Page 121 of Miss Bennet's Dragon
I grabbed his hand. The parson began the binding ceremony.
I had never been a green wyfe before, so it was new to me. The parson recited excerpts from Church texts but also passages in a lilting language I did not know. Probably Gaelic.
Even gloved, my held hand was heating unnaturally fast. It was bizarre to stand like this with Mr. Darcy—as proxies for touch between the soon-to-be-married couple. We had not even greeted each other. Our last conversation ended when he told me never to return to Pemberley.
Well, today he was required to go to Longbourn. And I, for at least a little longer, was the mistress of Longbourn. It would not be so easy for him to flee.
“Mr. Darcy,” I murmured.
“Miss Bennet,” came back softly. His fingers moved a little. Had he squeezed my hand? The parson had not said anything about squeezing. Was I supposed to squeeze back?
I went back-and-forth on that, concentrating on keeping my fingers perfectly motionless until I decided. Before I did, the parson lifted his tippet and we were done.
Determined to face my fears, I snapped my lips into a smile and spun even as Mr. Darcy turned to me. We ended up face-to-face and rather close. He straightened in surprise, then stared over my head with desperate seriousness.
I had forgotten how sharp those cheekbones were.
“Do you admire my hat, Mr. Darcy?” That popped out before I could stop myself, the same words I said when we first met.
“Would it be impolitic to admire your thoughts?” he said—whispered. The skin over those cheekbones flushed. He backed a step, bowed, and left.
That left me flustered with my heart racing. If we proceeded like this, Jane might survive the day, but I would not.
The wedding ceremony was in the church proper. Miss Bingley, Mrs. Hurst, and her husband attended for Mr. Bingley’s family. I received no greetingwhatsoever from Miss Bingley, which was very rude, but I forgave her as her schemes had failed so outstandingly.
Mrs. Hurst greeted me graciously. Jane would have a friend there.
Mr. Darcy sat with Miss Darcy. Miss Darcy had worn her unusual red dress embroidered with gold renderings of Chinese dragon myths. As I passed, I pointed a fingertip to it and gave her an encouraging grin. I knew she was hesitant to wear it in public. She returned a self-conscious smile below her red-and-gold bonnet.
Lydia and Wickham were not invited, but I could not have contacted them even if I wished. They had left Hertfordshire after Lydia’s failed attempt to control our drake, and I had no idea where they had gone.
The ceremony was beautiful, simple, and moving. My sister was married.
A luncheon at Longbourn followed.This was the fashion in London, although rare in country weddings. But Lydia’s rushed wedding had left Mamma deprived of maternal exhibition, so she was determined to make up for it.
That was good because I needed to speak with Mr. Bingley. I was already buttressing my bravery for that.
Unlike the wedding, the luncheon was a large event. The guests included local gentry, the Longbourn tenants all wearing their Sunday best, and those friends who could manage the trip on short notice. Colonel Forster was in Meryton arranging a new militia tour, so he attended with his wife. Charlotte could not attend so soon from Rosings, but the Lucases were here, Sir William pontificating about dukes while Lady Lucas inventoried our guests with an envious frown.
And of course, my aunt and uncle were here with their children. Their tykeworm bounded across the grass to greet me, only a faint crease in his side marking where he was shot. I scooped him up, ignoring the stunned stares.
This lured Miss Darcy to leave her brother, who was keeping a wide distance from me but was actually conversing with other guests.
Miss Darcy greeted me demurely, then tickled the tyke’s nutmeg-brown muzzle above his amiably bared obsidian teeth. The staring eyes around us widened further.
“Is your pianoforte repaired?” I asked, mostly as a joke.
“Yes, but I am dissatisfied with the voicing of the hammers.” She began an explanation peppered with technical German I could not begin to understand. I stopped her with a laugh, then had a thought and waved Mary over.
“Miss Darcy, may I introduce my sister Mary. She is our most accomplished musician, and a proponent of Beethoven.”
“How wonderful,” Miss Darcy said, and they began discussing his latest sonata.
Mary had reworked Lydia’s scarlet gown yet again for the wedding, wrapping it throat-to-thigh in open black lace scavenged from old scarves. She wore an improvised hat of the same lace, and her brown hair was down and defiantly uncurled, the ends hanging past a choker of black ribbon. The effect was so confidently unfathomable that ladies were studying it, assuming it was a new fashion.
Mary and Miss Darcy made an interesting pair—young, slim ladies in unusual and striking dress. They had started a little shy but were now gesticulating over some detail. Miss Darcy began to smile. Mary’s expression became manically intense, a promising sign as long as her partner was unintimidated.
I noticed gentlemen admiring them. Miss Darcy was a great curiosity, but eyes followed Mary as well, and I smiled to myself.
