The ceremony was brief and ancient and perfect. The vicar spoke the words that had been spoken in that church for centuries, and Elizabeth and Darcy repeated them with the careful attention of two people who understood that promises were not decorative.
"I, Fitzwilliam George Darcy, take thee, Elizabeth Grace 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."
His voice did not shake. His hands did.
"I, Elizabeth Grace Bennet, take thee, Fitzwilliam George Darcy, to be my wedded husband, 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."
Her voice did not shake either, but her eyes were bright with tears she did not let fall, and when the vicar pronounced them man and wife, she smiled at Darcy with such radiant, fearless happiness that the congregation collectively inhaled.
He kissed her. Gently, briefly, properly, as the occasion demanded. But his hand at her waist tightened, and her fingers curled into his lapel, and the kiss contained everything that thepublic version could not: I love you, I chose you, I will spend the rest of my life proving it.
The wedding breakfast at Longbourn was a production that Mrs. Bennet had spent three months orchestrating and that exceeded even her considerable ambitions. The dining room had been transformed with gardenias and candles and the best china, and the food was ambitious and largely successful, and the toasts were numerous and occasionally coherent.
Bingley toasted first, with the warmth and slight incoherence of a man who had drunk two glasses of champagne on an empty stomach and was overflowing with affection for his best friend and his best friend's wife. Jane stood beside him, glowing, their hands linked beneath the table, and Elizabeth caught her sister's eye and felt a surge of gratitude so fierce it made her chest ache.
Colonel Fitzwilliam spoke next, with the easy humor of a man accustomed to public speaking and the genuine fondness of a cousin who had watched Darcy transform from marble to man.
"I have known Darcy since we were boys," the Colonel said, "and in all that time, I have seen him smile approximately four times. Three of those were in the last month. I credit Mrs. Darcy with this remarkable improvement and urge her to continue her efforts."
Laughter. Darcy's mouth twitched -- the old almost-smile, and Elizabeth nudged him under the table, and he gave in and smiled properly, and the room cheered.
Mr. Bennet rose last. He was not a man given to public sentiment, and his toast was brief, delivered in the dry, sardonic voice that Elizabeth had inherited and loved.
"My daughter asked me recently if I was happy for her. I told her I was. What I did not tell her -- because we Bennets are better at wit than sincerity -- is that I am proud of her. Not for marrying well, though she has. Not for securing the family's future, though she has done that too. I am proud of her for being brave enough to love a man she once despised, and honest enough to tell him so, and strong enough to build something real from a beginning that was, by any objective measure, a complete disaster."
He raised his glass. "To Elizabeth and Darcy. May your marriage be as spirited as your courtship and considerably less scandalous."
Laughter again, and tears, and Mrs. Bennet's audible weeping, and the clink of glasses, and Elizabeth looked at Darcy and he looked at her, and in the noise and warmth of her family's dining room, she leaned close and whispered, "I love you."
"I know," he whispered back. "You mentioned it at the altar."
"I will mention it again. Frequently. For the rest of your life."
"I look forward to it."
The departure for Pemberley came in the early afternoon, the carriage loaded, the farewells delivered in a cascade of embraces and instructions and Mrs. Bennet's tearful insistence that Elizabeth write every day. Jane held her longest, their heads together, whispering things that no one else needed to hear.
"Be happy, Lizzy."
"I am. Oh, Jane. I am."
The carriage rolled away from Longbourn, and Elizabeth watched her childhood home recede through the rear window until it was a smudge against the grey sky, and then it was gone, and the road to Pemberley stretched ahead, and beside her, Darcy took her hand.
"You are quiet," he said.
"I am adjusting. An hour ago, I was Elizabeth Bennet. Now I am Mrs. Darcy. The transition requires processing."
"Take all the time you need."
"I intend to." She turned from the window and looked at him. Her husband. The word was new and enormous and exactly right. "Though I have a question."
"Ask it."
"How long is the drive to Pemberley?"
"Four hours."
"And this carriage has curtains."
