Page 57 of The Mercy of Chance

T he early July sun filtered through Longbourn chapel’s ancient windows, casting honey-coloured light across the gathered family.

Elizabeth, in her silvery grey silk trimmed with the palest lavender, looked more radiant than any bride could hope to be.

The colour, whilst acknowledging their mourning’s latter stages, seemed to capture something essential about her character - that peculiar blend of practicality and romance that had first caught Darcy’s eye.

“It is not, to be sure,”

Mrs Bennet had said that morning, smoothing the silk with familiar expertise, “what I should have chosen for my second daughter’s wedding attire.

But then,” her voice softened with hard-won wisdom, “I suspect Elizabeth shall soon have more choices in fine fabrics than even my younger self could have dreamt of.”

Now, watching Jane adjust her sister’s bonnet with tender care, Mrs Bennet’s eyes held both tears and triumph.

The Colonel’s steady gaze, following Jane’s every movement, suggested that perhaps another grey silk gown might be required before the mourning period was completed.

“I suspect,”

Mary murmured to Kitty, “that improvements at Dunbar Court have progressed with remarkable speed, given the Colonel’s frequent need to consult with Jane.”

Kitty returned quietly.

“I am uncertain that his extensive military experience explains his marked concern for monitoring the orientation of the flower beds.

The ones beyond the bower where we cannot see them.”

The sisters’ exchange faltered as Elizabeth took her place beside Darcy, escorted by her Uncle Phillips.

Something in their bearing - her lifted chin, his softened gravity - spoke to the absence of those who should have stood witness.

Yet the very weight of that absence seemed to add depth to the joy, like shadows giving dimension to light.

“Dearly beloved,”

the parson began, his voice carrying the weight of generations of Bennet marriages within these walls.

Elizabeth’s hand trembled as it met Darcy’s, but her voice rang clear and true through her responses.

Darcy’s own vows, delivered with characteristic intensity, held a depth of feeling that brought fresh tears to Mrs Bennet’s already dampened handkerchief.

“I do not believe,”

Colonel Fitzwilliam remarked quietly to Jane as they followed the newly married couple from the chapel, “that I have ever seen my cousin look quite so… unbuttoned.”

“Whilst maintaining perfect propriety in his cravat,”

Jane said with gentle humour.

“A remarkable achievement.”

“Speaking of remarkable achievements,”

the Colonel’s voice dropped lower still, “I understand the south gardens at Dunbar Court show particular promise.”

Jane’s answering smile held all the warmth of the sky above them.

“I should be happy to offer my thoughts on the matter.

For the good of the neighbourhood, naturally.”

“Naturally,”

he agreed, his eyes suggesting thoughts far removed from horticulture.

Ahead of them, Elizabeth’s grey silk caught the light as she turned to her husband, her face illuminated with a joy that owed nothing to the colour of her gown and everything to the man beside her.

Mrs Bennet, watching her daughter’s radiance, could not regret a single thread of the missing wedding clothes after all.

The wedding breakfast, although modest in scale, hummed with the liveliness that occurs when long-held social barriers begin to crack.

Miss Georgiana Darcy, still shy but growing in confidence, was drawn into animated conversation with the youngest Miss Bennet about sheep breeding of all things.

“But surely the wool quality of the Merino crosses…”

Lydia gestured enthusiastically with her teacup.

“Lydia,”

Elizabeth murmured in warning, although her lips curved with amusement.

“Oh, pray permit her to continue,”

Georgiana interjected with unexpected authority.

“I have long thought Pemberley’s flocks would be improved by more innovative management.

Brother has been terribly traditional about it.”

“Traditional?”

Darcy’s eyebrow rose as he joined them.

“I prefer to think of it as a proved methodology.”

“Much like your approach to courtship, brother?”

Georgiana’s gentle teasing drew a startled laugh from Elizabeth.

“I see my wife’s influence has already corrupted you beyond redemption,”

Darcy said dryly.

Across the room, Mrs Long and Lady Matlock engaged Mrs Bennet in earnest discussion of estate matters - a far cry from their previous barely veiled disdain for the family’s active management.

“It seems,”

Colonel Fitzwilliam remarked to Jane as they observed the gathering, “that successful revolution in one quarter often leads to broader changes in perspective.”

“Indeed,”

Jane agreed, her placid smile warming as it met his gaze.

“Speaking of attention,”

Mrs Bennet’s voice carried with deliberate precision, “I believe the hour grows late for travellers hoping to make good progress before nightfall.”

Elizabeth felt a rush of warmth in her cheeks, although whether from her mother’s transparent innuendo or her husband’s suddenly intense regard was difficult to determine.

“Your mother shows remarkable tactical sense,”

Darcy murmured for Elizabeth’s ears alone.

“For myself, I have been calculating departure times since dawn.”

“Have you indeed?”

Elizabeth’s voice held that particular blend of challenge and promise that never failed to unsettle his composure.

“How fortunate that estate management has taught me the value of… prompt attention to urgent matters.”

Their departure, when it came, combined dignity with the quiet urgency of long-delayed longing and decidedly efficient farewells.

As the carriage pulled away, Lydia’s voice carried.

“But Miss Darcy, you simply must come see my newest lamb!”

“I suspect,”

Elizabeth said to her husband as Longbourn disappeared behind them, “that we have created a monster.

Or rather, two of them.”

“Better sheep than many other interests,”

Darcy replied with surprising humour.

Then, his voice dropping to a register that made Elizabeth’s breath catch, said, “Now, regarding that urgent matter requiring attention…”

The carriage wheels clattered over the last stones of the Longbourn drive as Darcy drew his wife into a kiss that balanced decades of propriety against months of desperate longing.

The grey silk of her gown whispered beneath his fingers, and he caught the faint trace of lavender at her throat.

When they parted, Elizabeth’s eyes danced with mingled mischief and something deeper that made his heart pound.

“I have waited,”

he murmured against her temple, where a few curls had escaped their pins, “to do that properly since that morning I found you on the stream along Netherfield, mud to your knees, demolishing my arguments about the proper occupation of ladies with devastating precision.”

“How remarkably unrefined of me,”

Elizabeth replied, although her hands had found their way inside his coat, the warmth of her touch burning through his waistcoat.

“What a pity you did not make your feelings known then.

I imagine, however, that distinguished gentlemen rarely propose to mud-spattered critics of drainage works.”

“I was rather too occupied wrestling with the realisation that said critic had somehow become essential to my happiness.”

His lips traced a path from her temple to the sensitive hollow beneath her ear, drawing a sharp intake of breath.

“Although I maintain you won that argument through sheer force of logic rather than practical experience.”

“Are you suggesting, sir, that my methods of persuasion lack adequate foundation?”

Her fingers splayed against his chest, and he wondered if she could feel the thundering of his heart beneath them.

“On the contrary.”

Another kiss, deeper this time, her soft gasp lost against his mouth.

“I find your methods of persuasion dangerously effective.”

“How fortunate,”

Elizabeth breathed, arching toward him as his hand found her waist, “that I intend to use such powers only for the good of Pemberley.”

“Pemberley’s good being your primary concern at this moment?”

The feel of her pressed against him made coherent thought increasingly challenging.

“Among other matters that demand immediate and thorough attention,”

she murmured, her eyes bright a warmth that threatened to undo every last thread of his composure.

Her smile held promise enough to make him forget a lifetime of decorum and half a millennium of Darcy restraint.

“Although I wonder what the ton will make of the great Mr Darcy being conquered by a country maiden who dared challenge his ideas on estate management?”

“I prefer to think of it as being utterly vanquished by the extraordinary mind that the maiden displayed.”

His voice had roughened as she shifted closer still.

“The critique was only the beginning.”

“How diplomatic you have become,”

she said, although her own voice had grown unsteady as his hands traced the line of her stays through silk.

“I find I rather prefer this to our early encounters.”

“As do I,”

he agreed, drawing her into the shelter of his arms where she fit as although made for the space.

“Although I maintain that even then, you were the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.”

The carriage swayed gently as it took a curve, late summer sunlight dappling through the windows across their entwined figures.

Darcy proceeded to demonstrate just how thoroughly she had conquered him, propriety be damned.

They continued north, with the rhythmic sway of the carriage and the warmth of the morning forgotten entirely in the heat of their own making.