A/N: I made myself cry so many times writing this. I walked away from this fic and from writing altogether for a while and picked it back up because I was reading some other things, in an entirely different fandom, that gave me all the feels all over again. I have been at war with myself over whether to share because it is incredibly hard on me: the aftermath of posting an update. Ultimately, this fic is one of my proudest achievements. For now I've chosen to see it through: all chapters written, proofed, and posted. That could change at the slightest provocation, but whilst I'm feeling brave, here goes.

The wedding ceremony is taken from the Book of Common Prayer. There was a 1928 revision, and we're set in 1930 here, and I took a bit from prior editions and a bit of the '28 edition because words mean things and I liked certain bits of verbiage better at key points in the narrative. Plus I thought it fit Richard and Isobel and that they would do just as I did and choose the words that were most significant for them. I have them taking a bit of license with the ceremony as well and I've no idea whether the Church of England would have permitted what they end up doing, and frankly, I don't care. I felt I owed them a ceremony befitting of them. And then there are the moments during their recollections where dialogue is quoted; those are taken, of course, straight from the script of Downton Abbey.

I'll come back around to this with one more update; after all, we can't have a wedding without the wedding night. Thank you for your patience; I know I've left this hanging for an awfully long time.

xx,
~ejb~

It's cool inside the church. Not quite damp, but almost, a pleasant surprise on a day that had dawned bright and cloudless and has grown stifling in short order. The suit he has worn at her behest and he's glad of it; it's the lightest weight of any he owns. His shoes pinch a bit, owing to their newness, and he can feel it as he shifts from one foot to the other. It is only by sheer force of will that he hasn't undone the stiff collar that threatens to suffocate him.

He rolls his eyes at his own ridiculousness. Nerves. At your age. What on earth is there to be nervous about? It's her.

That's precisely it, though: it's her. He pats his breast pocket for the twentieth time, though he can't imagine a scenario in which the rings that were there as recently as two minutes ago could have disappeared. Indeed, they remain. Deep breath.

This is the singular experience of life he'd have gone to his grave regretting having missed. It is happening. Here. Now. He is here and so is she. Every obstacle has been overcome. The impossible is moments from coming to fruition.

Why, then are his hands shaking?

Before panic has a chance to overtake him, two small, slender hands take hold of his own.

"Richard," she whispers, and the pounding of his heart calms. Her eyes reach for his, and when he meets her gaze the world falls away. Every fear that has racked his mind and ensnared his heart dissipates as she mouths the words, I love you.

The vicar begins to speak, standing before them, and as he listens, his mind wanders back over the details that have led them to this point.

We have come together
to witness the marriage of Richard and Isobel.

Marriage. And him. And her. He can't help wondering when he's going to wake up and discover it's just another dream. All that the years have wrought: war and carnage; new life and life lost; the highest heights of their association and the deepest, desolate years of loneliness.

Marriage is a gift of God in creation
through which husband and wife may know the grace of God.

It is given
that as man and woman grow together in love and trust,
they shall be united with one another in heart, body and mind,
as Christ is united with his bride, the Church.

As man and woman grow together in love and trust. Her eyes never leave his throughout the homily. Love. Never has their relationship wanted for it. Even in the dark times; indeed, even when the darkness seemed a direct result of it, the love has always been. And trust. Given with caution on her part at first, and reluctance on his, it had grown to the point that one knew the other's mind without it being spoken. And then the breach. Words he didn't say and the ones she did. Their foundation torn asunder; yet for both, the love remained.

Their reunion. Her remorse. His decision, based upon her character and not her actions, to work alongside her once again. The liberating thing that forgiveness has shown itself to be. His gift to her, certainly, but all the more to himself. Forgetting what's behind them; remembering only that she loved him all the while.

The gift of marriage brings husband and wife together
in the delight and tenderness of sexual union
and joyful commitment to the end of their lives.

Her cheeks flush. They share a knowing smile, and he squeezes her hands. This is not the venue for thoughts of that nature, yet he cannot stop himself. He reads the answer in her misty eyes as they blink at him, framed by dark lashes that fan out against her cheeks.

Soon.

He had said that to her once. It was during the fortnight they spent in Downton whilst the family had gone up to Duneagle. It was the closest they had ever been, and his heart in those days was carried along on swells of hope. Suppers at Crawley House: just the two of them and time away from the demands of work and family to talk in ways they'd never done before.

The smile that lit up her face, the blush of her cheeks as she confided, "It's a relief to be able to talk without having to explain oneself, isn't it?"

The funny skip of his heartbeat; the sensation of an albatross being lifted off his shoulders. "A relief, and a privilege. And I hope we can do it again. Soon."

The order of service keeps his thoughts from straying to dark places. The sheer horror of Matthew's death; watching Isobel's heart break irreparably. The way that he was never sure if his attempts to support her in the aftermath were welcomed, let alone successful. He knows the answer now, and that is all that matters.

Richard and Isobel are now to enter this way of life.
They will each give their consent to the other
and make solemn vows …

Cue the butterflies, whose wings beat a cacophony inside his belly. He's meant to be taking her to dinner later, but at this rate he can't fathom eating a single bite. Steady on, old man. He inhales deeply and it stutters throughout his chest like a sort of dry sob.

She raises an eyebrow at him. Alright? She mouths.

Just as he nods, the vicar prompts him:

Richard, will you take Isobel to be your wife?
Will you love her, comfort her, honour and protect her,
and, forsaking all others,
be faithful to her as long as you both shall live?

He feels the tears sting his eyes as he locks his gaze on hers and answers, "I will."

Isobel, will you take Richard to be your husband?
Will you love him, comfort him, honour and protect him,
and, forsaking all others,
be faithful to him as long as you both shall live?

She smiles beautifully, full and sparkling, even as two teardrops race down her cheeks. "I will," she says, with the same conviction as that time she told him:

"I have the adrenalin here in my hand."

He grins in spite of himself. Just you try and stop her. She is a force of nature.

The vicar turns to address the witnesses, and she squeezes his hand with force. Her chest heaves with silent sobs.

Will you, the family of Richard and Isobel,
support and uphold them in their marriage
now and in the years to come?

Mary Talbot, flanked by her son George, squeezes the lad's shoulder. They glance at one another as they answer in unison, "We will."

He watches her watching them, wishing he could hold her, knowing that inside her there is a tide of emotion swelling. If he could read her mind now it would tell him a conflicted tale. She can deride the aristocracy all she wants, but her grandson's status as Viscount Downton is the very thing that convinced the vicar to make an exception permitting the boy to stand, along with his mother, as a witness to their vows despite his being underage. He's certain that she is grateful in this instance, but that she would move heaven and earth for the chance to have Matthew by her side today.

For this and so many other reasons, he aches for the chance to get her alone.

He prays in earnest during the Collect. Shuts his eyes and pleads for a long life with her, now that love has finally come their way … And please, show her favour, Father. Give me the grace to see her through Your eyes and to always regard her as forgiven, and the strength to love and serve her well. He feels the words with such fervency that he is nearly frantic. So precious, so unlikely is their love, and he is desperate to get it right.

He gets through the vows, but only just, his voice breaking a handful of times as he endeavours to speak round the lump in his throat. She reaches out to wipe the tears from his cheek. This is the dream from which he would always awaken alone, now playing out before his eyes. I can scarcely breathe now without her. I am more myself with her than ever I've been on my own.

As if to illustrate the point, he holds his breath as she gazes at him, her earnest eyes full of love and promise.

"I, Isobel Fiona Grey, take you, Richard Egan Clarkson, to be my husband, to have and to hold from this day forward; for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part; according to God's holy law. In the presence of God I make this vow."

Mirroring her gesture of moments ago, he runs the backs of his fingers over the velvet of her cheek and catches her tears. "You're incredible," he whispers.

"I love you," she breathes in answer, and in her watery smile, in the faltering breath she takes as she fights for her composure, he hears the truth of her heart. I was so very wrong to refuse you, to turn you away. I can't take it back, but you will never know pain again. Your joy shall be my joy; your sorrow, my sorrow. All that you are is so precious to me. You're not alone anymore; never alone again.

Alone. Two syllables he despised, that had for so long haunted him whilst all around him, humanity existed in pairs. And now, suddenly, all he can think of is getting her by themselves. Alone.

A month ago she had asked him —plainly, as was her way— if he would consider wearing a ring for her. "Not in theatre, I mean, of course not. And not at all if you don't want to." Once the question itself was out of her mouth she'd begun to blush and to backtrack.

"Oi," he'd interrupted, leaning in close. He had kissed her with such intensity as to render her speechless, but just for good measure he'd added, "Quiet, woman!" with smiling eyes. And then, suddenly as serious as he'd just been joking, he had fixed her with his eyes and told her, "Nothing would please me more than to wear your ring." Her ring. Because the law, in its antiquated immutability, will declare her his, but he has been hers by entireties, the sum total of all his parts, since 1912.

And how he loves her, now, for her uncontainable spirit; the queen of the rebels stood before God and their cadre of witnesses. Defiance, arrayed impeccably in silk chiffon and lace, glancing surreptitiously at the vicar for his nod; the sweet solemn blink of her eyes as the weight of it is placed in her palm. She may not be able to give him her promise now, but he received it on that distant day in his surgery.

"I have the adrenalin here in my hand." Trust me; I know what's best. For your patient. For you.

He recalls the unspoken cry of her heart now as he watches her mouth move silently. With this ring, I thee wed.

They turn towards the vicar a bit, so that their departure from tradition is only witnessed between the three. "I love you," she tells him once again, privately, as she takes his left hand in hers and slides the band onto his finger, smiling tearfully. His hand trembles; for a fraction of a second she twines her fingers through his, squeezing. I am with you now. Always. I am yours.

The cold metal warms instantly and he nearly laughs aloud at himself because, soppy old git that he's become, he finds himself thinking, It'll never be cold again.

They adjust their positions and the vicar continues:

Bless, O Lord, this Ring,
that he who gives it and she who wears it may abide in thy peace,
and continue in thy favour,
unto their life's end; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

It's time.

He draws a shaky breath and holds her with his gaze.

"Isobel, I give you this ring as a symbol of my vow, and with all that I am, and all that I have, I honour you, in the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit." She watches him slip the ring onto her finger, and as it slides home she flexes her fingers and closes her eyes.

Finally.

Their hands now joined, they cling to one another, and yes, he decides; marriage does make all the difference. He can hold her hand and she can hold her head high and proud. As it should be.

He should be paying attention to the prayers, but he cannot tear his eyes away from her, breathtaking in the dress she'd seen whilst window shopping in the high street, and had instantly loved, and had subsequently talked herself out of buying. "I'm too old; you saw the shopgirls giggling! Besides that, it's far too extravagant. There'll only be a handful of us in the church."

He'd gone back to the dressmaker's on his next day off and had given the proprietor her measurements, along with a piece of his mind regarding the kind of help the man employed. He'd received a sincere, mollified apology and a hundred pound discount off the price of the dress. No matter, that; he'd have given his last tuppence if that's what it had cost him, and the minute he brought it home to her and watched her fall to her knees on his sitting room floor, weeping for joy, he knew he'd made the right choice.

She is radiant. Elegant. Regal. She'd gone on and on about the lay of the fabric, the detailing, the fine handiwork. He didn't understand a word of it but he agrees, now, as she stands before him. The way that the dress nips in just above her waist, the silhouette of the bodice, opaque to the top of her chest and the jut of her shoulder blades. The intricate lace overlay; sheer shoulders and sleeves (So much skin! Artfully concealed, exquisitely stylish, but sufficiently obvious to the point he's being driven mad). She carries herself with the grace of one who has lived well and loved much and been loved intensely; she has lost everything dear to her and risen from the ashes not once; not even just twice, but three times. She smiles as tears stream down her cheeks and oh, how he longs to take her in his arms and keep her there until the end of time.

She has been watching him watch her, and he feels his ears get hot when their eyes meet. She blushes under his gaze and he stands a little taller. My beauty; my bride. However bloody long are these prayers? Forgive me, Father, but surely You understand; given the circumstances, I just want to be alone with my wife.

He feels her arm quiver and glances over to catch the telltale signs of her desperate effort to hold back laughter; she knows him too well and his thoughts, it would seem, couldn't be more plain. She shakes her head at him almost imperceptibly, as if to say, Behave!

At last he hears the words he has been waiting for:

Now that Richard and Isobel have given themselves to each other by solemn vows,
with the joining of hands and the giving and receiving of a ring,
I pronounce that they are husband and wife,
in the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.

Those whom God has joined together let no one put asunder. Amen.

He turns to her, and she to him, and it's impossible to discern who initiates the embrace. His long-held composure breaks, and along with it hers, and in a breath he's sobbing into her shoulder as she weeps against his neck. Somehow they have managed to sit down on the edge of the altar (how he did not crumble to his knees and bring her with him is a mystery), and it's her whispers that do him in.

"It's alright …" Soothing him, "Hush, my darling …" Rocking him, "Oh, Richard …" Succumbing to the apogee of emotion. What it all means, at last. "My God … my God, you're my husband! Oh, my love … my love ..."

At last.

"My wife," he breathes in answer, raising his head. He sniffs, lifts her chin to make her meet his eyes. His lower lip trembles, her cheek resting in his palm as he stutter-sobs. "My beautiful wife."

Smiling beatifically, she reaches for the handkerchief in the inside pocket of his suit coat, dabbing at his eyes and then her own.

The vicar crouches down in front of them. "Is everyone quite alright?" he asks with genuine concern.

Richard opens his mouth to answer and finds he can say nothing. She reaches for his hand, wraps her fingers around his, nods and smiles. Swallows hard and answers for them. "This has been a very long time coming. All is well; only we find ourselves a bit overcome now it's finally happened."

The man has known Richard a little. Not details, but knows him to be a good man, devoted to his profession and well respected in the community. Any woman who can turn his attention away from the surgery must surely be a force in her own right. "Might I ask how long?"

They glance at one another and Richard realises that they're doing it: the thing that married people do; one answering questions on behalf of them both.

It's his turn this time. "Since before the War." The vicar's eyes widen momentarily; Isobel's eyes go soft, cataloguing the years between that fateful day and this.

"The timing was never right," she adds, "or when it was, one of us was always wrong." He notices she doesn't say, 'one or the other of us.' She does not hesitate to confess that it was she who kept them apart, though now he reckons he was wrong just as much of the time as she.

"No matter the reason, you've found your way forward together at last," says the vicar with a smile. "Your devotion to one another is as plain as day. I am reminded of the word of the Lord spoken through the prophet Joel:

"'I will restore to you the years that the locust hath eaten.' Never lament the time you fear you've lost, the years you could have had. You will have those years. Whereas before, you wouldn't have been prepared; now you know how to carry one another, come what may."

Richard and Isobel hold one another's eyes, astonished. This man, however kind, doesn't know them from Adam, and yet his words are specifically for them. Richard has always been wary of the notion of the Lord speaking through any means other than the Word itself, but the past several months have made him a believer in all sorts of things he'd previously put down to folly, so who is he to reject the possibility out of hand?

He rises on shaky legs, and, holding his hands out to her, helps her to her feet. They thank the vicar, sharing a meaningful look between them. There are more pressing matters at hand, but they must soon revisit this very personal blessing of their union.

She shares a teary embrace with Mary as they are leaving the church, saying their goodbyes. Neither woman speaks Matthew's name; Isobel expresses her gratitude to Mary for her presence and for George's, makes mention of wanting to see the girls soon. But the words are there in Mary's eyes, uncharacteristically soft. He would have been so very happy for you both.

She is quiet as they walk to the car, her arm looped through his, and by her measured breaths he knows she is holding tightly to her control. He huffs a laugh at himself, at her, the situation. Their first time appearing in public as husband and wife and the streets are empty. Accordingly, when they reach the car, he stops her.

"Isobel." Her name, half-whispered, leaves his lips reverently. His fingertips trail downwards from the inside of her elbow, slowly stroking over the lace of her sleeve, painstakingly making their way to her wrist as she watches. Her eyes lock upon his when he lifts her hand, pressing his lips to the pulse point at the base of her wrist. He sucks at the delicate skin for the briefest of moments and she mewls.

"My wife," he breathes in wonder, tugging on the hand he still holds, bringing her toe-to-toe with him. His arms encircle her waist, one palm pressing into the small of her back, his knuckles running upwards, to the base of her neck, and then back down, tracing the row of buttons, soothing and enticing.

"My husband," she answers, her voice hushed and brimming with amazement, "my husband!" Her own hands gain purchase at his waistcoat, her palms, warm and sure, slipping between it and his suit coat, pressing against the satin fabric at his back.

"My darling." Angling his head ever so slightly, he leans in, his purpose clear. As the tip of his nose nudges hers, he hears the anticipatory hitch in her breath, feels her chest expand and subsequently not contract. The corner of his upper lip brushes the centre of her lower and she whimpers into his mouth.

It's a sound he will remember for the remainder of his days. The way her arms draw him nearer, her hands grasping at his shoulder blades as his mouth descends upon hers at last.

They kiss unhurriedly, but it's all soft and chaste. Until the very end, that is, when he presses her against the door of the car and his teeth scrape ever so gently against her bottom lip.

"Richard!" she gasps, sotto voce, and it's halfway between admonition and encouragement. Anyone at all could come upon them kissing in the street like unscrupulous youths.

He grins against her mouth. "My love, I reckon I've earned the right, long as I've waited for this moment." He kisses her again and she doesn't chastise him.

Instead her lips brush the outside of his ear and her fingers curl in his collar as she whispers, "That's as may be, but what I've got in mind isn't something I'm keen to share with anyone but you. My husband."

He gapes at her a long moment and she smiles, raising a pretty eyebrow in silent provocation.

Yet again he is transported back to days of old, only this time the outcome works in her favour.

Game, set, and match ... to Mrs. Clarkson.

Oh, but there are such big pieces of my heart in here. Oof.