The ceremony occurred in the courtyard; during the night, rather miraculously, the pool had been overlaid with a clear acrylic cover on which rested the guests’ chairs, divided into two clusters to create the aisle. At the pool’s far end stood a wooden altar off which hung yards of gauzy white fabric adorned with freshwater pearls in a pattern that echoed Jane’s veil, and around which coiled white roses that echoed Jane’s bouquet. Six camera crews were present, one of whom was responsible for the large jib camera on a crane. Also on a crane was a thin rectangular lighting panel that measured perhaps six by ten feet. The officiant was Rick Price.
From his first sighting of Jane, Chip’s face crumpled; and the subsequent gush from his eyes would surely have been sufficient to bathe a medium-sized dog: a corgi or, perhaps, a border collie. As maid of honor, Liz stood just behind Jane and had the best view of anyone of the storm twisting Chip’s features. When Jane and Mr. Bennet had made their way down the aisle, Mr. Bennet had lifted her veil, kissed her on the cheek, then taken her right hand and held it out for Chip to grasp with his own. (If only, Liz thought as this sequence then occurred twice more for the cameras, she were a person who could see the tradition as charming rather than queasily patriarchal.) As Mr. Bennet sat, Chip squeaked out to Jane the words “You’re so beaut—” but was unable to finish, interrupted by a fresh torrent of emotion. Jane set her hand on his upper arm, patting gently, and though Liz could not see her sister’s expression, she felt confident it was one of enormous affection.
“Greetings,” Rick Price intoned. “We have gathered here today for a truly blessed event, a celebration that is the pinnacle of life and love. Chip and Jane, before your families, God, and the world, you’ll affirm your commitment to each other.” He paused and winked toward the guests. “Now, who’s ready to have some fun?”
A confusing pause ensued, and then Jane said, “I am.” Chip tried to speak, couldn’t, sniffled even as new tears fell, and simply nodded.
“Rick, let’s do that again without the wink,” a bearded producer standing behind one of the film crews interjected, and the ceremony proceeded thusly: a progression of do-overs and tears that made what likely would have been a ten-minute rite last over an hour. At intervals, makeup was reapplied, particularly to Jane but also to Chip, Rick Price, and the rest of the wedding party; a break was taken while Jane, accompanied by Liz and three members of the wardrobe department, went to urinate; and for multiple minutes at a time, everyone simply waited as Chip tried to collect himself, with Jane murmuring reassurances that were in fact audible to all.
Yet Liz was never bored; the entire ceremony was a surreal and delicious purgatory that she could have contentedly existed in forever, making uninterpretable but possibly flirtatious eye contact with Fitzwilliam Darcy. Liz had walked down the aisle as the final bridesmaid before Jane and had by some trick of vision managed to ignore both Chip and Rick Price standing before her and seen only Darcy: impossibly tall and serious and handsome. His handsomeness, still, was astonishing. But it was the import of what she wanted to say to him combined with her uncertainty about how he’d respond that left her in no hurry for the ceremony’s conclusion. Given that Darcy was not Caroline’s boyfriend, and given also the rumor that Darcy still had feelings for her—the swoon-inducing rumor unwittingly propagated by Caroline—Liz felt some degree of optimism. But optimism could always be quashed, and her heart could be broken once again.
Eventually, even with Chip’s voluminous tears, the ceremony finished. The couple made their victorious promenade down the aisle as husband and wife, to great applause; then, so as to ensure that the cameras didn’t miss a single angle, they circled back and made the same promenade two additional times. At this point, the guests were free to mingle, though Liz knew there was much more to endure, including her own toast. Presumably, the documentation of both the first dance and the slicing of the wedding cake would also require extra patience. But champagne was being served, appetizers were being passed—stuffed mushrooms, crostini smeared with goat cheese—and there was for at least a few minutes an interlude of comparative freedom. Darcy stood by the hot tub talking to Shane, and as Liz hurried toward them, she was intercepted by Lydia.
“This is the most boring day of my life,” Lydia said with her mouth full of stuffed mushroom. “Aren’t you bored?”
“I guess you’re not cut out for reality TV,” Liz said. “Which is good to know, right?”
“Does Jane get to keep that dress?” Lydia asked, and Liz said, “There’s something I have to do. I’ll be back in a second.” As she pushed past Jane, Chip, and the small throng encircling them to issue congratulations, she turned off the microphone discreetly clipped to the inside of her dress, near her collarbone. At the edge of the hot tub, she tapped Darcy on the arm. When he looked at her, she said, “Hi. Hi, Shane. Can I steal Darcy for a second?” Up close, she could unmistakably see the makeup Darcy wore—base and powder, it appeared—which might have been disconcerting if she had not felt so preoccupied with the mission she had assigned herself.
“You look great, Liz,” Shane said. He lifted his champagne glass. “Cheers.”
Liz held no glass, but she repeated, “Cheers.” To Darcy, she said, “Will you come with me?”