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“Bingley believed you might require encouragement.”

“I said no such thing,” Charles objected. “I said he had gone upstairs.”

“An alarming course for a man expected below.”

Darcy allowed them to continue while he looked toward the staircase. Mrs. Bennet appeared first with Kitty, pausing to send her daughter back for something. Mary followed, then Jane. Charles went forward at once to offer his wife his arm.

Elizabeth came down beside her father.

Darcy had seen the silk when it arrived and heard two separate discussions of its colour. Neither had prepared him for the sight of her wearing it. The pale gown caught the morning light; a small arrangement of flowers rested against her bonnet. She looked at him before she had reached the last turn of the stairs, and her smile made him forget who else might be watching.

He went to meet her.

“You are very beautiful.”

“I am glad you think so. Mama has been at considerable trouble to convince me.”

“I shall thank her.”

“You need not encourage her to begin again.”

He took her gloved hand and raised it to his lips. For the moment she allowed him to forget that the hall contained their family, servants, and a cousin who would certainly remember the occasion later.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

“Yes.”

She gave the answer with such pleasure that he wanted to remain there and ask her nothing else all morning.

Mrs. Bennet reminded them of the carriages. The household resumed its motion around them.

The short journey to the parish church seemed longer than any road Darcy had taken that winter. He went ahead with Charles and his cousin, leaving Elizabeth to follow with her parents. At the church he answered the clergyman, took his place, and listened to Fitzwilliam’s last unnecessary assurance that nobody could mistake the purpose of his attendance.

Then Elizabeth entered upon her father’s arm.

Darcy saw Jane take her seat, saw Mrs. Bennet arrange her handkerchief, and lost his attention to both as Elizabeth came nearer. Her eyes remained upon him. She slipped off her glove before taking his hand. Her fingers closed about his.

He had heard the marriage service before. He had never listened to it in this manner, conscious of the living woman beside him at every promise. There would be days when she was tired, days when he was unreasonable, mornings in which neither of them said what the other wished to hear. He wanted to stand beside her through all of them. The wish seemed larger, and more certain, than any attempt to promise that he would always deserve her happiness.

He spoke his answer clearly.

When Elizabeth gave hers, he turned toward her. She met his eyes for an instant before looking back to the clergyman. Her voice did not tremble.

The ring slid onto her finger. He held her hand a moment longer than the action required, then released it when they were directed to kneel.

The rest of the service passed with a strange mixture of solemnity and impatience. He wished to hear every word. He also wished somebody would tell him that Elizabeth was his wife and allow him to speak to her.

At last the moment came.

She turned to him, smiling.

“Mrs. Darcy,” he said quietly.

“It will take me a little time to grow accustomed to it.”

“I shall remind you.”

“You may begin whenever you please.”