From This Day Forward
Part 5 of 5

By S. Faith, © 2008

Words: 34,523 (this part: 5,343)

Rating: M / R

See Part One for details.

I neglected to mention that the bit with cousin Simon dancing with Bridget at the reception was v. much inspired by the original Ruby Wedding dance with cousin Simon. Just want to give credit where it's due.

The day after (con't.)

Within moments they were out of the hotel, in the car, and on their way to a local airstrip, from which the private plane would be departing to their destination. "You're very sneaky, Mark," said Bridget. "Keeping this as secret as possible for as long as possible."

"I do like to draw out the suspense," he said smugly.

He reached for and took her hand, brushing the pads of his fingers over the metal of her ring. It wasn't going to be a long drive, but he rather liked keeping constant physical contact with her.

"Is that our plane?" she asked as they came to a stop at the main building of the airfield.

"I suppose we will find out soon enough."

He had already sent word to the crew, the pilot and the airfield personnel that the destination was to remain under wraps. He emerged from the car, then turned to help her out. It was a little windy on the tarmac due to the flat landscape, so he endeavoured to get her into the plane as soon as possible.

The plane they saw did end up being theirs after all, according to the ground crew. Their bags were loaded into the plane and they themselves boarded very shortly afterwards.

It was much nicer than any commercial plane he had ever been in, with ambient lighting, leather upholstery on the chairs, and what appeared to be a little dining area. She looked around herself with an incredulous grin, then turned her eyes back on Mark. "This is really posh," she said.

"Travelling in style, you and I," he said. "The way I always intend to keep it."

They had to remain buckled in during the taxi and take-off, and only got clearance to move freely about the cabin of the plane after reaching a certain altitude. They were accompanied in the cabin by an air hostess, who offered some coffee almost as soon as they rose from their seats.

"Yes, I would like that very much," said Bridget. "Though I'm so worked up with nerves I'm not sure I need coffee to stay alert."

She nodded, then went to the fore of the plane, as Bridget walked around to examine the small but elegant space.

"So how long of a flight is this?" she asked, standing above him as he got settled at the table, in one of the more cushioned chairs.

"About an hour or so, I'm told."

"Hm," she said thoughtfully.

"Why don't you come sit down and wait for your coffee," he said, "and let time reveal the mystery of our destination."

She chuckled, sitting across from him. "This is very surreal," she said, looking around herself, looking out the window to the clouds, and between the breaks of the clouds, they could see patches of green land below. "Coffee with you high above the earth."

He smiled, reached across, and offered his hand across the table, which she took and squeezed. As the smell of the brewing coffee permeated the small space in a matter of moments, he was content to just share the silence with her, holding fast her gaze, the corners of his mouth turning up in a small, involuntary smile. It was still strange to think that after all of those months of planning it was all over in what felt like the blink of an eye, comparatively speaking. He brushed his thumb against the back of her hand; her entire expression softened even more. He loved that he could simply sit with her, cradle her fingers in his, and not say anything at all, yet feel like they'd had an entire conversation.

"Sorry to, um, interrupt."

It was their air hostess, who stood there with a tray; he had not even noticed her approach. Mark released Bridget's hand and she withdrew it back to her lap. "Here's your coffee." In setting the tray down, he saw that she had brought them two cups of coffee, a pitcher of cream, and a small variety of sweeteners. "We have some biscuits, if you like. Chocolate or vanilla."

"Oh, yes please," said Bridget without hesitation. "Both."

Mark chuckled.

"Only because I know you prefer the vanilla ones," she added defensively, then reached for the cream and the sugar.

The air hostess was back in a flash with the biscuits, then left again.

"So tell me, Mark," she said, speaking in a low tone and raising her eyes to him again with a spark of devilishness that immediately made him suspicious, "do you regret not getting to fulfil every man's fantasy?"

"Which would be…?"

"Shagging the bride while she was still in her gown, all pushed up 'round her waist?"

It had been something that he had thought about very much before the wedding day, but the thought of sharing such a fantasy with her immediately made him tighten his jaw. "Not every man has that fantasy," he said in a clipped tone.

She did not respond, she did not blink, only continued to stare at him with incredible intensity until he was sure she was probing his mind for the truth.

"Bridget," he said. "I regret nothing about last night."

"Admit it," she said. "You thought about it."

He regarded her with an equally intense gaze. "'Every man's fantasy'? And you know this how?"

"I have other male friends."

"With whom you discuss their fantasies?" he said coolly, though not truly upset. "Proceed with caution, love."

"I only meant…" she began with trepidation, as if she thought she might have inadvertently sparked their first fight as a married couple. "It's not uncommon."

"I can name one man who assuredly does not have this fantasy."

"Really? Who?"

He was silent for a moment before saying, completely deadpan, "Tom."

She broke her serious gaze at last and began to laugh. "You win."

Mark sipped his coffee again. "Besides," he said, "it's not like you couldn't put that dress back on at some point in future when we get back home."

She chuckled as she reached for a chocolate biscuit. "I guess I win too," she said, offering him a flirtatious wink as she took a nibble off of the corner.

She drained her coffee, ate three biscuits before the air hostess came by to offer a top up. Bridget brought the cup to her lips, looking quite satisfied all around; her gaze drifted out the window to the skies beyond.

"Did you ever have one of those moments," she said pensively, "where everything seemed so perfect and right you were certain it was too good to be true, that you'd wake up to find it had all been a dream?"

"Absolutely," he said. "In fact, repeatedly. Starting with the night we first slept together."

She turned her eyes back to him with a smile. "You're so sweet."

"There's nothing sweet about it," he said. "It's just a matter of fact." He took the opportunity to offer her a wink in return.

They sat in peaceable silence, sipping their second cups, when the air hostess came by to let them know they needed to return to their seats and buckle their belts, because they would be landing soon. As he and Bridget went back to their seats she cleared away the cups.

Bridget looked to her right, out the window, undoubtedly searching for some clue to their whereabouts. That's when she spotted something that caused her mouth to drop open and her eyes to go wide; he had a very good idea as to what it must have been…

"Oh my God. Mark. Is that the Eiffel Tower?"

He leaned forward to look out the window. He had been correct. "Oui," he said. She turned to him, still in quite a state. He tried very hard not to let a smile work its way into his features, but he was not entirely successful. "Seeing as I thwarted your trip there the night I returned from—"

Bridget launched herself on him as best she could given the restraints over their laps, wrapping her arms about him and covering his mouth with hers, kissing him amidst declarations of her love and adoration.

"I'm glad you approve," he said, once he could get a word in edgewise.

"I definitely approve," she said, sitting back into her own chair, but clasping his hand and holding tight, her fingers entwined with his. "Oh, magical honeymoon in Paris. A dream come true."

He smiled, feeling quite self-satisfied.

After circling overhead, waiting for clearance to land—and giving the two of them grand bird's-eye views of the entire city through the open windows—they were on the ground and being shuttled to another waiting car. "This is so exciting!" she said, bubbling with enthusiasm as they climbed into the car and settled in for the drive. "Where are we staying?"

"The Ritz," he said.

At this, she made an adorable squealing sound, bouncing in her seat. He chuckled, pulling her closely into him, kissing her temple again.

The whole check-in process was, to him, secondary to the look of excitement and wonder as they stepped through the glamorous hotel, from the lobby, escorted all the way up to their room, a grand suite boasting magnificent furniture, a large, plush-looking bed (as best as they could tell through the open doorway into the bedroom), flowers exploding out of vases on many of the flat surfaces, and sweeping views of all the best sights of Paris through the windows. "Wow," she said to Mark the moment the porter departed and left them alone. "This is astounding, Mark. Such luxury. I dare not think what this is cost—"

"That," he said, taking her into his arms, "is nothing you should concern yourself with. It's our honeymoon, and I'm treating you to the best that I can afford, because you are my queen. Remember?"

She giggled, assuredly remembering his drunken ramblings that he only knew of second-hand. "If you insist on spoiling me and thus making return to regular life that much more difficult…"

"Oh, I don't intend on stopping spoiling you just because we return to regular life."

She got up on her toes and kissed him quite thoroughly, combing her fingers into his hair, before rearing back with her hands still framing his face. "I love you, you stuffy old barrister," she said playfully, dropping back down onto her heels.

"I love you, you verbally-incontinent spinster," he teased in return. "Oh, though I guess I can't say that any more, can I?"

"Not if you want to continue sleeping with me," she said with a grin. "So let's poke around this suite of ours and see what we have to play with for the next…" She furrowed her brows as she trailed off. "How long are we here, exactly?"

"Two weeks."

Her mouth dropped open adorably before she caught herself. "Good grief," she said with a smile. "I really am going to be spoiled."

"Yes," he concurred. "You really are."

With Bridget taking the investigatory lead, they went from the main salon into the bedroom, getting an up-close and personal look at the grand bed, made up with a lavish, overstuffed duvet, and sheets that, upon Mark's running his fingers over the surface of the pillow, he discovered were of cream-coloured silk. On the bureau was a vase of pristine white roses, just as he had requested. "I don't know how I can keep gushing without sounding like an imbecile," said Bridget, running her hand over the duvet and along the gilt-edged headboard, "but this place… I can hardly believe I'm not dreaming."

"Get used to it, Mrs Darcy," he said.

She smiled demurely, then spotted the open door to another room, the bathroom, if he had to guess. "Ohh, the bath," she said, hastening to it. "I can't even imagine… oh my God. A hot tub!"

He came up behind her to gaze into the marbled bath, outfitted with not just the usual sink, toilet, and shower, but a bath as well as a hot tub and what appeared to be a sauna. Even by Mark's standards this was impressive.

Bridget had gone over to the side of the bath and found a little gift basket, which she immediately pulled apart to examine with the thrill of a child on Christmas morn. "Oh, rose soap, rose bath cream and rose bath tea… what do you suppose the difference is?"

"I have no idea," he said, "but I look forward to finding out." He went to sit beside her on the edge of the bathtub. "So what do you want to do first?"

"What do you mean?"

"Lunch in the room, or at a bistro? Maybe some shopping for something fantastic to wear to dinner tonight, followed up by some sight-seeing?"

Her eyes got wide at the possibilities, but then she said, "Good grief. Are you telling me you haven't planned out every minute of every day?" She winked, then set the bath goodies back into their little basket, reaching out for his hand, stroking the palm with her fingers. "I don't know, Mark," she said, looking up at him; "I'm kind of tired from all of the travelling and excitement of getting here. I was kind of counting on, you know, staying in today."

"You're in Paris, city of love and lights, filled with wonders such as the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe, the Louvre, and you want to stay in?" he said, bringing his free hand up to cup her face.

"Paris isn't going anywhere," she said quietly, leaning forward to kiss him, but stopping short just before she did. "And we have to ensure that our accommodations are absolutely satisfactory."

"Mmm," he said in response. "You have a point."

She then leaned in to complete that kiss; he took her in his arms, was before long scooping her up off the edge of the bathtub and carrying her to the bed, clumsily pushing the covers back before setting her down. "Very… very… nice," she said between kisses as he made to divest her of that lovely blue dress; whether she meant his attentions or the bed itself he did not know, but ultimately, he did not care.

………

It was later that evening while soaking together in rose-scented redolence that Bridget jokingly proclaimed her utter and complete satisfaction with their suite as well as the quality of room service.

"I'm glad to hear," he said, feeling very sleepy after their morning of travel and their afternoon of exertion. "I'd hate to think we'd have to uproot into another hotel," he teased in return, "especially since I doubt there's one better."

"Mmm," she said, resting up against him, running her hands along his chest under the layer of bubbles. "Very satisfied in every possible way."

"Glad to hear that too."

They laid there in quiet repose, skin against skin in the bathwater, and for a moment Mark didn't care that they were in such a magnificent, historic city such as this; it mattered only that he had her there with him, and would have her with him for the rest of his days, the gleaming rings a symbol of that devotion, attachment, and love.

"It would be a shame," she said quietly, almost as if reading his thoughts, "if we didn't actually see the sights."

He chuckled.

"I mean, the Louvre, right here, within driving distance. I'd surely regret not taking the time to go and see it."

"I ordered tickets for Saturday," he said in a low tone.

"Oh good." She tightened her embrace around him. "And the Eiffel Tower. I mean, sure, it's a bit touristy, but crikey. It's the Eiffel Tower."

"We'll go on Sunday, just after lunch."

"Mark," she said after a moment, sounding very cautious. "Did you in fact actually plan every minute of every day?"

"No," he said with a smile. "I thought today might turn out this way, a little lazy and relaxing, so I didn't—"

She sat up, laughing, and splashed him with soapy water. "You lunatic."

He grinned; he sat up too and splashed her in return until the splashing war turned into a bit of a wrestle, which then turned into something else altogether enjoyable.

"You're a terrible influence on me," Mark said afterwards, feeling satiated but even sleepier than before.

"Admit it," she sighed. "You love it."

He chuckled, then suggested they get out of the water, and possibly think about a late supper.

"Didn't we have supper already?" she asked as he helped her rise from the water, handing her a lush cotton towel.

"No," he said. "That was a late lunch."

She smiled abashedly. "I'm so confused."

"No, my darling," he said, shaking out the water from his hair. "You're just shag-drunk."

She threw her head back with laughter, which reminded him exactly how much he loved her influence on him, terrible or otherwise.

………

A week after: The Eiffel Tower

It wasn't true that he had their entire stay planned out to the minute, but he did have a general idea or what he wanted to do before the honeymoon ended. He was not foolish enough to think that they wouldn't be spending a lot of time in their suite.

He had managed to take her shopping for some new dresses appropriate for evenings out in the grand city of Paris; took her for supper at some of the most exclusive restaurants in town; spent an entire day at the Louvre, with Bridget gawking at the treasured works of art as they made their way through as much as they could in such a comparatively small period of time.

It was atop the Eiffel Tower that Bridget reminded him of her dislike of heights: "Oh, Mark, don't make me get too near that edge," she said tremulously.

"Darling," he said. "You're perfectly safe. Come here. Just don't look down. Look outward."

Tentatively she came nearer to him, allowed him to wrap an arm around her waist.

"You see? That isn't so bad."

"No," she said, though she was still trembling a little.

"Isn't the view gorgeous?" he said encouragingly.

She smiled, looking up to him. "Yes, it is. Oh!" She reached into her large handbag, and pulled out her digital camera. Once she'd remembered she'd brought one, she had been unstoppable snapping photos. She held the camera out at arm's length, then pointed it at the two of them. "Smile!" she said, then depressed the shutter release.

He laughed; he loved how her idea of photos to capture their memories involved spontaneous shutter clicks rather than posed scenes. She turned the camera back around and looked in the window on the back, giggling at seeing the result. It was half her face in the frame and in focus, half his, both smiling, and just beyond the panorama of Paris appeared. "Oh, I forgot I had the zoom on. Let's delete this one and do it again."

"No," said Mark. "I like this one. Leave it."

Looking at him as if he were mad, she said, "If you say so."

"It may be my favourite so far."

"You look so normal," she said, "but you're strange."

She did snap a few more traditional photos of both of them, then some of him, and he then took some of her. She looked so rosy, so happy, so full of life, that he zoomed in and took a few more just of her, with little else in the screen.

"I lied," he said. "I just snapped my favourites, and if you delete them, I'm divorcing you."

She punched him playfully on the upper arm then grabbed the camera to see what he'd taken. "Crikey," she said. "I look sunburnt and pudgy. Mark, really. Must we keep them?"

"I think you look wonderful, and this is how I want to remember my day up here with you."

She gave him a sceptical look, but turned off the camera and stowed it once more. "You're strange," she said again. "Good thing I like you so much."

After having dinner nearby, they decided afterwards to hire a horse-drawn, open air carriage in which to tour the city in twilight, and the magical glow of the lights, the wind in their hair, her hand firm in his, he felt as if he were seeing the city for the first time in his life.

As the sun crept further and further down, heading for the horizon, she began to shiver a little, so he wrapped his arm around her and held her close. The ambience, the sense of romance of their surroundings got the better of him and he raised her chin to kiss her, much to the delight of the pedestrians on the street, who gave them an impromptu round of applause as the carriage stopped for a traffic signal. He felt himself turn a little red in response, but to say he was embarrassed to be seen kissing his beautiful wife would be a falsehood.

With a soft smile, she said, "I truly wish all the people I loved could be this happy."

It was glancing out onto the street that he saw someone that made him do a double take: dark hair, aquiline nose, pale eyes, but on second glance, he realised the man he was seeing was not in fact his brother, but someone who only looked very much like him. This man was older, his eyes too close together, and his mouth too thin, drawn, and obviously not used to smiling. He wondered then what Peter looked like now, if he even looked remotely like when he'd seen him last. Was his hair longer, or greyer… or had he lost it altogether? Was he aging well, or was the stress of his occupation taking its toll on his easygoing, fun-loving brother?

"What is it, Mark?"

"It's nothing." Unfortunately, it was a little more terse a tone than he intended.

"Mark," she said more sternly. "Don't lie to me. You look like you saw a ghost."

"I just thought I saw my—someone I knew. That's all." He leaned forward and kissed her again. "Please don't worry."

"If you say so," she said, looking up at him, her eyes wide and luminous, before settling back into the crook of his arm.

The uneasiness of that moment in the carriage was quickly forgotten, easily dispersed by the aura of this most extraordinary of cities, and the rest of the ride, then the return to The Ritz, was filled with joy and giggling, followed shortly thereafter by kissing, caressing and other related endeavours.

"I'm sorry."

Her voice was so quiet in the stillness of the night that he thought at first he must have been sleeping and merely dreamt it. "What? Why?" he whispered back, holding her close to him.

"I was just thinking how sorry I was that your brother didn't show up."

"It's all right," he said gently. "It's not your fault."

"But I pressured you to send the invitation."

"Darling," he said, stroking her hair, "I'm sorry too, though not surprised he didn't come, but I'm still glad that we sent the invitation. I can at least honestly say I tried."

She turned her head and kissed him on his collarbone. "Goodnight, Mark," she said sleepily.

He intended on saying 'goodnight' in response, but was too quickly overtaken by sleep.

………

Ten days after

"Mark!"

The panic in Bridget's voice brought him to instant wakefulness and he sat upright. "What?"

She looked thoroughly distraught as she asked, "What happened to the tiara? And oh my God, your pin!"

He fought the urge to chuckle. They'd been in Paris for coming up on a fortnight, and only now did she think of the tiara and the pin. "Darling, they're back safe in London."

"What? How?"

"I packed them up to go back with the dress by courier."

"Oh!" She clapped her hand over her heart in relief. "I was about to be very, very upset that I'd gone and managed to lose your grandmother's heirloom tiara."

"Ah," he said. "Your heirloom tiara." She came to sit by him on the bed. "As long as you've managed to keep track of your pearls, we're just fine with regards to jewellery."

She smiled, looking to their joined hands. "Yes. Pearls are in my small bag, very safely hidden."

Mark was very aware that she'd worn them almost every night they'd gone out to dinner. "You could wear them this evening too," he suggested.

"I will," she said, then sighed. "Can't believe it's almost over."

"Nothing's over," said Mark. "Our stay in Paris is almost over, but I don't intend on the honeymoon ever being over."

She grinned.

For that evening, she decided to wear the green, leaf-decorated dress he had purchased for her so long ago in Stratford, and the pearls looked absolutely lovely with the ensemble. She'd pulled her hair up and away from her face, but left the back long and loose to just brush along her shoulders, wisps of fringe sweeping against her nose. "I'm starting to think I need a haircut," she said. "I resisted before the wedding because I wanted to have lots of hair to play with, but this is getting ridiculous."

"I think it looks sexy."

She raised an eyebrow. "And you are completely unbiased."

"Who else's opinion matters?" he retorted with a smirk.

"Point taken," she said. She found the white heels purchased on one of their shopping forays and slipped into them, grabbing a wrap also picked up during one of those trips. "You know what we're going to need?" she asked, slipping the wrap around her shoulders and grabbing her clutch purse.

"What, darling?" he asked, reaching around her to free her hair from under the edge of the wrap.

"Another suitcase for all of the stuff we bought."

He laughed—he loved how much he laughed when he was with her—then drew her close for a kiss. "Dinner awaits."

They went to a little restaurant they hadn't gone to yet but had been on the list of places recommended by hotel concierge. It was charming, intimate, with a warm, homely atmosphere; the food was equally excellent. There was even live music and dancing, which, after some cajolement, he found himself on the dance floor with her in his arms.

"You're such a good dancer," she said, pulling herself closer to him as they swayed to the music. "I wish we had more opportunities to dance like this."

He thanked her for the compliment by planting a kiss in her hair. "I'm not well-practised," he said, "and until very recently, without a suitable partner."

He felt her chuckle.

A minute or two later, he heard her ask, "Um, Mark, I don't mean to cause you alarm, but there's something weird about your chest."

"What?" he asked, feeling alarmed nonetheless.

"There's something unnaturally… well, hard there." She raised her hand to the left shoulder of his jacket, then brushed downward, her fingers tracing over a small firm spot there just over his chest.

He refrained from laughing or even smiling as he explained, "Darling, you have nothing to worry about. You put it there."

"I what?"

"Well, not literally." He pulled back to meet her eyes. "It's your amulet."

She grinned. "Oh." She then furrowed her brow. "But that was really just for the wedding day."

"I can keep your love, loyalty and friendship close to my heart every day, can't I?"

He saw her eyes get a little misty, and she cuddled close to him again. "If we weren't on a dance floor," she said, "I'd ask you to pinch me to let me know I wasn't really dreaming."

He slipped his hand down and delivered a stealthy pinch to her bottom anyway. She made a small sound of surprise.

"Feel free to ask me regardless," he said teasingly. "You never know when I'll oblige you."

………

One more night alone with her, secluded from the responsibilities and duties of their lives, the family and friends they loved, before a return to real life. While he missed his work to some extent, certainly missed those people in his life he cared about so dearly, there had been something so special and wonderful about their time alone that he was growing melancholy that it was over.

Not that he thought anything would be missing from their real life together.

"Thought you said the honeymoon was never going to be over," Bridget teased, clearly reading his mind.

He reached out his arm, and from where she was standing in her robe, putting her things into her suitcase, she came near to where he sat on the bed. He wrapped his arms around her waist, rested his cheek against her stomach. "It won't," he explained, "but I will miss having you all to myself, every hour of every day."

He felt her fingernails raking through his hair. "I know what you mean," she said, sounding sad herself, "but in a sense, nothing really changes. You still have all of me, every hour of every day."

Mark really loved Bridget's sense of philosophy, as it was usually poignant and amusing at the same time, serving to remind him of what was really important as well as making him smile.

"But especially the evening hours," he jested, moving his hands down over her bottom, to the backs of her legs.

"Oh, yes," she concurred, "especially then."

………

About two weeks after

The picture-perfect wedding and honeymoon were all but a memory now; as the two of them made the drive home to Holland Park from Heathrow, Mark realised that though it was all over, there was still so much to look forward to. He'd assuredly offer protest in her insisting on showing the photos, the details of their trip, to not only eagerly-awaiting friends and family but to everyone in earshot; in the end, though, he would secretly love sharing their joy with anyone willing to partake of it. They also still had the sorting-through of a generous bestowment of gifts yet to do, which he anticipated they would both love and dread.

Though their day-to-day living arrangements would not be changing, the thought of coming home every night to find his wife sent a thrill through his soul. Everything about their union felt wonderful, felt right, and he couldn't wait to embark on the next part of this journey with her.

………

Epilogue

About six months after

Snow was coming down outside like he hadn't seen in some time, and not just because from where he had just come. In this small office, home base for the time being, he decided to deal with the pile of forwarded mail that had been awaiting his arrival, colourfully bright from the different stamps stuck to them, barely readable from the scrawled notes and stuck-on forwarding notices of the different countries they'd passed through.

One envelope, slightly bigger, slightly stiffer than the rest, caught his eye.

He pulled it up out of the pile, and with knit brows slipped a fingernail along the edge to free the contents. Out came the folded parchment paper, and on the inside surface, a notice printed in a delicate serif typeface that he had to read twice to really comprehend. Also accompanying this missive was a small slip of paper with a scrawled note, written in a hand he did not recognise.

I look forward to meeting you!

There was so much about this that piqued his curiosity: the fact that he had received it at all, given their recent past; the identity of the woman who'd written the note; and concerning him most of all, whether this woman was anything like the last one. They may not have been on speaking terms, but he still loved his brother.

He set the invitation down on the table, sighing heavily, looking to the ceiling as if for guidance. He knew he was months too late, that the ceremony had long since taken place, that what was done was done—but he also knew that he had to break the silence… and go.

The end.