Page 27 of Mr. Darcy's Runaway Bride
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 modestroom, 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 withtools. Joe Brown, a broad-shouldered man in a soot-marked apron, barely blinked at their entrance.
