From This Day Forward
Part 2 of 5
By S. Faith, © 2008
Words: 34,523 (this part: 7,946)
Rating: M / R
See Part One for details. (If you want to see links to photos and other sites, go to my LiveJournal page.)
One day to go
The ceremony itself was not particularly complicated, but a run-through for the sake of combating nerves on the actual day seemed completely necessary. Mark and Bridget arrived in Grafton Underwood that afternoon, taking their things to their respective parents' homes, then went to the church under the threat of darkening skies. Aside from the vicar, they were the first to arrive; the vicar welcomed them with open arms. "How lovely it is to see the both of you! I remember both of you much younger… how much you've changed!"
"I should hope so," Bridget said. "I was kind of a dork as a teenager."
Mark chuckled, reminded once again of his bride-to-be's tendency towards verbal incontinence. "It's nice to see you too."
Flushing, Bridget added, "Yes, of course, it's very nice to see you."
"Where is your wedding party?" asked the vicar, apparently not offended.
"Not too far behind us," said Bridget. The lot from London had stopped to check into their rooms in the only bed and breakfast in town. Pam had tried to offer her friends a place to sleep, but lodging with the Joneses was impractical as they did not have the room to spare; Bridget had also confided to Mark that she secretly suspected they had no desire to spend the evening in the company of her pre-wedding-high-strung mother, something she was not crazy about doing, herself. Hugh, who would be staying with Mark at his parents', was en route from Stratford and nearly to Grafton Underwood, per his last mobile call. Nick did not come to the rehearsal, had stated in no uncertain terms that his time was better spent tending to overseeing food preparation for the wedding day: "I bloody well know what to do at a wedding."
Colin and Pam showed just then; though not directly involved in the ceremony, Pam declared she would not miss a moment of this, even the rehearsal. She took her daughter in her arms and kissed her cheek, then pulled away to examine her. "Darling, you're looking a little peaked… we'll be sure to get you in bed very early so you're bright and fresh tomorrow… and Mark, you've been making sure she hasn't been overly fretting, haven't you?"
"Of course." Foot rubs, kisses and cuddles every night.
"Well, there's just some things a bride-to-be can't help," gushed Pam. "You'll be gorgeous tomorrow, everything will go perfectly, and—"
She was interrupted just then by a rumble of thunder, and Colin took the opportunity to grasp her arm and pull her back. "Pam, let's have a seat in the pew here so they can begin."
"Begin? No one else is even here yet!"
Malcolm and Elaine appeared at the door, shaking out their umbrellas. "Hello, Mark, Bridget, Pam and Colin… and of course you, vicar…. Just wanted to see the walkthrough, hope that's all right." They took a seat besides Bridget's parents.
"It's fine," said the vicar, "though too many more and we'll be duplicating tomorrow's efforts."
All present chuckled, breaking the tension, just as the door opened. It was the entirety of the London wedding party. "Sorry we're late," apologized Magda. "Got a bit turned around leaving the bed and breakfast. Rain made it hard to navigate."
"There's another fellow heading this way too, just behind us," said Jude. Mark figured it must have been Hugh, which was confirmed when Hugh's smiling face appeared a moment later. He waved to Mark.
The vicar clapped his hands together and beamed a smile. "Are we all here then? Fantastic. Let's begin."
He explained that the men of the party would already be at the altar and at Mark's side, though at counting the number of men and women in the party, he seemed confused. "Why don't the groomsmen come and stand here in your places? Best man will come stand just to Mark's side, right about here."
They did so, though Mark explained that the last of the groomsmen, his uncle, was not present that day.
"Then who is that young man?" asked the vicar, pointing to Tom.
Tom replied, "I'm the maid of honour, in a manner of speaking."
Hugh looked over to Tom, then to Mark. "How did I not know this?"
"I'm sorry, mate. Could have sworn I'd told you," said Mark. "Since Bridget couldn't decide which of her friends to ask, I told her to simply ask the one she'd known the longest. That happened to be Tom."
While a fairly decently open-minded man, Hugh seemed surprised, even still. He managed a smile and said, "Well, I suppose if we must dance at the reception, we must, but I draw the line at snogging in the coat room." Everyone chuckled; Tom winked playfully.
The vicar spoke up. "When we begin, the first one to process will be the flower girl. Is she here with us today?"
Magda pushed Constance forward. The little girl smiled shyly. "Hi."
"What's your name, dear?"
"Constance."
"Oh, a lovely name, perfect for the job you are here to do. Come here, Constance."
The vicar was very good with Constance, explaining how she was opening the whole ceremony, and it was her blessed duty to scatter flower petals over the aisle to the altar to guarantee the happiness of the bride and groom. Her little brow furrowed as she listened very intently, nodding along with him, before turning to look at where Mark was standing with his arm around Bridget. "You mean Auntie Bridget and that man from Dad's office?" she asked him, looking slightly perplexed.
Everyone present stifled a chuckle. "Yes, Constance," explained the vicar, "though I suspect it would be all right if you call him 'Uncle Mark' now."
She appeared to mull this over with great concentration. "Okay, sir," she said, meeting the vicar's eyes. "I can do it."
"I have every confidence that you can," said the vicar with great solemnity.
Next he said the bride's attendants would process next, the first one beginning when Constance was halfway down the aisle, and so forth. Just before the bride and her father would be the maid of honour—"Perhaps I should say 'mate of honour'?" joked the vicar—then Bridget and her father, who would pull her veil back before giving her away to her husband to be. They walked through it for guidance on pace and placement, Hugh taking Mark's place at the altar, and Tom, Bridget's.
Everyone was amused.
Quickly he covered the ceremony itself, what he would be saying, and what the bride and groom would be saying in return; the exchange of the vows, the troths, and the rings; the formality of the signing of the wedding document. "Then everyone kind of processes back out in reverse order, bride and groom first, and everyone assembles in the vestry. After the church has emptied, then the wedding party would go out, followed finally by the newlyweds."
"Is that when we get to throw the rice?" piped up Constance, causing everyone to erupt with laughter.
"Yes, darling," said Magda, looking a little sheepish, patting her daughter's reddish hair.
"Now," boomed Malcolm, who up until then had been relatively silent. "I think this calls for a round at the pub. What do you say?"
Mark looked with a smile to his fiancée—who would, within the day, be his wife—and found her smiling back. "I think that sounds like a very fine idea," said Bridget.
Mark nodded.
"I have something for my ladies, and Tom," continued Bridget.
"Bit redundant, Bridge," Tom teased back cattily.
As they left the church, Mark saw evidence of the serious rainstorm that had washed through, but thankfully the rain itself had abated, and it appeared the clouds were dissipating. A half-step ahead of her, Bridget pulled Mark aside. "I know we kind of said we wouldn't buy gifts, but have something for you, too."
He looked down to her with a smile. "And I you."
"Later. When we're alone."
"You mean, before I take you home like a public school boy with a curfew?"
She laughed, getting up on her toes for a quick peck. "Something like that."
At the pub, he had a pint, she had a glass of her favourite chardonnay, and both ordered chicken pasties for dinner. With all of them there in that very casual setting—even Giles had a pint or two, and was loosening up and talking up a storm—they had a lovely time, but the whole while all he could think of was having her alone for a little while before taking her back to her parents' house… and that the next time he'd see her after that, she would be in her bridal gown.
"You still haven't said where you're going on honeymoon," said Shaz, over a pint of lager. "Mark still not telling you?"
Bridget shook her head. "Insisting on surprising me. Wouldn't even let me watch him pack my things. All I know is that my passport is required."
Mark glanced to his mother, who smiled and gave him a little wink. She had been his co-conspirator in the entire honeymoon plan, and had been absolutely confident that Bridget would consider it a dream come true. His mother's judgement had to this day never let him down.
Sharon made a dismissive sound: "Fwah. That's hardly a good clue. That just means you're not staying in England."
"I know!" Bridget said excitedly.
From the way Constance was getting whiny and cranky on her mother's lap, Mark suspected Magda and Jeremy would want to retire to their room sooner rather than later. From Bridget's sudden turn to her bag, he suspected she thought the same. She pulled out a little rectangular box for each of the women, and a smaller box for Tom. "This is to thank you for standing up with me tomorrow."
Jude, Sharon and Magda each pulled the lid from their boxes, and gasped when they saw that each one contained a gorgeous string of cultured pearls, and a matching set of drop earrings. "These are absolutely gorgeous, Bridge," said Jude. "I don't know what to say. Thank you!"
Tom's box contained cuff links with inlay pearl on the stud. "First pair I've ever owned," he said, "and probably the only ones I'd ever want. Thank you, darling." He reached across the pub table and kissed her on the cheek.
Mark knew that Bridget had intended on wearing a necklace of her mother's tomorrow, a three-tiered strand of delicate pearls, and he only smiled in approval, looking ever more forward to giving Bridget her present later.
Magda and Jeremy left shortly thereafter (the latter carrying a groggy Constance), but it wasn't until the shadows had started to get long that Malcolm paid for everyone's drinks and meals and made noises about going back to the house. With that everyone began to gather their things and head out for their respective homes.
Once outside, Mark took Bridget's hand and walked with her to the car. "How about a little detour before I take you home?" he asked as he opened the door for her.
"Not too much of a detour," said Bridget. "I think for the first time in a good sixteen years I really do have a curfew."
He chuckled. "No, not too much."
He drove them out to the edge of the town, to where the landscape turned outright pastoral again, then after pulling off of the road, led her to a stout stone wall. The sun was getting low on the western horizon, casting the countryside in shades of bronze and gold. He sat with his arm around her, feeling his warmth against her in this cooling summer evening; he closed his eyes and breathed in the faint perfume of her shampoo. It wasn't as if he wouldn't be seeing her for weeks and weeks after this night, but it had been so long since he had slept alone and apart from her that he felt her impending departure that much more acutely. He kissed her on the temple.
"The calm before the storm," she said, her voice shaking a little.
He chuckled. "Everything will be fine," he said serenely.
"I'm going to trip on my own foot and end up arse over teakettle on the middle of the church."
He continued to smile, turning to look at her as she looked out to the horizon, the fading sun setting her hair to shimmering. "You will not, love. You will be gorgeous and poised. No one will be able to take their eyes off of you… least of all me."
She looked at him at last, smiling reluctantly.
"Just keep focused on the goal of the day," he continued, "and everything else will fall into place."
"That's easy for you to say," she said; he could tell her spirits were lifting from the teasing tone of her voice. "You haven't had your backside broadcast on television."
He laughed, then reached into his jacket pocket. The sun was, after all, diving for the horizon at an alarming rate. "I want to give this to you before we lose the light of day. Somehow giving this to you by car dome light doesn't have the same appeal."
He handed her the box—obviously jewellery, obviously from Tiffany's—and she looked up to him with wide eyes. "Mark. This is much more than I expected."
"Bridget," he said. "It's no more than you deserve. Now open it already."
She pulled of the ribbon, pulled open the lid, and she literally gasped. Setting the box on her knees, she pulled out the length of pearls and started to chuckle amidst her tears of happiness when she saw that the toggle clasp at the end was the same open heart as her favourite necklace. "Oh my God, this is beautiful…" she began, her voice cracking. "I don't know what to say."
"You need not say anything," he said.
"This must have set you back a small fortune—"
"None of that," he said, raising a finger to cross her lips. "If I want to shower my future wife with pretty things, I will, and I'll spend what I like."
She looked at them, examining their luminescent sheen, then met his eyes again. Simply and honestly she said, "Thank you."
"Anything for you, darling," he said. "I mean it."
He'd nearly forgotten that she had a gift for him as well, but as she handed it to him, she looked almost embarrassed. "This is for you."
"Bridget, love, what is it?"
"It's nothing fancy," she said. "Not nearly as fancy as this… but I hope you like it."
He lifted the lid to find… well, it was beautiful, but he wasn't sure precisely what it was supposed to be. It was antiqued gold, fit neatly within in the palm of his cupped hand, and was intricately and delicately designed. He examined what appeared to be a pair of hands framing a heart with what looked like a diamond inset, above which hovered a crown accented in emeralds. The craftsmanship was astounding.
"It's a Royal Claddagh amulet," she said seriously. "The hands are for friendship, the heart is for love, and the crown is for loyalty and fidelity. And since you don't wear jewellery besides your watch—well, and I suppose your ring after tomorrow—" She paused to smile. "—I thought you could, you know, keep it in your pocket for luck tomorrow, so you know that I'm thinking of—"
He reached forward, cupped her face in his hand, and interrupted her with a tender kiss.
"I guess this means you like it?" she said after he broke away, her eyes ever inquisitive.
"I love it," he affirmed. "And of the two of us, I think I received the better gift."
She smiled.
The sun was half-concealed behind the horizon; he realised he'd better get her back to the house before her mother pitched a fit. He snuggled into her one last time, combing his fingers through her hair, then kissed her on the temple again. "Come on, darling. We should go."
She nodded. "It'll be non-stop tomorrow."
"Yes," he said. "You should definitely get your rest."
"Especially since the girls will be over at seven a.m. to start primping and preening me."
"You'll be a vision, I'm sure."
He stood, took her hand and led her back to the car, she with her box in her free hand, he with his box in his, and without another word they settled into the car and drove back into Grafton Underwood.
He walked her to her parents' front door. On the front porch of her parents' house, she turned to face him; with him standing a step down, it put them nearly nose to nose. Despite the crazy day in store tomorrow, she offered him an impish grin. "I feel like you are a public school boy out past your curfew," she said, "but you're still chivalric enough to walk me to my door. The question is, will you dare to kiss me goodnight?"
"Every night I possibly can."
He leaned forward, raising his hand to her face again, brushing his thumb along her face before touching his lips to hers, kissing her with the full depth of his love for her before releasing her.
"Sleep well, Bridget," he said quietly, touching his forehead to hers, closing his eyes.
"I love you," she said.
"Should hope so," he replied. "You're marrying me tomorrow."
She laughed lightly then kissed him again, then opened the door and headed into her childhood home.
"And Bridget," he said; when she turned back to look at him, he continued, "I love you too."
She smiled, then closed the door behind her.
He looked at the door for a moment more before turning back to his car. The porch light switched off just as he pulled away and headed back to his parents'.
When he got home, he found his mother in an uncharacteristically fluttery state, laying out all of Mark's clothes for the day in his room, removing the suit from its protective bag, making sure his shoes were polished to perfection and the ascot tie was without a crease. "I'm sorry to be in here and fussing," she said, "but I wanted to make sure there wasn't something I had forgotten."
He grinned, laying the box down on the dressing table besides all of the other essentials for the day. "It's quite all right," he said. "It doesn't bother me in the least."
"What's in the box?" asked Elaine.
He pulled the lid off. "It's from Bridget. Her gift to me."
"May I?" she asked, miming picking up the amulet. He nodded his assent. As she held it close to examine it, he watched her smile grow wider, and then her eyes met his. "Oh, this is lovely, and so very Bridget."
He knew she meant it as a high compliment. "She said it's for luck tomorrow."
"You hardly need that." She set it back down, then walked over to Mark. "You should retire early, get a good night's rest. I'll see you in the morning."
"Absolutely." He bent to kiss her cheek. "Good night."
After she left, he went to the window, could see the stars had appeared in the sky, the last traces of sun completely gone, and by next nightfall Bridget would be his wife. It was a prospect that he looked forward to more than anything, and yet, he could not help feel a certain melancholy: that his only brother had not come. If he wanted to hold on to unreasonable hope, he supposed he could have thought Peter would show at the church the next day, but he knew better. As much as Mark had hoped Peter would attend, this had turned out exactly as he imagined it would.
He was disappointed, but not surprised.
"Not getting cold feet, are you, boy?" Nick.
"Not at all," said Mark, turning to look at his uncle.
"So why such a long face?"
Mark explained. Nick looked thoughtful.
Nick said after some deliberation, "I'm sure there's a very good reason. I can't imagine Peter not wanting to see you happy, whatever differences you may have with each other."
Since Mark had never told anyone for the reason behind the estrangement between Peter and himself, he guessed Nick was just speaking in general terms. It did, however, remind him that their estrangement had stemmed from Peter caring too much about his brother's happiness.
"Plus," said Nick, "he would be especially happy to have someone in the family with whom he could share his ridiculous left-wing ideals."
Despite it all, Mark chuckled, thinking how astute an observation it was. "I think you're right," he said. "Still, it would have been nice to have him here."
"I know your parents wish that, too," said Nick reassuringly, patting Mark's shoulder, the older man apparently studying his nephew's face. He wondered what Nick was thinking. At last he added, "Good night, Mark."
"Good night, Uncle Nick."
He turned for the door and passed through it, before turning back to say, "Mark, I'm sure you're aware that I'm not a big fan of the institute of marriage. I just want to make sure you know that my good wishes for you and that dear child are not overstated because you're my sister's boy. I am truly happy for you both."
Mark smiled, touched to hear his uncle speak in such a way. "Knowing what I do about you makes your good wishes that much more meaningful to me. I—we—thank you all the same."
With a parting, cockeyed grin, Nick turned and left the room.
Mark's eye was caught again by the amulet in its box, and it caused him to run his eye over all of the accoutrements laid out for the next day; the trousers, vest, jacket and shirt all hanging to let any remaining creases be taken care of by gravity; the ascot tie was lying flat and unfolded on the dressing table to avoid being wrinkled; he chuckled to himself to see that his mother had even picked out a pair of socks and coordinating boxers for him to wear. Once a mother, always a mother, he thought, even if her boy has long since grown into a man.
"That pretty much looks like what your mum did to my things," came a voice from the doorway. Mark turned to smile at his old friend Hugh.
"She's just got nervous energy. Forgive her for how it manifests. You know she's not normally like this."
"I know," said Hugh. "She's acting a little more like Bridget's mum, whom I had the pleasure of meeting today." His eyes went momentarily wide as if still reeling from the acquaintance. "Speaking of your lovely fiancée, is Bridget all safe and sound at her parents'?"
Mark nodded. "I can only imagine how things are going there," he said, smiling again.
"Hopefully making her a doctored hot chocolate to help her get to sleep, and not trying to give her daughter the old 'facts of life' speech," Hugh said with a chuckle. "Thought I'd come and say good night before I turned in."
"I take it you're comfortable?"
Hugh nodded. "Just on the other side of the bathroom," he said, "just like when we were school mates."
Mark laughed, thinking back to those university holidays during which Hugh would come to stay instead of making the long drive back home to Manchester. "Hope my uncle isn't giving you the evil eye like the old days."
"No, he was very civil. Guess he realises I'm not out to filch the silver, after all."
Mark laughed again at the recollection, so many years ago, of Nick's incorrect assessment of Hugh's character. Twice he was dead wrong, thought Mark amusedly.
"So how are you doing?"
"How am I doing?" he asked. "I'm fine."
Hugh gave him a sidelong look. "Maybe do you need some doctored hot chocolate?"
"No, really. I'm fine."
"Not in the least bit nervous?"
"Why should I be?"
"Getting married? Tying the knot? Lots of people have irrational second thoughts on the eve of."
"I don't," he said decisively. "This is what I've been looking forward to for over a year now." Smiling again, he joked, "Everyone asking if I'm nervous is what's making me feel nervous."
At that Hugh laughed. "Fair enough." He took a look at Mark's suit, and this time when he smiled it was filled with softness and sentimentality. "I think you'll wear it quite well," he said.
Mark wasn't sure if he meant the suit or married life, but decided he liked keeping it a mystery.
"Night, Mark," said Hugh, and with a wave he headed out. Mark followed him to the door.
"Good night yourself, old man," Mark called back, then watched Hugh head into his room before going into the bathroom to prepare for bed. It felt strange to see his toothbrush resting there all by itself in the holder; his overnight shaving kit was neatly zipped and resting by the basin as he had not seen it since before Bridget had come to live with him. It felt stranger to think of a time before he had her in his life, like everything was a grey haze prior to that December night a year and a half ago.
He crawled into his double bed, switched off the light, and laid down on the pillow; not having her there, not hearing her soft breathing as she slept, made the silence seem overwhelming. He fully anticipated staring at the ceiling as his subconscious went over every detail for the next day, but it was fairly soon afterwards that he was solidly asleep, his last slumber as a single man.
………
The day itself: ceremony
Morning arrived at last, and it was gloriously sunny and gorgeous outside as Mark rose. He smiled as much at the pleasant weather (given the storms of the day before) as he did about the peaceful state of his mind that had allowed him to so easily fall and stay asleep. They were both good signs.
Getting showered and shaved then dressed at his parents' house all had a very surreal quality to it. There was no hesitation in him at all, no fear; he wanted this more than he could say, but he felt almost like he was an observer in his own body as he did these routine things.
He heard a faint rapping at the bedroom door just as he fastened the dark grey trousers around his waist, shirt tucked neatly in. It was his mother, and she smiled wistfully as she came to stand beside him as he looked in the mirror. "Oh, Mark," she said, her eyes tearing. "You look so dashing."
He smiled, meeting her reflection's gaze. "Thank you."
"It's rather pointless of me to say so, because I know you know this already, but I'm going to say it all the same: the two of you will be so happy together, and I'm happy for you."
He slipped his arm around his mother's shoulders, then turned to kiss her upon the temple. "I will never get tired of hearing your approval of her."
She laughed lightly. "Darling, I was pushing you towards her from the get go."
He smiled. "Is Hugh up yet?"
She nodded. "Yes. He's in the shower now, met him as he was heading into the washroom." She smirked. "He's still rather amused that his cohort in the wedding is Tom, and a bit worried. He's afraid he won't meet any girls at the reception after this."
Mark chuckled.
Elaine turned and looked up to her son, smiling and misty-eyed, not saying anything for many moments. "Well. I had better finish getting ready myself. Just wanted this moment with you before everything… it'll be nightfall before you know it, everything will be over and you'll be married…"
He reached forward and embraced his mother. "I have been before, you know."
"That was not the same," she said quietly.
Mark had no choice but to concur: "You're right."
She kissed his cheek, smiled up at him again, then left the room.
He reached for the vest, also of a solid grey; he slipped into it then picked up the deep cobalt-coloured ascot just as another knock sounded upon his door.
"Yes, come in," he said.
"Hello, son." It was Malcolm. "Just coming in to see how you were doing. No cold feet I trust."
"None whatsoever."
Malcolm saw what his son was holding, and asked, "Need a hand with the tie?"
Mark didn't, actually, and he suspected his father knew the same, but he held the tie out to the man with a smile. "Sure."
Malcolm slipped the tie around Mark's neck, sliding it beneath the collar, leaving the left side long, crossing the long side over the short, wrapping it around again before bringing it up and over the top, through the loop, so that the silken fabric fell down in a cascade over the short end and over the shirt buttons.
"There," said Malcolm with finality, after making a few adjustments to the creases at the top of the tie. "Now for one final touch."
He reached into his jacket pocket, and pulled out a tie pin, fixing it into place through the tie. It wasn't until his father fastened the vest shut and he turned to look at himself in the mirror that he realised the pin coordinated perfectly with the tiara Bridget would be wearing today, a subtle, small starburst of diamonds that resembled the floral pattern on that tiara.
"What on earth—I had no idea there was a matching pin," Mark said, floored.
"There wasn't," said Malcolm, looking a little smug. "This is a wedding present to you from your mother and I." Mark glanced to the door to see his mother had peeked her head into the room and was grinning with equal smugness.
He turned back to his father, still stunned. "I don't know what to say. Thank you."
His father clapped his shoulders, then kept them there. "You are very welcome, Mark," he said solemnly. "Now let's get on with this very good day, shall we?" Mark nodded.
His mother came in to kiss him again, then herded her husband away, throwing one last smile back over her shoulder.
He slipped into the jacket. He carefully placed Bridget's claddagh amulet into the interior breast pocket, then patted himself just over his heart; feeling it there against his own heart was somehow wonderfully reassuring. He took one last critical look at himself in the mirror—no cuts from shaving, sideburns were even, hair looked immaculately coiffed, suit perfectly pressed—and smiled.
Time to get on with this very good day, indeed.
………
With Hugh bringing up the rear in his own car, Mark rode to the church with his mother, father and Nick. Bridget had decided early on (and he had agreed) that she wanted to have the wedding at the little church there in Grafton Underwood, but when it came into sight, he was suddenly not so sure would hold the number of people invited. He decided he preferred instead to feel thankful that so many people wanted to spend this day with them, and he smiled.
Out in front he saw Jeremy and Giles; they stood there looking quite dapper in their matching grey suits, there in front of the building. His father parked and they all exited the vehicle. Jeremy at once turned and grinned, holding his hand up and waving. His mother and father entered the church, but Mark held back to talk to his groomsmen.
Jeremy said, "Hey, Mark, feeling nervous?"
Without hesitation he said, "Not in the least. Has Bridget arrived yet?"
"Not yet," said Jeremy. "Got a message on my mobile that they're running a little behind."
Of course they are, Mark thought with some amusement.
Hugh and Nick came up from the car park, flanking Mark on each side; the four groomsmen were dressed very similarly to Mark, only they lacked the vest and their ties were a slightly thinner strip of fabric.
"I'd be nervous as all hell," said Hugh.
"Wouldn't catch me at an altar, and you're crazy to do it again," said Nick, though Mark saw the upturned corner of his mouth and knew the man was kidding. "Of course, that child is one in a million."
"Agreed," said Giles. "Couldn't be happier for you, Mark."
At that moment Malcolm emerged from the church. "Mark, son, I've been told to tell you to come on in and wait in the vestry."
"Can't run the risk of your seeing her when she arrives," reminded Jeremy in a confidential tone. "Women are very touchy about these things."
In all truthfulness, Mark didn't want to see her until her father walked her down the aisle, and it had nothing to do with superstitions of bad luck. He couldn't wait for that moment to see her wearing her undoubtedly beautiful dress, her veil shading her features; couldn't wait for that veil to be lifted to reveal her face, which would undoubtedly be glowing, her blue eyes sparkling, and, if he was not mistaken, glossy with tears of happiness.
"Right," was all he said aloud.
Mark went in through the door and was immediately overwhelmed at the decorations that had been put into place: cobalt blue ribbons tied into elaborate bows on the ends of each pew, and vases of beautiful white roses decorating nearly ever surface possible. He headed down the aisle and was met by the vicar, who had chosen vestments to match the décor, white with blue trimmings. "Mr Darcy, if you'll come with me, we'll keep you back here until the bride arrives and settles in. Don't want to risk a chance meeting before the ceremony."
Mark fought a smile. Seemed that women weren't the only ones that were touchy about these things.
It felt like an eternity, sitting in the vestry, surrounded by racks of vestments and reproductions of famous religious-themed paintings; the longer Mark sat back there, the more he actually did start to feel nervous. He glanced down at his watch, saw to his surprise that there were only ten minutes remaining until the ceremony was supposed to begin, at noon.
The door swung open and only then did he hear the low murmur of voices coming in from the church proper. It was Hugh, and he was smiling.
"Never fear, the girls are here."
Mark let out a sigh of relief; it was not that he thought she'd changed her mind and called things off, but knowing Bridget's penchant for attracting difficulties, he was excessively reassured to know she was actually on the premises.
"They've just arrived, and they're all tucked away where you can't see them, ready to step into formation when needed. So I thought it might be a good time for you to give me the ring, so I can give it back to you during the ceremony."
The broad smile that had taken up residence on Mark's face vacated very quickly as he realised he had not in fact grabbed the rings from his dressing table.
"What is it?" asked Hugh.
"The rings. I left the rings at home."
Hugh's own face fell. "In London? We're screwed."
"No, at my parents'."
Recovering a bit, Hugh said, "Well, okay, T minus eight minutes and counting, surely your uncle has a lead foot and can get there and back—"
Mark heard a gentle throat-clearing from the direction of the door. They both looked up to see Nick, and in his hand was a small velvet box. "Just been to give Tom your ring. You're very lucky I have kept rein on my senses today, unlike the two of you," he said in a teasing tone.
Mark was beyond grateful, and also knew that were it anyone but his beloved Bridget he was marrying, Nick would not have been teasing. "Oh, Nick. Can't thank you enough."
"Don't mention it. Now come on. Time to line up." Nick poked his head back out the door, and signalled presumably to the missing groomsmen.
"You don't have to make it sound like we're about to be executed by firing squad," said Hugh playfully.
………
Jeremy and Giles joined them in the vestry, and they filed out one at a time—Giles, Jeremy, Nick, Hugh and Mark—then came around to take their place at the altar, Hugh close to Mark's side, and the other men separated from them by a very small distance. The crowd hushed to silence and the place seemed almost eerily quiet. And then…
…nothing.
Nothing for what seemed far too long, so long that Mark became a little worried, though was careful not to show it. His attention was focused on the far end of the aisle, as was everyone's, and he could have sworn he heard a rustling commotion, before seeing what appeared to be a small girl.
Ah yes, he thought; it was Magda and Jeremy's Constance, the flower girl, holding a basket and dressed in a pretty, frilly dress with a wide, dark blue sash at her waist, her auburn hair all done up elaborately with white rosebuds and blue ribbons. At seeing that she had garnered so much attention, she beamed a smile, revealing a missing tooth at the front, at which a murmur of chuckling washed over the assembled.
Suddenly the sound of a violin pierced the silence with a beautiful rendition of the traditional wedding march, and Constance tossed a look over her shoulder. Apparently having been given the all-clear, she looked forward again, that smile still in place, then started walking forward in a step-stop processional manner, grabbing a handful of flower petals from her basket and tossing them in front of her at every step.
When she got halfway down the aisle, he saw Magda appear in the threshold, who then began to process forward as well. The dresses, which he had only heard descriptions of, were beautiful; deep, jewel blue, satin, ankle-length and of classic lines flaring down from the hips, with off-the-shoulder sleeves. Magda's hair was swept up, and around her neck was the simple string of pearls Bridget had gifted her with the night before; from her ears hung the elegant pearl drop earrings that had come with it. She was holding a small but lovely bouquet at her waist, also of white roses and dark blue ribbons.
Then came Jude, looking equally similarly elegant, her dark hair also up off of her shoulders; shortly after her, Sharon followed. Mark had never seen her look classier, or prettier.
Next appeared Tom, who looked debonair in a suit very similar to what the groomsmen were wearing, except that the colour of Tom's suit matched the ladies' dresses. His cravat was of white silk, and he was also carrying a small bouquet. There was a rise in the number of murmurs in the audience as he processed down; a male 'maid of honour' would certainly be the talk of Grafton Underwood for weeks to come.
Tom reached his position parallel to where Hugh stood; the violin went silent, and then Mark saw it, the outline of two figures at the end of the aisle. The violinist then began again, Wagner's famous Bridal Chorus, and that was when the two of them stepped forward and into the overhead light.
Colin Jones looked about as Mark expected him to, a little ruddy from nerves and smiling very proudly, but it was Bridget from whom he could not tear his gaze. Her dress was ivory silk and strapless, flaring out in a flattering A-line from her waist to the floor, trailing behind her in a modest train; the bodice was embroidered with delicate floral patterns and embedded with a peppering of shining stones that twinkled as she moved forward. She had one hand tucked in her father's elbow, the other holding her gorgeous bouquet. He could tell that her hair was also swept up and cascading down in a tumble of curls, but the veil covered all further detail.
As father and daughter got within steps of the altar, Mark no longer heard the music nor was he aware of anything around him except her; he watched as her father lifted the veil and pushed it back over her head to reveal the extent of her loveliness. His eyes were first caught by the sparkling tiara nestled amongst her loose golden curls, which shone like the silk of her dress; by the flow of soft veil falling back from the crown of her head and past her shoulders; by the lovely string of pearls he'd given her, encircling her neck. However, it was when he saw her face, the smile on her pale pink lips, the glittering blue of her eyes, that he realised his imaginings did not compare to the reality of how absolutely, ethereally stunning she looked.
He realised he felt stuck in time, stuck in place, not due to any nerves on his part but just from being overwhelmed at the sight of her. He saw her father nod to him, and he nodded back, accepting the trust her father was placing in him in taking Bridget for his wife.
The vicar began to speak: "Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God and in the face of this congregation…"
Thanks to the rehearsal, he knew what was expected for him to do and say, and he was very grateful for that, because it made having his attention so distracted by her that much easier to handle. He had indeed been right the day before about not being able to keep his eyes off of her; he wanted very much to remember every moment of this day, but he also wanted to memorise the way she looked.
They exchanged their vows, ones that were identical to one another and that had replaced references of 'obey' to 'respect' and had obliterated the notion of 'serve'; after all, what human rights barrister worth his salt would expect to get away with having his wife, his equal partner in life, saying such a thing to him? Her voice was slightly shaky and her eyes quite moist with tears, but she seemed determined to get through the ceremony without shedding them.
It wasn't until he took her hand that he realised just how much she was physically trembling; as he pledged his troth to her, he held her hand and stroked the back of it in a reassuring manner with his thumb, smiling down at her with the love he felt for her. It might have been his imagination, but she did seem to calm enough to pledge her own troth without stumbling on the words or her voice cracking once.
It then came time for the exchange of rings, and Hugh came up close to him to hand it to him. He took the platinum band and slipped it into place on her left hand, holding her gaze as he said to her:
"With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow…"
She smiled, and as she did so a tear spilled down over her cheek unbidden, but he thought it made her look that much lovelier as she returned the pledge, taking the ring from Tom, and sliding it onto Mark's finger.
The two of them then kneeled as prompted, joining their right hands together; the vicar continued to speak, but he hardly heard it for being lost in her eyes, beaming with happiness and shining bright blue, until he heard the words that prompted a cheer among the congregated:
"Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder."
Raising a thumb to dry that tear, he reached forward and lovingly kissed her for the first time as his wife; he heard quiet, polite laughter as the vicar said with some amusement, "I suppose you've figured out you may kiss the bride." He chuckled, pulling away to look at her, still holding her cheek tenderly.
The vicar continued speaking, asking that the two of them sign the wedding documents, which he presented to them as they remained kneeling. They did so, Hugh and Tom adding their signatures as witnesses, before the newlyweds rose to their feet and turned to the congregated. Mark looked out among the sea of happy faces, and felt so very proud; he thought, and hoped Bridget thought the same, that all of the aggravation and frustration had been worth this sight.
The vicar then said in a commanding voice, "May I present to you: Mr and Mrs Darcy."
There was a raucously joyous noise, and the violinist started in again, this time with the Mendelssohn's Wedding March for them to depart. He held out his elbow to her and almost shyly she slipped her hand through the crook of it as they retreated together from the altar.
When they got to the vestibule, he knew they would have mere moments before the bridesmaids, groomsmen and the whole of the congregation would follow, so he took her in his arms and briefly kissed her again. "You look so incredibly beautiful," he said softly.
She smiled and reached up to kiss him in return when Mark heard Tom's voice: "On each other already. Crikey."
Bridget began to chuckle, then turned and playfully swatted at Tom before he pulled her into an embrace. "You looked so gorgeous and perfect up there, Bridgeline," he said, his own eyes misty, "and I was so proud to stand up there with you."
Mark felt a hand on his shoulder; he turned to see Hugh, big grin in place. "Congratulations." Hugh held out a hand as if for a shake, which Mark refused, instead giving his long-time mate a hug.
"Thank you," said Mark.
They were shortly thereafter joined by Magda, Jude and Sharon, who hugged their newly-married friend within an inch of her life; Mark enjoyed much more sedate congratulations from Jeremy, Giles, and Nick.
"As weddings go," said Nick in typically solemn fashion, "that one was not so bad." Mark caught the grin though, and he smiled at his uncle. "Congratulations, my boy. And to you, dear child—" He turned to Bridget to take her hands then planted a kiss on her cheek. "—I know you'll make this nephew of mine very happy. You already have."
The rest of the congregation filed out into the courtyard as further embraces, pecks on cheeks and congratulations were exchanged; when the entire church had been emptied, it was time for, in Tom's words, the ritualistic assault by rice.
They all filed out two at a time—Magda and Jeremy, Jude and Giles, Sharon and Nick and then Tom and Hugh (he could hear the chuckles as the two of them descended the church stairs)—before Mark extended his elbow to his bride once more and looked at her. He couldn't resist, though, bending for one more stolen kiss, this one a little longer than the last. "Need to give them all a moment," he explained, "to get primed and ready to throw."
She giggled. "I love you," she said.
"I love you too," he replied, then took in a breath; the rest of the day would be non-stop, at least until after the wedding breakfast. With another beamingly broad smile, he asked, "Shall we, wife?"
"We shall," she replied, her smile equally broad, "husband."
She squeezed her hand on his arm before headed out the doors together.