“I didn’t even ask Elizabeth until October,” William said.
“I know,” Georgiana replied with a smile.
Elizabeth paused to make sure she wouldn’t cry before she spoke. “Georgiana, that’s incredibly generous, but isn’t that during the event season?”
“Even the events can pause one day for this,” William said. “Georgiana’s right. Pemberley would be perfect. In fact”—he turned to Charles and Jane—“we could both be married here at the same time, if you like.”
“How efficient,” Elizabeth teased.
Had he read her wrong? “Of course we can also have separate ceremonies, separate dates . . .”
“Don’t allow her to tease you.” Jane shook her head. “Elizabeth and I have talked about a double wedding. She and I shared everything growing up. Why not our wedding day?”
“It would make it hard to forget your anniversary,” Lydia pointed out.
“Are you sure about having it here, though?” Elizabeth asked, looking between William and Georgiana. “I’d love it, but it’s so much work.”
“Elizabeth,” Georgiana said with a smile, “I run a classical music festival that brings in thousands of people for an entire week. I think I can manage a family wedding.”
“Well, we say yes,” Charles called from across the room. “Jane and I are in if you are.”
“A double wedding!” their mother exclaimed, vibrating with excitement. “Oh, how romantic! How perfect! We could coordinate flowers, and dresses, and—”
“I’d love it,” Georgiana said.
Elizabeth nodded. "So would I."
“Right then.” William reached for Elizabeth’s hand. “Pemberley it is.”
The conversation that followed was a delightful blur of dates and flowers and guest lists, punctuated by increasingly elaborate suggestions from her mother and Lydia, photography recommendations from Kitty, and more practical observations from Mary. Malcolm contributed the occasional comment about at least not being forced to attend two romantic celebrations, while Richard grew distracted, presumably thinking about his own potential future ceremony.
It was Charles who playfully demanded that they ought to move on to present opening, which was met with immediate and enthusiastic approval.
The present exchange that followed was everything Elizabeth had hoped for and more. William had taken her comments about romantic gesturesto heart—her present was a first edition of Arthur Conan Doyle’sThe Hound of the Baskervilles, with an inscription on a card that made her eyes water, along with a small velvet box containing earrings that matched her engagement ring.
Her most significant present to him was a photo album she’d spent months putting together and hiding from him. It was filled with pictures from their fifteen months together. Waffles featured prominently, of course, often in the process of destroying something or looking angelically innocent in the aftermath of disembowelling another one of his stuffed toys. But there were quieter moments too—William reading in his garden, both of them at Jane and Charles’s house for a party, Georgiana at the piano, Athena looking at the camera with pleading eyes while Waffles used her as a pillow.
“Elizabeth,” William said as he turned the pages. “This is—”
He was interrupted by a crash from the direction of the kitchen, followed by Maggie Reynolds’s voice raised in what sounded like fond exasperation and Waffles’s signature guilty whine.
“I should—” Elizabeth began, but William caught her hand.
“In a minute.” He pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “Thank you. This is perfect.”
“Even the pictures where you’re trying to avoid the camera?” She pointed at one. “It’s a brilliant shot of the rear view.” She grinned.
“Yes,” he told her with a chuckle. “Even those.”
The problem in the kitchen resolved itself, as it usually did, with no lasting damage and only minor casualties. The rest of the presents were opened with proper levels of enthusiasm and gratitude, though Waffles had to be prevented from investigating several packages that weren’t intended for him.
Malcolm received a book on wine appreciation from Richard (“So you’ll have something to do with your evenings”) and a cookbook from Mary (“For when you decide to stop living on takeaway”).
By the time the Fitzwilliam parents, Lord and Lady Matlock, arrived for afternoon tea, the drawing room looked like a Christmas shop had exploded in it, everyone was tipsy on champagne and holiday spirit, and Malcolm had moved from theatrical despair to resigned acceptance of his brother’s defection.
“At least,” he said to Elizabeth as they stood by the tall windows watching Richard help Lydia build an improbable snowman, “I’ll never have to worry about buying anniversary presents.”
“True,” Elizabeth agreed. “Though you’ll also never have someone special to share Christmas morning with.”
