Page 11

Elizabeth

T he final leg of their journey proved arduous, the terrain growing increasingly wild as they crossed the Scottish border. Rain returned with a vengeance, turning the roads to mud and slowing their progress despite frequent changes of horses.

“We must be nearing Gretna Green,” Darcy said, consulting his pocket watch with a frown. “Though I confess I’m not entirely certain where we ought to go once we arrive.”

Elizabeth looked up from the book she had scarcely managed to read. “I had not considered the practicalities. I believe we seek a chapel? My aunt once mentioned a stable master who conducts weddings.”

“I had heard it was a blacksmith,” Darcy replied, brow furrowed. “Something to do with an anvil ceremony.”

“A blacksmith?” Elizabeth echoed, half laughing. “Surely not. How could a tradesman perform a lawful marriage?”

“I cannot say,” he admitted. “Perhaps a schoolmaster? Some man of learning with authority under Scottish law?”

Elizabeth allowed herself a smile. “We must look a farcical pair—two educated people, utterly ignorant of how to get married.”

“Indeed,” Darcy said, a flicker of amusement in his voice. “Not the manner in which either of us anticipated entering matrimony, I suspect.”

By the afternoon of the second day, they reached the small border village, both travellers worn through.

“At last,” Darcy murmured as the carriage rolled to a stop.

Elizabeth pressed her face to the window, taking in their destination despite her fatigue. Gretna Green appeared unremarkable—a scatter of stone cottages, a modest church spire, and an inn with a weathered sign swinging in the breeze.

“For a place with such a scandalous reputation,” she said, “it seems quite ordinary.”

“The simplest locales often witness the most extraordinary events,” Darcy replied, glancing at her sidelong.

The carriage halted before The Blacksmith’s Arms , a sturdy two-storey inn.

Darcy stepped down and turned to assist her.

Elizabeth hesitated, suddenly struck by the weight of what they were about to undertake.

She had entered Scotland as Elizabeth Bennet.

She would leave it as someone else entirely.

“Miss Bennet?” he asked gently, his hand steady, his eyes not quite so.

She placed her fingers in his. “Forgive me. The end of the road has made the journey’s purpose rather… immediate.”

A stout woman emerged from the inn, wiping her hands on her apron. “Good day to ye both,” she called. “I’m Mrs Campbell, the innkeeper. Ye’ll be wantin’ rooms, I expect, after such a journey.”

“Yes,” Darcy said.

The woman ushered them into a surprisingly comfortable parlour with polished wooden floors.

“I’ll send up tea while your chamber’s readied,” she said. “Just the one, I presume?”

“Yes,” Darcy answered. His chin lifted slightly, and when Mrs Campbell’s back was turned, he whispered, “It would raise eyebrows if we requested two—given the pretext.”

Elizabeth flushed, the implication jarring despite its accuracy.

They had grown companionable these past few days, but the reality of sharing a chamber, again, was far from settled in her mind.

He had insisted on sleeping on the floor both nights, and though he had never complained, she had seen him wince when turning too sharply.

“Say,” Darcy ventured. “Could you be able to tell us who here performs weddings?” His casual tone was out of sync with the sweat glistening above his eyebrows.

The woman smirked. “I thought that’s what you were after.

Ye’ll want Joe Brown, the blacksmith,” Mrs Campbell said as she led them upstairs.

“His shop’s just down the lane, past the cooper’s.

The anvil priest, folk call him. Many a fine English couple have wed over that anvil these past twenty years. I’ll tell him he’s wanted.”

“And how long might it take?” he asked.

“He usually can be ready within the hour, if need be.”

An hour. They would be wed in one hour. Elizabeth gulped. Mrs Campbell showed them to their chamber, a modest room, smaller than the ones they had stayed at before but it would do.

“A blacksmith,” Elizabeth said when they were alone. “You were correct.”

“A mildly disconcerting fact,” Darcy mused. “That our union will be solemnised by a man who typically shoes horses.”

They shared a nervous laugh. Then he bowed slightly. “I imagine you’ll want time to prepare.” He left her to herself. They were getting married.

Elizabeth turned to the small trunk already delivered to their chamber. It offered few choices—her blue travelling dress, still marked with ale; a morning gown; and the cream silk wedding dress once meant for her marriage to Jonathan Blackfriars.

She stared at it a long moment. To wear it now felt… peculiar. Yet it was the finest garment she possessed. Wrinkled though it was, the silk still caught the light, and the lace at the collar remained her mother’s sole extravagance.

“Strange,” she murmured, running her fingers over the fabric. “The same dress, for two weddings so utterly different.”

Practicality prevailed. Alone, she managed the fastenings with difficulty. In the mirror, she saw not the desperate girl who had stood trembling at St Martin’s, but someone altered.

A knock. Mrs Campbell again. “Mr Brown will see ye in fifteen. You’ll need witnesses—my husband and I’ll do, unless ye’ve brought your own.”

“Thank you. That’s very kind.”

“And Mr Darcy asked me to tell you he’s secured a ring,” she added with a smile. “Not everyone remembers that. Nice little side income for our Mr Brown.”

The thoughtfulness of the gesture caught Elizabeth off guard. She descended to the parlour to find him already waiting, dressed in a dark coat and fresh cravat. He turned at her entrance—and stopped.

The look he gave her silenced any greeting. Surprise, admiration, and something softer crossed his usually composed face. It held her still.

“Forgive me,” he said at last. “I had not expected— that is, you look most becoming, Miss Bennet.”

“Thank you,” she replied, her skin prickling. “I hope you don’t think it odd I chose to wear this gown, given its original purpose.”

“Not at all. It would be a shame for such finery to lie folded away.”

“It is rather wrinkled, I fear. My departure through London left its trace.”

“A mark of courage, not imperfection,” he said, and the glint in his eye caught her unawares.

He explained the steps ahead. Elizabeth exhaled slowly, grateful that while she had agonised over a gown, he had seen to everything else.

The ceremony took place in the blacksmith’s shop, the interior dim and warm after the chill outside. A fire glowed in the forge, casting flickering shadows across the walls lined with tools. Joe Brown, a broad-shouldered man in a soot-marked apron, barely blinked at their entrance.

“The English couple,” he said, wiping his hands on his leather apron. “Come for the marriage, have ye?”

“We have,” Darcy said, composed, though Elizabeth sensed a tautness beneath his calm.

“Right then.” Brown gestured towards the large anvil that stood at the centre of the shop, its surface polished by years of use. “Come forward and stand by the anvil. The Campbells will witness.”

The Campbells moved to stand opposite them, their expressions showing the practiced solemnity of those who had witnessed this scene many times before.

“Place your hands upon the anvil, joined together,” Brown instructed.

Elizabeth reached out, and Darcy’s warm fingers enveloped hers as they rested their clasped hands on the cool iron surface.

“Now then,” Brown said, his voice carrying the cadence of a man who knew his role well. “Ye must declare your intentions before these witnesses. Do ye come here freely and without coercion to enter into marriage?”

“I do,” Darcy replied.

Elizabeth took a breath, the reality of the moment washing over her. “I do,” she echoed.

“And do ye, sir, declare this woman to be your lawful wife?”

“I do,” Darcy said.

“And do ye, miss, declare this man to be your lawful husband?”

Elizabeth paused, then: “I do.”

Brown nodded, satisfied. “Have ye the ring you bought to mark the occasion? Not necessary by our law, but most prefer it.”

Darcy withdrew a plain gold band from his waistcoat pocket. “I do.”

“Place it upon her finger, then.”

As he slid the ring onto her finger, Elizabeth was struck by how smoothly it fit, as though it had always belonged there.

“By the ancient custom of Scotland, and in accordance with the law of this land, I declare ye to be husband and wife. There now. ‘Tis done and proper,” Brown said.

Elizabeth blinked. Like any young woman she had entertained thoughts of her wedding day—but never had it taken place in a lowly blacksmith’s shop, and never without her family present..

Darcy’s gaze sought hers, silent in its question. He too, seemed bewildered by the ease in which their lives had been bound together. She gave the smallest nod.

It was done.

The blacksmith scribbled something in a book and then straightened. “My records. Many English couples want something official to take them with. You?”

“Yes,” Elizabeth exclaimed without thinking.

Brown nodded and bent down again, writing something. Then, he handed the document to Darcy.

“That’s one and six for the ceremony,” Brown said matter-of-factly, “and another shilling for the marriage lines.”

Darcy paid him, adding an extra coin that made the blacksmith nod in appreciation.

“May your union be as strong as iron,” Brown said, returning to his forge.

***

Back in their chamber, the reality hung between them like a held breath. They were wed. And yet, they did not speak on the matter, instead returning to their previous easy conversation.

“I’ll request a private parlour for supper,” Darcy said. “You must be tired.”

“Thank you. Though I confess, my thoughts are not wholly here.”

“You worry for your family.”

“Yes.” She moved to the window. Darkness had settled over the village. “I wonder if my father now regrets insisting on the Blackfriars match. Whether he imagined I would ever flee rather than yield.”

“Your father made his choice. As did you. The burden of his misjudgement is his to carry.”

“And yet, my actions may bring scandal upon them all.”

“From what you told me, he had alternatives. Others will see that too. Or do you have second thoughts?”

She shook her head. “No, I do not regret it. Not for a second.”

After a pause, Darcy said quietly, “If you wish, I might write to your father and recommend a banker in London who could assist with the estate’s debts, if he’s unwilling to accept help from your uncles.”

She turned, touched. “That is generous. But I would not have you think I married for advantage.”

“I believe no such thing.”

“Perhaps we might wait. We should write once we’re settled at Pemberley.”

That evening, they dined quietly in the parlour. But returning to their room revived the tension that lingered like a second presence.

“I shall make a bed before the hearth again,” Darcy said.

“You’ve already done so for two nights,” Elizabeth said. “It cannot be comfortable.”

“It’s tolerable.”

“You winced this morning. The bed is large. Surely, we can share it without impropriety.”

Darcy looked surprised. “You are certain?”

“Less discomfort than seeing you suffer needlessly,” she said plainly. “This need not be an ordeal.”

“If you are comfortable…”

“I am.”

They prepared with scrupulous formality. A screen divided their undressing, and Darcy placed pillows down the centre of the bed.

“A barricade?” she asked, amused.

“A precaution,” he said, without quite meeting her eyes.

They extinguished all but the bedside candle. Elizabeth lay still, acutely aware of him nearby.

“Good night, Elizabeth,” he said. She turned. It was the first time he had spoken her first name. It was intimate, familiar. What a difference to the last two nights when they had gone to bed as Miss Bennet and Mr Darcy.

“Good night… Fitzwilliam.”

As sleep crept in, she found the thought of their strange marriage—its potential, its peril—not alarming but oddly comforting. She was no longer alone. And perhaps, in time, that might mean more than either of them expected.