She paused to recover her composure, which had almost fled before the happiness that now lay open to her. He had been tormented by doubts and fears when he came to meet her, but now, certain that she would be his wife, he regained his calm—and it was her turn to understand him.
“Yes, Fitzwilliam, I shall marry you. Now, will you permit me to attend my sister’s wedding?”
Thus was the mystery resolved. Darcy and the colonel exchanged a brief look.
“Go,” said Darcy, aware that his cousin had yet to settle his own affairs, that words of affection must still be spoken before his own betrothal might indeed take place.
“Only let the dates not coincide,” he added.
“As for that, we shall see which of us proves the swifter,” returned the colonel, and departed well pleased.
Elizabeth hastened to her place in the first pew beside her mother and aunt, while Darcy, seeking discretion, took his seat in the last. Yet Elizabeth’s delay—which all very rightly ascribed to her late arrival—provoked a gentle stir of conversation that ceased only when Mary cast a look of most solemn reproof towards her family.
All had happened so quickly, and the circumstances had been so unexpected, that for the first time in many months, Darcy closed his eyes and allowed the solemn yet cheerful atmosphere to surround and subdue him, bringing him nearer to a state of happiness he had not imagined still possible. He could scarcely believe that it had ended so simply; yet his heart sang with joy that Elizabeth had not consented to become Mr Clinton’s wife. Perhaps there was some measure of masculine pride in that happiness, but it mattered little now. Miss Mary was getting married, and he tried to catch a glimpse of Elizabeth, but the pews were full and the front row was distant. Yet she was not only there—within his heart—but present at last, and in truth.
The ceremony began.
It was the second wedding Darcy had attended within two months. Still, here, unlike that of Bingley, he drank in every word spoken by the clergyman, knowing that soon he himself would be the one to reply—and beside him would stand Miss Bennet.
Chapter 37
Darcy was among the last to leave the church, remaining until the bride and groom had departed. He had no wish to draw attention from them, though he was certain that his sudden appearance had already occasioned much curiosity. What he had not expected was to be greeted by those outside with smiles that expressed but one sentiment: they all knew.
Later, Elizabeth told him that Mr Bennet—ordinarily the least inclined to involve himself in affairs of the heart—had been the one to inform, as soon as possible, Mrs Bennet that Darcy had come to ask for Elizabeth’s hand, and that their daughter had accepted him. It was, he owned, a gentle punishment. Mr Bennet had known that Elizabeth had refused his proposal. Yet, he had also perceived the regret which, in time, had appeared in his daughter’s eyes. When, afterwards, he learnt of Mr Darcy’s engagement, that event placed the gentleman among the few whom Mr Bennet sincerely disliked. He had not been deceived by Elizabeth’s cheerful composure and discerned her pain beneath her smiles, even amidst the satisfactions she foundat the Academy. No matter how firmly she had refused him, she came to regret it, and, by then, nothing could be done…he was betrothed to another woman. Mr Bennet ascribed that haste to a certain superficiality he disliked.
But all was well that ended well, and even Mr Bennet’s displeasure had lost its meaning. He could now only enjoy the confusion Darcy met before the church: Mrs Bennet, who but a short time earlier had almost fainted in the arms of Mrs Gardiner and Mrs Phillips at the news, was now loudly proclaiming that her fourth daughter was about to be married.
Elizabeth smiled at her father with evident complicity. At the same time, he, with a gentle nod, encouraged her to withdraw from the crowd and go with the man she loved.
Taking his arm with quiet decision, she walked away under the eyes of those preparing to depart for the wedding breakfast.
“Do we walk?” he asked, yet indifferent to anything but being with her.
“No. A chaise waits for us in the next street. I had intended to return with Papa, but I believe he understands—and will find another conveyance.”
They reached the chaise unhurriedly, arm in arm, rejoicing only in the nearness of each other, which, this time, was not fleeting. Darcy assisted her to mount, and they set out through the narrow streets of the town.
It was scarcely two miles to the Academy, and the chaise covered the distance at a leisurely pace, the sound of the horses’ hooves echoing softly in the damp morning air. Neither spoke. Happiness, too new and too profound, required silence; both needed time to comprehend what had truly come to pass—to understand that the joy which filled their hearts marked but the beginning of their new life.
Only before the Academy, as he helped her to alight, did he break the magical silence that had reigned between them…but both felt that the moment for words had come.
“You will be my wife,” he said. It was not a question; he had already asked it. It was a joyful certainty, spoken as though to convince himself that it was indeed real.
“Yes, I shall be your wife,” she answered with a bright smile, stepping down and taking his arm, indifferent to all rules of decorum.
Without hesitation, she led him into her study. The sound of the door closing behind them was the signal that their love was possible—at last, they were together. The long months of distance and reserve dissolved as though they had never been. Darcy took her in his arms—a gesture he had never dared to imagine, for even the thought of such nearness had been forbidden, knowing the pain it would bring when the dream faded away.
Now she was in his arms, sighing, her eyes bright with wonder and tears, trembling against him, and blushing all at once. For though in that room she had, for six months, been the principal of an academy, in his arms she was the pure girl who had only imagined what love could be…and it was far from her dreams. Reality was this storm of feelings, that strange sensation which at moments resembled fear, and which was in truth nothing but desire, which she was only beginning to recognise. In his arms, she sighed again, certain that he was the man she had waited for all her life. She smiled, then blushed anew, her lips parting in confusion and delight. Holding her close, he sought impatiently for her lips.
Nothing she had ever lived prepared her for the avalanche of feelings that overwhelmed her when she felt his lips join hers. Their pure embrace became a passionate kiss that flung wide the gates of love. If, until then, she had believed that love residedonly in the soul, his body beside hers made her understand that love was a force that had also taken possession of her body. What her mind did not yet know, her body recognised—or remembered—for surely within every being lies deeply implanted the paths of love.
He wanted more than anything to awaken the passion he knew Elizabeth possessed, hidden deep within her, yet he kept a reverence, fearing that too sudden a touch might be too profound, too soon, for the young lady in his arms who did not yet know what physical love was. For him, it was fulfilment; for her, discovery. The two of them had alike to remember every moment of that beginning; and for this, he must move in her rhythm—in the rhythm of her purity, which allowed itself to be conquered, yet required time.
And he suddenly stopped, for once he understood that nothing any longer divided them, he desired but one thing—that the young girl in his arms might discover what it meant to be a woman, slowly, tenderly, unhurriedly, not like a tempest that would sweep all away and leave no memory behind.
The long silence between them was broken only by his whisper.
“This is love, Elizabeth Bennet.”
