Page 177 of Companions of Their Youth
She would not smile like that if she means to refuse me.
Surely not.
His breath caught.
She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen—not only because of the gown, or the lace, or the blush on her cheeks—but because she was herself. Entirely herself. Walking toward him as if she had always been meant to do so. As if his world had not truly begun until this very moment.
He barely heard the rustle of the wedding guests shifting behind him.
He barely registered the words Fitzwilliam muttered—something teasing about swooning.
His heart pounded.
And as she drew nearer, her hand resting lightly on her father’s arm, he thought only one thing, over and over again:
Thank You, God. Thank You, God. Thank You for her.
∞∞∞
The walk from the church doors to the altar should have felt long.
Elizabeth had imagined herself nervous—frightened, even—when this moment came. But now, with her father’s arm beneath her hand and Jane on his other side, her steps felt light as air.
The stone floor was cool beneath her satin slippers, the church bright with winter morning light streaming through stained glass. Gentle music rose from the organ, weaving through the hush of the guests like a whispered blessing.
But she scarcely noticed any of it.
All her attention—all her heart—was fixed on the man waiting at the front.
Darcy.
She had tried once or twice to call him Fitzwilliam—that was his given name after all—but it felt too awkward, since that was what his cousin also went by. There was something intimate about referring to him the way his friends did. Perhaps in time she might call him by something else, but there would be time for that.
Her soon-to-be husband stood tall and still beside his cousin, dressed with exquisite care in a dark cutaway coat and ivory cravat. His face was pale, his eyes fixed only on her. Not even a flicker of recognition for Jane, not a single glance at the others around him.
When their eyes met, the world went quiet.
There was so much in that look—a storm of love, reverence, disbelief. As though he could not quite believe she was real, that this was real, and that she was walking towardhim.
She had never felt more seen. More cherished.
Mr. Bennet squeezed her hand once before placing it gently into Mr. Darcy’s. His fingers curled around hers instantly—warm, strong, trembling just a little.
She looked up at him. He was still staring at her as though he had never seen anything so sacred.
“Are you well?” she whispered as they turned together toward the vicar.
“I am undone,” he said softly, so only she could hear.
Her heart gave a strange, happy flutter, and she turned her face forward, trying not to smile too wide.
Reverend Sanderson began to speak, his voice solemn and steady, echoing off the old stone walls. The familiar words washed over her like the tide.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation…”
Elizabeth held Darcy’s hand tightly. She could feel the tension in him, his thumb lightly stroking along her knuckles as if to anchor them both.
“…to join together this man and this woman, and this man and this woman, in holy matrimony…”
