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.”
