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They marry quickly - for practical purposes, of course. Aunt March can no longer travel, and it would be inappropriate for her to travel back to America with only him and his grandfather to accompany her. And her staying there in Europe until they manage to find a proper chaperone is out of the question; not only does she need to see her family, but the thought of being apart from each other for an indefinite amount of time, an ocean between them, is simply unbearable for the both of them.
He promises he'll give her a proper wedding when they get back to Concord, on their way to the chapel the morning they say their vows. She protests, saying that she doesn't need it, that he and her family is all she needs, but he persists, because she deserves more than rushed vows in an unfamiliar church in Le Havre. He whispers to her about all a wedding would entail - the beautiful dress she would wear, the elegant party they would hold with beautiful music and delightful food, the way he would dance with her - and her eyes slowly light up.
"That does sound lovely," she relents, and he smiles.
So they marry quickly, and afterwards go to where they're staying for the evening before heading to England the next day. His grandfather had found the nicest hotel in the city, and when they arrive, they are greeted with the finest champagne and a small cake baked especially for them from the kitchen. They sit in the parlor and eat it with his grandfather and Aunt March, who has become even more high-strung as her illness has progressed. She complains about everything - the china patterns, the temperature, the wallpaper in the room. He only half hears her, though, and leaves it to his grandfather to placate and entertain the woman. His only focus is his bride. His wife .
His Amy.
When the four decide to part for the evening, he leads her to their suite with slow steps, his heart pounding in his chest. He's been with several women before, but this is different - it's Amy . And he doesn't think he's ever been more anxious in his life than he is now.
He barely manages to open the door; his hand shakes as he attempts to put the key into the lock. Eventually, he succeeds, and he opens the door, stepping back for her.
"After you, my lady."
She fights a smile, and looks up at him for a moment before curtsying slightly.
"Thank you, my lord."
He watches her as she walks into the room, taking one deep breath to try and calm his nerves before following her and closing the door behind them with a soft thud.
They don't speak; instead, he sits down on the bed and watches her as she moves around. His grandfather has arranged for their things to be dropped off here, and she looks through her luggage before pulling out a brush and a thin white nightgown. He gulps, his fingers twitching against the sheets.
She sits down at the vanity and begins to take the pins out of her hair. He gazes at her, and catches her eye in the mirror as she reaches down for her brush. She averts her gaze quickly. He frowns; maybe she doesn't want to do anything tonight other than sleep. She's still mourning Beth, of course, and although the day had been happy, it had also been exhausting. Not to mention the long journey they were to begin tomorrow.
It's her decision. He doesn't want to pressure her, and he doesn't want to think she would be disappointing him. He wants her desperately, yes, but he's also willing to wait for her. He'd wait for her forever if it pleased her.
Just as he's about to tell her his thoughts, she speaks.
"Would you help me with the buttons on my dress?"
He looks up, and their eyes meet in the mirror once more. This time, she doesn't look away.
His mouth goes dry, but he manages to answer her gently.
"Of course."
He gets up, takes four long steps towards her as she stands and presents her back to him. He's immediately reminded of that day in her studio, when he'd unbuttoned her smock. It had been the first time he'd realized that his feelings for Amy March ran much, much deeper (and much, much differently ) than he thought they did.
He pushes aside her long blonde hair; he doesn't think he's seen Amy with her hair down since she was a child. He immediately wants to run his fingers through it, to see what it looks like splayed out on the bed as she lies below him. But right now, he has a mission to complete, and a dress to unbutton.
But again, his hands shake, and he fumbles with the first few buttons like a fool. She turns around and looks at him curiously, but then, her face softens.
"You're nervous?" she asks, and her voice is almost incredulous. He'd already mentioned the fact that he'd been with other women before. She'd flinched when he told her, and he hated it. He wished he could take back every moment he had ever spent with someone else. But then she'd sat up straight and taken his face in her hands.
"It doesn't matter," she’d told him. "The important thing is that it's only the two of us now, always."
"Forever," he'd told her earnestly.
So he understands her confusion; he should be an expert at undoing the back of a dress, and he is, typically. But yes, he's nervous.
"Why?" she asks.
"Because it's you ," he answers simply.
It's Amy. The love of his life. And she deserves nothing but perfection, something she can remember for the rest of her life with fondness and love.
"Are you nervous?" he asks her.
She blushes and looks down, but shakes her head firmly.
"Why?" he asks, echoing her question.
She looks back up at him, the sweetest smile on her face. For a moment, he remembers her face the first time they ever met, her staring up at him from her seat on the floor, her eyes shining with the firelight.
I'm Amy.
Now, she reaches out and takes one of his shaking hands in hers, kisses his palm and then holds it to the side of her face.
"Because it's you."
She smiles softly, closing the space between them and standing up on the tips of her toes to kiss him. And when her lips touch his, his heartbeat finally begins to steady.