Page 71 of Companions of Their Youth (Pride and Prejudice “What if?” Variations #9)

T he morning of Monday, the twenty-third of December, was particularly frigid. The dawn came in gray, and slow, with frost feathering the windowpanes.

Darcy had barely slept, and as his room lightened with the hidden sun, he lay with his eyes open, heart thudding with something between exhilaration and dread.

Not dread of the marriage itself—no, that thought filled him with fierce anticipation—but dread of delay, of mishap, of anything that might interfere with this day at last arriving.

He rose before Bingley and dressed in near silence, methodically tugging on his boots, smoothing his waistcoat, fastening his cravat with trembling fingers before going down to the front morning room.

By the time Bingley emerged from his own room, Darcy was already pacing the carpet in front of the hearth.

“You are going to wear out the floorboards,” Bingley said cheerfully, bouncing on his heels like an overeager hound.

Darcy paused long enough to arch a brow at him, but said nothing.

Bingley beamed. “Can you believe it? Today! Today we marry the most beautiful women in Hertfordshire—perhaps in all of England! Do you think it will snow? I would not mind a little snow. Makes everything feel rather romantic, do you not think? I wonder what Jane will wear. Something pale blue? Or white? She looks very fine in—”

“Charles,” Darcy said tightly, “if you do not stop talking for one blessed moment, I may throttle you.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam, lounging in a nearby chair with a cup of coffee, snorted with laughter.

“Well, well,” he drawled. “I see that marital nerves afflict even the mighty. What a day for posterity. Mr. Darcy, so composed, so rational—undone by love.”

Darcy gave him a look.

Bingley merely grinned, undeterred. “I think I shall faint when I see her.”

“I think we may faint before then from your ceaseless chatter,” Fitzwilliam muttered.

Darcy crossed once more to the mantel and stared at the clock.

Ten minutes had passed.

Only ten.

He sighed heavily, shoulders tight. “Is it possible for minutes to last entire centuries?”

“On your wedding day?” Fitzwilliam grinned. “Absolutely.”

∞∞∞

“Elizabeth! Elizabeth, do get up, the clock has already struck seven! Jane, you must rise, the maid is waiting! Oh, where is the second hair ribbon? And Lizzy, you must eat something! Do not faint in the middle of your vows, it is unbecoming!”

The morning began, as so many others had, with the shrill declarations of Mrs. Bennet sweeping through the house like a whirlwind. But this morning, Elizabeth smiled.

There was something oddly grounding about her mother’s noise. Her hands might be shaking, her heart fluttering—but the world was still familiar, still hers.

She sat up slowly and stretched, her hair falling loose over her shoulders.

Across the room, Jane was already seated at the vanity, a maid pinning pale roses into her gleaming curls.

They had decided the day before to retire early so as to not be tired for the wedding, but Jane wished to dress together in Elizabeth’s room.

Jane looked serene—but pale. Her hands fidgeted slightly in her lap.

Elizabeth found herself wondering, not for the first time, what precisely their mother had told Jane about the wedding night. Whatever it was, it had left her sister looking both angelic and faintly doomed. She did not feel comfortable, however, approaching the matter with her older sister.

Mrs. Gardiner entered then, brisk and calm, taking one look at the room before directing maids like a general. “Warm water to the basin. Sarah, begin with Miss Elizabeth’s hair. Rosewater for her temples. No, not that sash, the ivory one with the embroidery. Good.”

“Thank you,” Elizabeth murmured, grateful.

Jane and Elizabeth had bathed the night before—unusual for the season, but deemed necessary by their mother—and their hair had been left to dry in curls overnight.

While Jane donned her wedding gown, Elizabeth sat as Sarah began weaving the soft brown lengths into a half-knot, letting the rest fall freely in soft curls, pinned here and there with clusters of orange blossoms.

“You look beautiful, Jane,” Elizabeth said, watching through the mirror’s reflection as the maid finish the last of Jane’s buttons.

At last, it was time.

Elizabeth’s dress was brought forward with reverent care.

It was not a brilliant white, but a soft luminous ivory silk, fine and flowing, with long sleeves and a high waist. A delicate row of covered buttons lined the back, and at the bodice, an embroidered border of pale green and silver ivy leaves gave just the faintest shimmer in the light.

The hem was trimmed with lace from her great-aunt’s wedding gown, and a fine cashmere shawl had been laid aside for warmth.

Silk slippers were slipped onto her feet. Gloves buttoned at her wrists. A light veil pinned delicately atop her curls, trailing just to the waist.

Then she was guided to the mirror. Jane sat down on the bed, watching with a tender expression on her face.

Elizabeth drew in a breath.

For a moment, she did not recognize herself.

It was not that she looked like someone else—but that for once, she saw herself as others must see her. Grown. Graceful. Luminous with something she could not name.

Her heart pounded.

“I look—”

“Radiant,” Jane said softly, rising beside her, equally lovely in her own pearl-gray silk and soft blue sash.

Elizabeth turned slowly, her gaze catching the reflection of her sister, her mother dabbing her eyes behind them, and Mrs. Gardiner beaming with pride.

And for the first time that morning, it struck her with full force.

She was truly going to marry him.

When she rose on the morrow, she would not do so as Miss Elizabeth Bennet of Longbourn. Instead, she would awaken for the first time as Mrs. Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley.

She reached for Jane’s hand, and together, they crossed the threshold of Longbourn, leaving it as the Misses Bennets for the last time.

∞∞∞

The carriage jostled to a stop in front of the little stone church, its frosted windows glinting in the pale winter sun. Darcy stepped out first, heart hammering beneath his waistcoat.

The snow underfoot crunched faintly as he helped Bingley down. Behind them, Colonel Fitzwilliam and Mr. Hurst emerged more slowly, exchanging knowing grins that only served to fray Darcy’s nerves further.

“Well, here we are,” Fitzwilliam said cheerfully, clapping Darcy on the back. “Any final requests before we march you off into eternal devotion?”

Bingley snorted. “He is already halfway to catatonic.”

“I am speaking of Darcy, not you,” Fitzwilliam returned. “You have been prattling for the last two hours without taking a breath, like a schoolboy reciting Latin to impress a governess.”

“Better that than staring into space like a statue!” Bingley replied, tugging his coat straight.

Darcy ignored them both. He could not manage speech—not when his palms were damp and his stomach twisted like a rope.

Inside the church, he moved automatically to the front, took his place, and tried to draw a full breath.

The church was warm, but his gloves were cold. He flexed his fingers. He counted the stained-glass panels behind the altar. He tracked the minute hand of the clock above the vestibule.

Eleven o’clock.

They must arrive before noon. That is the law. A wedding after twelve would be invalid, and they would have to reschedule for the following day. What if the Bennets’ carriage broke a wheel? Or overturned in the ice?

His mind raced.

What if Lady Catherine arrives and shouts her disapproval from the back pew? Or Lord Matlock sends a footman galloping in with some decree forbidding the match?

What if—God forbid—Mr. Bennet died during the night, and they were all thrust into mourning and the wedding must be delayed six months?

What if Elizabeth changes her mind? What if she woke this morning and realized she could not bear to marry a man with such prideful failings?

The vicar arrived, arranging the registers. The candles were lit. The organist’s foot tapped expectantly.

And then—

The door at the back of the church opened.

Mark entered first, brushing snow from his shoulders, followed by Georgiana, Kitty, Lydia, and the Gardiner children in their Sunday best. Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner followed, trailed by an anxious-looking Mrs. Bennet who was tugging at her gloves and hissing at someone behind her.

Darcy turned fully.

Mr. Bennet stepped into view.

On either arm was a daughter.

Jane’s golden head was bowed slightly, her expression gentle and serene.

Bingley made a strangled little gasp and whispered, “Good God.”

But Darcy barely heard him.

Because his eyes had locked on her .

Elizabeth.

The soft ivory silk of her gown glistened in the filtered light, the pale green embroidery catching every glint of the stained glass. Her veil floated around her shoulders like mist. But it was her expression—serene, bright, sure—that struck him deepest.

She was smiling at him.

Not timidly. Not uncertainly. But with warmth and confidence and something deeper—a radiant joy that made his chest ache.

She would not smile like that if she means to refuse me.

Surely not.

His breath caught.

She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen—not only because of the gown, or the lace, or the blush on her cheeks—but because she was herself. Entirely herself. Walking toward him as if she had always been meant to do so. As if his world had not truly begun until this very moment.

He barely heard the rustle of the wedding guests shifting behind him.

He barely registered the words Fitzwilliam muttered—something teasing about swooning.

His heart pounded.

And as she drew nearer, her hand resting lightly on her father’s arm, he thought only one thing, over and over again:

Thank You, God. Thank You, God. Thank You for her .

∞∞∞

The walk from the church doors to the altar should have felt long.