M. Darcy Takes a Wife

© 2006 S. Faith

Standard disclaimers apply: the whole toy chest belongs to Helen Fielding. I'm just playing with her dolls.

Part 8: Take Me I'm Yours

Tuesday 2 October

The cathedral was so tall that the tops of the graceful gothic arches could not be seen in the dim candlelight, yet Bridget craned her head back anyway to try. She could vaguely hear the voice of the vicar in front of her and her attention snapped back to the proceedings only when she heard her name recited in his laboured monotone.

She looked to her right, but could barely see Mark for the sheer vastness of tulle veil in her peripheral vision. In fact, she could barely move at all; she looked down to see she was wrapped mummy-like in lace. Mark was in full tails and top hat, but with the infamous reindeer jumper instead of a proper tuxedo dress shirt and ascot. He cleared his throat, and began to recite his vows. Except that they weren't vows. She realised as he spoke that she was hearing him say what he'd said to her after the Smug Married dinner when he'd confessed he'd liked her just as she was. Yes, yes, there was the line about there being ridiculous elements about her, her 'interesting' mother and being a bad public speaker.

She began to panic. She didn't know if she could remember everything she'd said to him when she'd bared her soul to him at his parents' Ruby Wedding. Something about wearing the dumb - no, stupid things his mother bought for him… and being haughty… and having unfashionable sideburns… damn! If she'd only known she was supposed to have prepared for this, she would have.

Mark turned to her, expectation evident in his eyes. She merely sat there slack-jawed. "Bridget?" he asked, looking concerned. "Bridget? Bridget, wake up."

She did with a gasp to find herself in the darkness, in bed, beside Mark, who woke at the unexpected sound. Sleepily he blinked. "All right?"

She nodded. "Weird wedding dream."

"What this time?"

When she described it, he started to laugh, opining, "That's one of the better ones."

She pouted. "I'm glad you think so."

"Come here."

She curled up into the crook of his arm, and he planted a kiss on her forehead.

"Still do," he murmured, fast on his way back to sleep.

"What's that?"

"Like you just as you are."

She smiled, making her way back to Bedfordshire. "Same here."

Saturday 13 Oct

"So Bridget, I've been thinking. We need to talk."

Slight feeling of panic. In Bridget's experience, rarely had the phrase "I've been thinking" or "we need to talk" been followed by anything but "we should see other people" or "it's not really working out between us", and here were both damning phrases in the same breath. But, she reminded herself, this was Mark. Fabulous, loving, doting, caring Mark, who'd tolerated more from her than any woman had the right to expect a man to take. She looked over to where he was sitting on the chair; he'd set down the law journal he'd been reading.

"What about?" she asked, trying to sound casual as she hit the mute button and leaned forward to set down the telly remote.

He said, "It isn't anything bad. But it is something of a serious subject." True panic became apparent on her face, she was sure, for he smiled, rose and joined her on the sofa. "Don't look so worried. I just thought I might bring up something for discussion while it isn't being forced upon us during three minutes of panicked, nervous waiting."

She blinked in disbelief. There was only one thing he could be speaking of, and she felt the colour drain from her face. At this he out and out laughed.

"It isn't as if I can surprise you with an announcement of a bundle of joy. But the holiday season will be upon us before we know it, rife with Christmas visits and cards from family and friends, and neither of us are destined to be barraged with 'How's your love life?' anymore." He took her hand. "Aside from 'When's the big day?', you know as well as I do what's next on the firing line of nosy personal questions."

He was dead right, and frankly, it was a discussion they should have had months ago, or at the very least, after the misunderstanding on his birthday. She looked down, remembering what they'd said to each other that day in the ski lodge, still embarrassed at her words and her behaviour.

"I don't mean to suggest we should start picking out prams and stocking up on dummies straightaway, because I'm still too enamoured of having you all to myself," he said, pulling her close to him. "But we should be of like minds when we are ready."

She nodded. Humbly she offered, "I never properly apologised for what I said to you that day. I'm sorry."

"I am sorry as well," he said, kissing her temple.

On that awful day, they had argued about so much in such a short amount of time that Bridget was uncertain where to begin, suddenly feeling like she was navigating a minefield. She thought about her biggest objection - sending a son off to Eton - and was about to bring it up when he anticipated her thoughts: "I want to say up front that I am quite firm about any son of mine following family tradition and attending Eton. I can't see that changing, so I want to know why it bothers you so much."

Bridget found that aside from tearing a young boy away from the familiarity, security and love of his parents to live in an incredibly structured school environment - which wasn't an insignificant concern - she had no argument to offer that wasn't based on popular assumptions of what Eton was like and stereotypes about the type of man it produced. But Mark had gone there; he would know better than anyone. And he'd turned out just fine. "What if this son isn't ready to be sent off to school when it's time?" she asked.

"Bridget," he began softly, "I think you would be more reluctant to let him go than he would be to leave. And it's not like he'd be sent away at age five. At thirteen he'd hardly be a child any longer." He really had a scary memory for arguments, for he'd countered her concern calmly, though it was surely much easier to be calm without a live ordnance on the coffee table between them. Of course, he did argue human rights violations cases as a matter of course for a living, so it shouldn't have been a big surprise to her. "If you need to, talk to my mother. She went through it all." Bridget tried to imagine a pre-pubescent Mark tearfully separated from Elaine's maternal arms. "I can still remember the morning I left. I was petrified to go, but within three weeks of being there I couldn't imagine being anywhere else."

"Really?" she asked.

He nodded. "It's not that far from London, and the education is top notch. The Princes both went there."

"Mm-hmmm." She then interrupted his sales pitch by asking quietly, "When you put it that way, it doesn't sound quite so loathsome, but what if this hypothetical future offspring is a girl?"

Mark looked vaguely stunned, as if the possibility hadn't entered his mind. Bridget could not stop a smile from forming on her lips. "It could go either way, you know," she added.

He regained his composure. "Of course we would find something… equally excellent for… her."

"Doesn't sound like you've considered a girl for a moment," joked Bridget.

"That's not it at all," he said sharply.

She was stupefied into silence for a moment, then said, "Mark, I didn't mean to suggest you'd think a girl sub-par—"

"There hasn't been a Darcy daughter in five generations," he informed her.

Bridget blinked. "Really?"

He nodded.

"Well," she began thoughtfully, "it's a good thing I like blue." She sat up straight and turned in her seat to face him. "And what if this likely-to-be-boy child wants to grow up to do something outside of the realm of law, medicine, or Her Majesty's Navy?"

He looked down to her through his lashes. Genuinely puzzled, he asked, "Why wouldn't he?"

"Humour me," she said dryly. "Mind you, with your genes, I can't imagine he'd be anything but staggeringly bright. But what if he, say, gets a D in French and all chances for Oxbridge go out the window? Or what if he wants to be an artist? Journalist? Working in theater or on television?"

Mark clearly was working through an inner struggle; certainly he was considering the change of heart she'd had over Eton and his regret for previous child-rearing-related comments, so in his response he would not want to appear to disparage her for her career choices, force upon a hypothetical future child an academic career he or she was not suited for, nor commit any future children to a new-age, hippy-dippy, love and granola liberal arts-type school path. At long last he said contemplatively, "I suppose, Bridget, we would have to take it as it comes."

Bridget smiled to think how far they'd come as a couple and leaned forward to put her arms about him. "I think we are indeed of like minds."

He tightened his embrace. "Mmm. Now, I remember you saying something about the name 'River'…?"

She laughed. "I think 'Mark' would do just fine."

Wednesday 17 Oct

The Muse was a fickle mistress. Inspiration for column number three was eluding Bridget and she had taken to pacing around her office. The first two had been very popular with the paper, and Bridget hoped that she hadn't run the well dry with her tales of boozing with Shaz and Jude. Frustrated at a wasted morning, she plopped down in her chair again just in time to see a little window pop open on her laptop screen.

It was an instant message window from Mark: "Hope all's well. Recess for a few, can't get mobile signal in here today, saw you online."

She smiled and replied: "GAAAH, can't think of anything for #3, otherwise OK."

After a few minutes of quiet (during which she could see that he was typing, then not, then typing again) a reply popped up: "How about mining your diary for ideas?"

Devastatingly clever, that man. She told him so, then hopped up to find the red volumes. The current one was residing under a pile of papers on her desk but the previous year's was located in a drawer in the bedside table. She popped upstairs to retrieve it, and once back at her desk, she opened the older one and began thumbing through. The pages fell open to the day of the Smug Married dinner, the one after which Mark had approached her to confess that he liked her just as she was. It had been Sunday, the fifth of November. Which was coming up again in less than a month.

She smiled and turned to her keyboard to ask: "Still there?"

The 'Away' notification disappeared, and his reply came: "Just about to go… everything all right?"

She typed hastily: "Yep, just found entry, 5 Nov last yr, Magda & Jeremy's, when you told me you liked me. Almost 1 yr ago - unbelievable!"

There was no immediate response, so she wondered if he had stepped away before she'd gotten her reply to him. But then she saw typing activity quickly followed by a new message: "Is that so?"

She sent back a smiley emoticon, which displayed as a sickeningly cute happy-face graphic.

He replied: "Well. We shall have to do something special to commemorate." Followed unexpectedly by not just a smiley-face, but a smiley-face graphic with little fluttering hearts by it.

He suddenly went off-line; she imagined that perhaps Giles (or eek, Rebecca) had come in and he'd hurriedly closed the application down. She looked though at the little happy-face graphic he'd sent and could not help but smile. A lot had certainly changed in a year's time, and not just the fact that he'd gone from being Someone She Hated to Someone She Loved Beyond Measure, or the fact that they'd shagged too many times to count. No, he was much more affectionate and impulsive than he used to be, and she was a great deal more secure and a little less afflicted by verbal incontinence.

Mmm. Yes. Definitely much to celebrate.

And even better, she had column-fodder: the Smug Married dinner party. It would be fictionalised to the point of being unrecognisable, of course, because one thing did remain the same: he was and always would be intensely protective of his privacy.

Thursday 25 Oct

"I forgot to tell you," said Mark casually as he pulled on his socks. "Have to go to Carlisle week after next. Working on an important case."

From her reclining position on her pillows in bed, Bridget asked, "For how long?"

"Couple of weeks."

"Oh, for my birthday?" Bridget sat up, pouting. Resignedly she asked, "You'll have to stay there, won't you?"

"Unfortunately, yes. But I do want you to come with me."

She brightened considerably. "Really?"

"I already told you I wouldn't leave you behind for trips longer than a week." He finished buttoning his shirt, and stopped to look at her with a smile. "You'll make the trip entirely bearable. You can bring your laptop if you like and work during the day."

Even though it was only Carlisle, she suddenly imagined herself sitting with her laptop at some quaint little café, typing away and sipping a mocha like a high-tech mover and shaker. "Oh, goody!"

"I thought you might approve." He drew his trousers up, carefully tucking his shirttail in. "We'll actually be taking a small charter plane out of London City Airport so that we don't have to drive the seven hours north."

"Wow. Must be very important."

"It is." He leaned over the bed and kissed her on the head. "Hm. I do hope you won't be bored."

She grinned. "I'm sure I can find some trouble to get into when I'm not writing."

Gravely he said, "That, my dear, is what I'm afraid of."

Friday 2 Nov

Procrastinating writing once again, Bridget was researching things to do in Carlisle via the magic of the internet. She'd skimmed past mentions of Hadrian's Wall, art galleries, a castle and a cathedral to read up on the shopping, the lake near Brampton and the Victorian Turkish baths when her mobile rang.

It was Shaz. "Hey, Bridge, we're thinking of doing a spa day on Sunday. Want to join us?"

"Mmm, yes, sounds lovely. Will be pretty and well-coiffed for the trip."

"Trip?"

How had she failed to mention this to the girls? After explaining, she added, "We're leaving on Sunday night. And frankly, it will be nice to actually, maybe, you know, get a shag in." Mark had been so busy prepping for the case that for every night since he'd told her about the trip (eight days, but who was counting?), she had gone to bed alone and woke the same way. He'd been looking rather fatigued; she missed him terribly but was too conscientious to ambush the poor man.

In a slightly sarcastic voice, Shaz retorted, "Poor, poor baby. So how's nine sound?"

"In the morning?" she groaned.

"Well, it is a spa day, and worth it for beauty, Bridge!"

Bridget sighed and agreed.

"Excellent. Will meet you there." She gave Bridget the address. "See you then!"

Sunday 4 Nov

Mmm. One full body massage, scrub, full depilatory, manicure/pedicure, makeup, haircut and highlights later, Bridget almost had to peel herself off of the settee afterwards, feeling like a puddle of pampered contentedness. The girls pitched in and paid for the whole thing, which was terribly generous of them.

"Oh, Bridge, you look fantastic!" Jude said, holding her hand to her mouth, then sharing a look with Shaz.

"You do," agreed Shaz. "Your hair looks fantastic, and the nail varnish is beautiful - that shade really suits you!"

She wiggled her coral-tipped fingers. "I feel so glamourous!" She did a little twirl.

"He'll think of nothing but you," sighed Jude with a smile.

"When do you leave?" queried Shaz.

She glanced to her watch and was horrified. It was four P.M. "Shit. Shit! Is that the time?"

"Durr…"

"I have got to get home. I haven't packed a stitch and our flight leaves at nine."

"We'll get a taxi for you." Jude pulled out her mobile and punched in directory assistance.

"So do you know what this case is about?"

Bridget shook her head. "He will usually tell me if he can, asking for opinions if he needs them. If he doesn't offer, I don't usually ask. We tend to like to keep work out of our private time."

Shaz waggled her eyebrows. "No, can't imagine talking about prisoners of conscience does much for a shagging mood."

Bridget laughed. "Very true." She sighed. "I can't wait to get to our hotel."

"Still no shag?" asked Shaz.

Bridget looked despondent. "No."

Shaz and Jude pushed their lower lips out and looked to each other then Bridget sympathetically.

As the taxi came to the kerbside, Shaz said, "Well, hope you have a good time and get your shag in. We'll see you when you get back."

"Call us if you get bored," added Jude.

Shaz snickered, which Bridget thought a bit strange. "I mean, like you're going to get bored with Mark, right?" Shaz explained quickly.

"Right," said Bridget unsurely.

She got in the taxi and waved; Shaz stood there with her arm around Jude, waving as they pulled away. The girls could be very odd at times.

When she arrived back at the house, she found two bulging suitcases and a toiletry case packed and waiting by the front door. "Mark?" She walked into the house and headed up the staircase, finding him in the bedroom, apparently making a final sweep.

He said, not looking up from tucking something into his attaché, "Ah, there you are. I've packed for you already; I hope you don't mind. Take a look through your clothes and make sure I didn't miss anything you'd desperately want. And bear in mind we'll have laundry service available." Almost as if he knew she liked to over-pack on the delicates.

Feeling rather like she was being herded by a headmaster (and an unobservant one at that), she nonetheless returned downstairs to do a quick search of her clothing and toiletries and found he'd been thorough. She heard his footsteps behind her and turned to see him carrying his attaché. "How about my laptop?"

He indicated another bag slung over his shoulder, one she had not previously seen. "Already packed. And your notebook."

Still no comment on the results of the spa day. "You don't miss a thing, do you?" she asked ironically as he set the bags down with the others. He then went for the banister leading down to the kitchen, picking up one of two black coats and holding it up to discern it was the smaller of the two.

"Not usually. Here's your coat; it's bound to be chilly—"

She raised her brow and cleared her throat, pointing to her hair.

He stopped his fussing and took a very good look at her. "Except for when it comes to how absolutely stunning you look, apparently."

She grinned, tossing the lightened mane from side to side.

Before she knew it, Jeffrey and the Bentley appeared at the kerb, and they climbed in. They made a stop for dinner, where Mark plied Bridget with a perfectly prepared steak and the best red wine she'd ever had, resulting in serious tipsiness by the time they arrived at London City Airport. She'd never been on a private charter before so she let Mark do all of the talking; while he left her sitting on a bench, he went to speak with the men in security, once turning to indicate she was his companion. They looked to her. She smiled and waved, and they looked back to Mark. The security men smiled. One even winked to him - as much as Tom spoke of what he referred to as Mark's 'cute, tight little arse', it was still a little weird to see her fiancé getting hit on. They were then escorted to the hangar and allowed to board. She should have expected it, but it still surprised her to see they were alone on the plane. Once seated he presented her with sparkling wine to help her relax, told her the flight shouldn't be more than an hour and a half.

She was soon on her third or fourth glass of fizzy (she'd lost track), which was, in fact, going straight to her head at top speed thanks to the altitude. Hm. Altitude. She suddenly remembered the non-elective stretch of celibacy, came up close to him and, as she nibbled on his earlobe, asked if he was interested in joining a very exclusive sort of club. He seemed amenable, except things went black before she could truly pursue it.

……………

"Bridget. Darling. We're about to land," came the soft voice from beside her, and she roused, her head still quite swimmy.

"Mm. Has it really been only an hour?"

"Actually, longer than that. We've been circling, waiting for clearance."

"Ah."

"Here, have some water, or you're going to have a terrible headache in the morning."

Sensible and sexy. What a catch.

Landing was a breeze, and there was a car waiting to take them to their hotel. Even in the darkness of full night it seemed gorgeous and far more metropolitan than anything she expected from a small city in Northern England. It did occur to her that everything looked slightly off: the street signs and the number plates on the cars looked somehow wrong and she couldn't quite place why. She chalked it up to being slightly pissed from wine and also sleepy from the extremely long day beginning at the spa.

He told her to wait in the car and he popped inside to check in. She dozed back to sleep, but before too long he was back to gather her up. He slipped his hand around her waist and took her up to the room. It was a lovely suite, quite swanky actually, but she supposed that sort of comfort was required if they were going to be there for two weeks. He had the porter set the bags down, handed him a tip, and turned back to Bridget. He helped her wash up and change into a nightshirt, which she thought was delightful.

She wavered in place as she watched him turned down the bed sheets. Concerned, he said as he slipped an arm around her waist, "Darling, you look like you're about to fall over. Let's get you into bed."

"You sweet-talker, you."

She was asleep before she hit the pillow.

Monday 5 Nov

She woke to the dreadfully loud peal of a telephone. Blinking the sleep out of her eyes, she reached for the receiver and placed it to her ear. "Hello?"

"Good morning, it's seven A.M. Time for your wake-up call." The female voice was light and cordial, in a pleasantly lilting Scottish accent; they were, after all, in close proximity to the border.

"What? I didn't order a wake-up call." She vaguely remembered Mark saying he wasn't needed until Monday afternoon, and he promised that he'd be finished in time for them to spend a special evening together for this sort-of anniversary.

"Just following instructions. Good morning." The woman hung up, and Bridget returned the receiver to the base. Intent on returning to sleep, she turned over to throw an arm around Mark when she realised he was not there. In fact, it did not appear that he had ever been there, as the other side of the bed was quite pristine and very obviously not slept in.

She sat up, senses fully awake and alarmed despite the low pounding of a hangover headache. That's when she saw a scrap of paper sitting on the bedside table, folded in half. She snatched it up to see that it read "Ring up 2545" in Mark's precise printing.

Utterly bewildered, she did.

On the other end she heard his distinct, "Mark Darcy speaking."

"Mark! What the hell is going on? Where are you?"

"Good morning, darling. Your breakfast is on its way up."

"You didn't answer my question—"

There was a knock on the door.

"You'd better answer that." He disconnected.

Gah! If this was a practical joke, it was not in the least bit funny.

There was another rap. Despite the confusion, concern and head pain, she managed to peel back the sheets and get to the door. "Who is it?" she asked.

"Room service," said the voice.

She opened to door to see a most perplexing sight, the last two people she ever expected to find at her door, save for possibly Daniel Cleaver and Natasha Glenville. But it was in fact Shaz, holding a garment bag and a small toiletries case. Beside her was Jude, a brown paper bag in one hand and a paper coffee cup in the other.

An exasperated "What the fuck?" fell from Bridget's mouth before she could stop it.

"Lovely to see you too, pumpkin," said Shaz, a wicked little grin on her face as the two of them pushed past Bridget and into the room. Bridget was too stunned to react.

"Here's your breakfast," said Jude, handing her the bag. "Though whether you'll be able to eat is another story."

The girls were not making sense; things were bizarre and surreal in a very dreamlike way. "What are you doing here? What's going on? Where's Mark?"

Jude looked to Shaz, the light of realisation dawning on her face. "She doesn't—"

"No," interrupted Shaz quietly, grin still firmly in place. "Brilliant, that Mark. Planned the whole fucking thing."

"What? What?"

Smugly, Jude said, "You're not in Carlisle at all, Bridge. You're in Edinburgh."

For a moment, she could only stare mutely. Indignantly she asked, "What are you talking about? Don't you think I would know if I were in—?"

Scotland. The charter flight and the pre-packed bags and the strange number plates and the odd road signs and weird accent and—

She flew to the window, pulling the curtain aside. As she saw the glimmering dawn over the water, she realised that unless she was very much mistaken during her research online, Carlisle did not have an eastern sea coast.

She turned back to her friends. "What is going on?" she asked quietly.

They looked at her simultaneously, then back to each other. They decided without words that the best way to tell her whatever it was they were going to tell her was to reveal the contents of the garment bag, for they hung it up on the closet door and peeled down the zipper.

The flap fell open; Bridget became quite light-headed.

In the garment bag was her gorgeous ivory silk dress, similarly toned kitten-heeled shoes, and a pearl-encrusted headband with a short sheer silky piece of fabric attached to it.

In other words, a veil.


Notes / Reference / Links:

Section title: "Take Me I'm Yours" by Squeeze. Though I'm partial to the live version that appeared on KFOG's Live From the Archives Vol. 1, or the version that appeared on Desert Roses 2 (credited as Glenn Tillbrook, Chris Difford & Latifa).

Scottish licence plates! UK licence plates! (Pretend there are links to pages about these things here.) We'll just pretend that Bridget saw a lot of the square ones, mmkay:)

Sunrise/sunset times in Edinburgh in November (pretend there's a link here, too). Okay, so this is for 2006, but does it really vary much year to year:)