Page 86 of Dragons of the Great Wyves: Fire and Song
“She saw troops, but they did not visit her. I took the liberty of telling her our news”—his serious expression broke into a hearty laugh—“honestly, I could not hold it in. She sends happy regards and a gift for the bride.” He lifted a corked, clay bottle of cider. “The Pemberley footman and driver are gone. They hid the coach behind the house, then headed north on foot ahead of the advancing troops.”
“I think they were wise.”
He glanced at the lowering sun. “My trip took longer than I thought. If we wish to marry while it is light…”
With that, everything became a rush. The group assembled, fifteen of us as none of the captives who escaped Hartfield had dared return to their homes. There was Harriet with Mrs. Prince; Mr. and Mrs. Collins; Anne, Mr. Weston, and their two-year-old girl; the Otways with their teenaged daughter Caroline; Miss Bates, her roseworm at her feet; and Lady Catherine, wearing a dramatic turban with an ostrich feather and flanked by the bronze wyvern.
Mr. Collins, his dark coat and trousers transformed into rector’s garb by his draped tippet, directed the modest crowd with unexpected efficiency. He approached me and Mr. Knightley. “Is it your wish to bind draca when you marry? I feel compelled to point out that her ladyship, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, feelsmoststrongly that all ladies should bind.”
Mr. Knightley looked at me, and I nodded. This was what the wyverns kept nagging about—you must bind for strength.
Mr. Collins nodded as well, visibly relieved. “Then we shall begin with the binding-of-gold.” That was the old ceremony to prepare a couple for binding. Some said it predated Christian marriage. He added, “And have you marriage gold?”
“Oh,” I breathed in dismay. I had forgotten.
At my sister’s and my christenings, Papa had set aside binding offerings: two virgin-struck gold guineas for each of us, the custom for a gentry lady. But Papa’s offering for me was at Hartfield—or stolen by the soldiers, or even by John.
“Emma,” Mr. Knightley said. I looked up and found him smiling. “Consideringthe inconvenience of war, I wished to offer you this.” He held out his hand, and nestled in his palm were two brilliant, unmarred golden guineas—marriage gold, far more valuable than normal currency.
“Isthatwhat you went to fetch?” I asked.
“One of the things,” he confirmed, pleased. He continued formally, “Wilt thou accept this gift, unencumbered and requiring no duty of thee?”
Those were the ritual words when offering marriage gold to a bride so destitute that she could not afford her own.
“I accept thy gift as mine own,” I said, completing the ritual, then I ruined it by saying, “but you must keep one foryouroffering!” Two guineas of marriage gold was worth more than forty pounds. I could not imagine how he had raised that much money, let alone… “Why do you evenhavethese?”
“I acquired marriage gold last year, before I visited you at Pemberley.” He licked his lips. “We spoke that day, but I… expressed myself poorly. Afterward, I found I could not part with the gold.”
“I remember every word,” I said. “You were eloquent. The fault was mine.”
Mr. Collins cleared his throat to break a lingering silence. “Then this matter is… settled?”
“It is,” I said and took the coins.
The binding-of-gold is a simple ceremony.Harriet would be my bridesmaid for the wedding, so she stood as green wyfe. None of Mr. Knightley’s London friends were present, so he asked Mr. Weston to serve as green husband. The two of them held hands behind us, symbolizing the consummation of marriage, and although Mr. Weston was too old to look romantically handsome beside Harriet, his military bearing made him dashing, and Harriet fairly glowed with beauty.
Anne Weston’s contribution was mistletoe and a leafy branch of oak, so those and a cotton kerchief served as our binding bowl. The husband and wyfe do not touch until the wedding proper, so we knelt carefully side-by-side while Mr. Collins recited scripture and then, in a surprisingly powerful voice, chanted the old Gaelic texts to an ancient Celtic tune. I placed my two guineas of gold in the kerchief. Mr. Knightley—I still struggled to think of him as George—added his contribution. His landed with the rustle of many coins and sank the kerchiefthrough the mistletoe, which frustrated me as I had become curious what else he had fetched from the carriage. But our marriage gold was now property of the Church, so that would remain a mystery.
The wedding itself followed the binding-of-gold. Dusk was spreading, so Miss Bates lit the lantern. Caroline Otway asked, “Will the French see it?” and that was enough to launch Mr. Collins into a breathtakingly accelerated service. I had barely blinked and removed my gloves before we were hand-in-hand and had repeated the vows.
Mr. Knightley placed a slim, gold ring on my finger and recited the husband’s pledge, “With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow.” His fingers were tender in the cooling air, and the import made me light-headed. I wasmarrying—clever and rich Emma Woodhouse, so certain she would never bother. I let the words flow past until Mr. Knightley caught my attention with an ironic eyebrow. Mr. Collins was speeding through one of the archaic passages about wyves submitting to husbands. Her ladyship punctuated that with a dismissive huff.
A cry of congratulation rose as Mr. Knightley and I turned to each other, holding each other’s hands tight, and in a daring display for a Surrey wedding, touched our lips. The sensation was unexpected, nothing like pecking Papa on the cheek, and it kindled a heat which trembled and spread, heightening my senses until I realized draca had gathered all around our hillside, watching and guarding.
“I thought about playing for you,” Mr. Knightley said, “but I think we should wait until we will not attract an audience of soldiers.”
“You retrieved your violin?” I asked. He nodded, and I pictured him laden with parcels, not to mention a gold ring, while he hiked back from the coach. “Did you fetch my luggage while you were at it?”
“I tried lifting one of your travel chests, but apparently they are full of bricks. The hatboxes were lighter, but I could not choose between so many beautiful bonnets, so I am afraid you will have to do without.”
That felt provocative before a wedding night.
Harriet had chosenthis setting because she and I often visited the drainsman on our picnics. He was a reclusive soul, happier examining a basketof fruit than conversing with ladies, but he insisted that Mr. Knightley and I accept a loan of his cottage for the night. After apologizing for the housekeeping, he headed off to visit his cousin’s farm.
It was a cozy, country place, with a feather bed and an iron stove, unlit in the warm spring. Harriet had arranged the two ripe strawberries on the table with a wreath of leaves. I placed my strawberry-decorated bonnet beside them and ran the tip of my finger through their delicate, rough-textured foliage.
“Emma…” Mr. Knightley said.
