He nodded, understanding in his eyes. “Very well. I shall return shortly. Do not…” he hesitated, then continued with a trace of his old formality, “Do not go anywhere.”
As if she had anywhere to go, Elizabeth thought wryly as the door closed behind him. Still, his concern was touching, particularly given the events of the previous evening. She rose from the bed, wincing slightly at unfamiliar soreness, and set about making herself as presentable as possible with the limited resources at hand.
Her trunk yielded one gown that had somehow escaped the worst of the water damage. It was a simple muslin day dress in a shade of green that Jane had always said brought out the color of her eyes. Not a wedding gown by any means, but it would have to suffice. She brushed her hair as best she could and pinned it into a simple knot at the nape of her neck. No maid, no mother, no sisters to help her prepare for her wedding day. The thought brought a momentary pang, but she pushed it aside. Self-pity would not improve her circumstances.
By the time Darcy returned, accompanied by a thin, nervous-looking clergyman and the innkeeper with his wife, Elizabeth had achieved a reasonable approximation of respectability.
“Miss Bennet,” Darcy said, formal in the presence of others, “may I present the Reverend Michaels? He has agreed to perform the ceremony.”
The clergyman bowed, his expression disapproving. “I must emphasize that this is most irregular,” he said, glancing between them. “Were it not for Mr. Darcy’s assurances as to the urgency of the situation?—”
“And his generosity,” the innkeeper muttered, earning a sharp look from the reverend.
“Yes, well.” The clergyman straightened his coat. “I happen to have a special license with me, as I was traveling to London for a wedding that was to take place tomorrow. Given the circumstances, and Mr. Darcy’s… persuasiveness, I am willing to adapt it for your use.”
“How fortunate for us,” Elizabeth said, unable to keep a trace of irony from her voice. “That the storm should strand not only ourselves but also a clergyman with the exact documentation we require. One might almost call it providential.”
Darcy’s lips twitched, but he maintained his solemn expression. “Indeed. Shall we proceed, Reverend? I am eager to make Miss Bennet my wife without further delay.”
Reverend Michaels fidgeted with his prayer book. “The fee for such an irregular ceremony…”
“Will be generous,” Fitzwilliam assured him, producing a bulging leather purse.
Elizabeth bit back a smile. Her husband—for he would be her husband shortly—had a remarkable talent for reducing complex situations to their essential elements and then bulldozing through any obstacles with sheer determination and strategic application of currency.
“Dearly beloved,” Reverend Michaels began, his voice gaining strength as he settled into familiar words, “we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this Man and this Woman in holy Matrimony…”
Elizabeth couldn’t help gazing at Darcy’s face as the reverend spoke. His expression was solemn, focused, as though he were memorizing every word. Completely responsible and earnest. Why had she assumed his intense reserve was arrogance?
His penetrating gaze extracted her full attention. “I, Fitzwilliam Edmund Darcy, take thee, Elizabeth Rose Bennet, to be my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse,for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth.”
Elizabeth’s voice wavered, smaller without her usual bite, as she repeated the vows. She would never again misjudge this honorable man who’d sacrificed his standing to gift her his name. Had he not appeared, she would have been truly fallen.
When Reverend Michaels pronounced them husband and wife, Fitzwilliam’s kiss was gentle, reverent, and entirely proper for their makeshift congregation.
“You may sign here,” the reverend said, producing a marriage certificate. “Mr. Darcy first, then Mrs. Darcy.”
The paperwork was completed with efficient dispatch, Darcy signing his name with the bold strokes of a man accustomed to having his signature respected. When it was Elizabeth’s turn, she paused, pen hovering above the parchment.
“Your maiden name, madam,” the reverend prompted, impatience evident in his tone.
“Yes, of course,” she replied, and wrote “Elizabeth Bennet” for the last time.
Darcy paid the clergyman handsomely, adding a substantial tip for the innkeeper and his wife. “Your discretion is appreciated,” he said, his tone making it clear that this was less a request than a requirement.
“Of course, of course,” the man muttered, clearly eager to depart. “Most irregular, but… well, what’s done is done.”
When they were alone again, the reality of what they had done settled over Elizabeth like a mantle. “Well,” she said, attempting lightness, “that was considerably less elaborate than I imagine most Darcy weddings to be.”
“And considerably more meaningful,” he replied, taking her hands in his. “Are you well, Elizabeth? Though I confess I had imagined rather different wedding circumstances for us both.”
“You had imagined marrying me?” The question slipped out before she could stop it.
A faint color rose in his cheeks. “Not… specifically. But I have found myself thinking of marriage more frequently in recent months. Since a certain impertinent young lady challenged my assumptions at a country dance.”
Elizabeth looked up at him with surprise. “You would have… made me an offer?”
“Eventually. You have a talent for occupying my thoughts, Elizabeth, even when I wished you would not.”
