Page 72 of Companions of Their Youth (Pride and Prejudice “What if?” Variations #9)

Elizabeth had imagined herself nervous—frightened, even—when this moment came. But now, with her father’s arm beneath her hand and Jane on his other side, her steps felt light as air.

The stone floor was cool beneath her satin slippers, the church bright with winter morning light streaming through stained glass. Gentle music rose from the organ, weaving through the hush of the guests like a whispered blessing.

But she scarcely noticed any of it.

All her attention—all her heart—was fixed on the man waiting at the front.

Darcy.

She had tried once or twice to call him Fitzwilliam—that was his given name after all—but it felt too awkward, since that was what his cousin also went by.

There was something intimate about referring to him the way his friends did.

Perhaps in time she might call him by something else, but there would be time for that.

Her soon-to-be husband stood tall and still beside his cousin, dressed with exquisite care in a dark cutaway coat and ivory cravat. His face was pale, his eyes fixed only on her. Not even a flicker of recognition for Jane, not a single glance at the others around him.

When their eyes met, the world went quiet.

There was so much in that look—a storm of love, reverence, disbelief. As though he could not quite believe she was real, that this was real, and that she was walking toward him .

She had never felt more seen. More cherished.

Mr. Bennet squeezed her hand once before placing it gently into Mr. Darcy’s. His fingers curled around hers instantly—warm, strong, trembling just a little.

She looked up at him. He was still staring at her as though he had never seen anything so sacred.

“Are you well?” she whispered as they turned together toward the vicar.

“I am undone,” he said softly, so only she could hear.

Her heart gave a strange, happy flutter, and she turned her face forward, trying not to smile too wide.

Reverend Sanderson began to speak, his voice solemn and steady, echoing off the old stone walls. The familiar words washed over her like the tide.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation…”

Elizabeth held Darcy’s hand tightly. She could feel the tension in him, his thumb lightly stroking along her knuckles as if to anchor them both.

“…to join together this man and this woman, and this man and this woman, in holy matrimony…”

She thought of every step that had brought them here.

Of the man who once called her tolerable, and the woman who once declared him the last man she could ever be prevailed upon to marry.

How far they had come. How much they had changed.

How deeply they had come to know and love one another—not in some idealized way, but in truth.

“…which is an honorable estate, instituted of God…”

She glanced again at his profile. There was a single lock of hair curling ever so slightly at his temple, and she ached to brush it back.

“…into this holy estate these persons come now to be joined.”

And then it was time. She had scarcely heard Jane and Bingley speak their vows, but now it was her turn. Her voice was steady as she repeated the words.

“I, Elizabeth, take thee, Fitzwilliam, to my wedded husband…”

His tone, though lower, was no less certain.

“I, Fitzwilliam, take thee, Elizabeth, to my wedded wife…”

There was no hesitation. No faltering.

When the ring was slipped upon her finger, it felt as though it had always belonged there.

The final words rang out:

“Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.”

And with those words, it was done.

Mrs. Elizabeth Darcy.

His wife.

Her lips parted on a breath of wonder.

They turned to face the congregation together, Bingley and Jane doing the same, and Elizabeth felt Darcy’s fingers press more firmly around hers. Their eyes met again.

No kiss was given—not in the church—but the way he looked at her felt more intimate than any embrace. She could feel her face glowing. Her chest ached with joy.

Together, they began the walk back down the aisle, following the newlyweds in front of them.

And though the future stretched wide and unknown before them, she knew this: her steps were sure. Her heart was full.

She had chosen well.

And so, she believed, had he.

∞∞∞

Darcy had never particularly liked crowds.

Too much noise, too many faces, too many expectations hidden behind champagne and chatter.

But today… today was different.

The wedding breakfast at Netherfield had begun with toasts and ended in a clamor of voices, laughter, and clinking glassware.

The ballroom had been transformed into a bright and welcoming space, warmed by firelight and scented with evergreens.

Tables draped in white linen lined the walls, and the center was cleared for music and merriment.

Darcy stood with Bingley, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and Mark near the hearth, sipping a glass of claret while watching the festivities unfold.

“Well,” said Fitzwilliam with a grin, lifting his glass, “you survived the ordeal. Married, upright, and shockingly well dressed.”

Bingley chuckled. “He hardly blinked during the vows.”

“He was petrified,” Fitzwilliam said. “Looked like he was facing a firing squad.”

Everyone was silent, and Darcy groaned. “Too soon.”

Fitzwilliam grimaced. “I meant it as a compliment. It was a lovely ceremony.”

“Oh, it was inspiring,” Mark said dryly, attempting to resume their former levity. “Right up until I realized that my twin sister and my elder sister are now married women and will—presumably—be spending the night accordingly.”

Bingley choked on his drink.

Darcy, startled, raised an eyebrow.

“I did not need to think about that,” Mark said with a shudder. “Someone distract me immediately.”

“That can be arranged,” Fitzwilliam replied. “I believe one of the Lucas girls has made eyes at you twice now.”

“I think she is fourteen,” Mark muttered. “Heaven help me.”

Darcy allowed a small smile as the others laughed, but most of his attention remained elsewhere.

Across the room, Elizabeth stood surrounded by women—Jane beside her, radiant and glowing, as Mrs. Gardiner spoke with two matrons and a Miss Withers asked to see her wedding gloves for the third time.

Elizabeth was laughing.

Her head tipped back, eyes crinkling, mouth wide with joy.

She was dressed in her wedding gown still, the flowers from her hair tucked behind one ear having fallen forward slightly to trail over the curve of her cheek. The soft green of the embroidery on her bodice caught the golden light. She moved with such ease now, such lightness.

And she kept glancing at him.

Again and again, her eyes found his.

Each time, his breath caught. It was as if her gaze tethered him to the room. To her. To the certainty that whatever else may come, she was his . Not just in name. Not just in law.

She caught him looking again and raised her brow in a silent tease, her lips twitching with mirth. He tilted his head slightly, returned the smile.

How had he ever believed himself capable of indifference? Of restraint?

He had never loved anyone so wholly in his life.

Across the room, Jane could not stop smiling—her hand resting lightly on Bingley’s arm. Georgiana stood beside them, pink-cheeked and happy. Lydia was twirling a younger cousin near the fire, Kitty fussing over one of the Gardiner children who had lost a glove.

It was warm. Loud. Slightly disordered.

Darcy had never seen anything so perfect.

Bingley leaned over and said, “Still certain you want this?”

Darcy looked back at his wife, still laughing, still glorious.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “More than anything.”

∞∞∞

After hours of laughter, toasts, music, and clinking glasses, the last guests had at last been bundled into carriages.

Farewells had been shouted, coats fetched, and sleepy children gathered from corners and carried off.

The day had stretched from wedding breakfast well into the edges of supper, and Elizabeth’s cheeks ached from smiling.

Mrs. Hurst had proclaimed that everyone would be given wedding suppers on trays in their own rooms.

“No one wishes to linger in dining rooms on a night like this,” she had said with just the right amount of twinkle in her eye. “Privacy, after all, is a wedding gift in itself.”

Jane had blushed a deep rose. Elizabeth had merely nodded, grateful beyond words.

Now, she stood in the center of the guest room at Netherfield that had been set aside for her—and for Darcy.

The fire flickered low, casting a golden glow across the carpet and the edge of the bed.

Her hands trembled slightly as she reached to adjust the lace trim of her nightgown—an exquisite confection of soft lawn and embroidery, the neckline delicately trimmed with ivory silk.

It had been a gift from Aunt Gardiner, discreetly given in private and accompanied by a warm kiss and misty eyes.

She had worn it now with careful deliberation. Her hair had been brushed out, falling over her shoulders in soft waves. Her feet were bare on the rug.

Butterflies danced in her stomach.

Would it hurt? Would she know what to do? Would he be gentle, or would she embarrass herself with her inexperience?

A knock.

Then the door opened.

Darcy stood there, tall and composed, dressed in his robe and nightshirt, hair slightly tousled. He closed the door behind him, and their eyes met.

She swallowed.

His gaze softened instantly. “Elizabeth…”

She could not speak. Her voice caught.

He crossed to her slowly and reached for her hands. “You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”

Her cheeks flamed. “You always say such things—”

“I always mean them.”

She smiled shakily.

He bent to kiss her hand, then guided her gently to the settee near the fire. From the side table, he poured a modest glass of wine, the decanter glinting in the firelight.

“Only one,” he said. “To steady your nerves. I want you to remember every moment of this night.”

She accepted it gratefully, taking a small sip.

He took the glass from her and set it aside.

Then he lifted her hand again, held it to his heart, and whispered, “May I kiss you?”

She nodded.

And when his lips met hers, all the fears quieted. The questions drifted away. The warmth of his touch, the strength of his arms, the gentleness in his movements wrapped her in safety.

She felt cherished. Desired. Loved.

The fire crackled low.

And as he led her to the bed and whispered her name once more, she surrendered to the moment fully, the world narrowing to sensation and wonder, and the rest faded gently into darkness.

∞∞∞

Morning came softly.

A low winter light filtered through the curtains, pale and golden, casting the room in quiet peace. Darcy stirred slowly, the warmth of the bed holding him still, reluctant to rise.

She was nestled against him—her cheek against his shoulder, her hand splayed across his chest, her legs tangled with his beneath the covers. Her hair was a silken weight against his collarbone, smelling faintly of rosewater.

He dared not move.

The memories of the night washed over him, filling him with awe.

He had expected love. Had expected pleasure, even passion.

But what he had not expected—what had taken him utterly by surprise—was the reverence of it. The way her eyes had met his, unguarded. The way she had trusted him, answered him, held nothing back. He had not simply been pleased. He had been undone.

It had been sacred.

The words from the wedding ceremony the previous day echoed in his mind.

With my body, I thee worship .

He had always thought it an odd phrase, but that was because he had not understood it fully until last night.

She stirred slightly, pressing closer in her sleep. He kissed the top of her head.

And then, quietly, in the stillness of morning, he closed his eyes and breathed a prayer.

He thanked God.

For bringing him to her. For humbling his heart. For granting him not only a wife, but a companion of mind and soul. For allowing him to feel what he had once thought impossible: that he was no longer alone.

That he was whole.

I will love her as You have taught me , he whispered silently . And I will spend my life showing her, in word and deed, how precious she is to me .

He drew her close again, warmth rising in his chest.

And for the first time in his life, Fitzwilliam Darcy felt entirely, absolutely, complete.