know where to look, though she could not hide her smile. Mrs. Annesley was her usual imperturbable self.
Had the others not been with them, Elizabeth would have kissed her husband thoroughly. She saw something in his manner and look that made her think he would have appreciated the gesture just then. His mood seemed to lighten the closer they got to Pemberley, and an expression of banked excitement had lit his face ever since they had passed the lodge.
She was glad to have contributed some levity to their party's conversation. In contrast to her husband, Charlotte had begun to look a bit nervous as they entered the park. Mr. Collier's reply to Fitzwilliam's initial letter had conveyed a frank but respectful curiosity along with the solicited advice. More letters had been exchanged, and now Charlotte was to meet the man, perhaps as soon as tomorrow. Elizabeth's practical friend would gain, at the very least, an amiable and interested conversation partner at local gatherings. Elizabeth hoped Charlotte would find much more: a husband worth having, and a contented life surrounded by sensible people who appreciated her.
The carriage had been climbing gradually for about half a mile when the trees thinned and she saw the welcome sight of what must be Pemberley House.
“Will that do for your cabin, my dear?”
Before Elizabeth could reply, Darcy called for the driver to stop. He helped her out and sent the others on their way.
The house was beautifully situated and as pretty as a painting, framed as it was by the colourful manifestations of spring. She could imagine how glorious it would look in all the seasons of their lives ahead.
The grass at her feet was the sort of plush carpet that made her want to walk barefoot in it, as she had as a girl on Longbourn's grounds. She looked more carefully and saw patches here and there, signs of a well-worn trail nearby, where young and perhaps not so young Darcys had scampered over the lawn. She was one of those Darcys now, and she felt all the good fortune of belonging to this place, and infinitely more so of loving and being loved by the man beside her.
Her husband held out his hand, and she took it.
“Shall we run?” he said. His grin was wide as he awaited her answer.
“Yes!”
They ran home.
