Epilogue Chapter 3

Botany Bay

Australia

3rd October, 1825

George Wickham, godson of the late George Darcy of Pemberley, former penal convict, former debtor, former pursuer of Miss Georgiana Darcy and her lavish dowry, stepped into the tidy wooden house he called home and heaved out a sigh of relief at the welcome warmth. Here, at the bottom of the world, the chill of winter was giving way to spring, and then to summer. Not that it froze here, or grew incredibly hot, regardless of the time of the year, but it was quite chilly today.

"Good afternoon, my dear," he said to his wife, who was stirring something in a pot on the stove. Wickham, who had once thought himself worthy of only the best of foods, was now a great enthusiast of stews, and this one smelled delightful, especially as he was very hungry.

His wife, Mrs. Emily Wickham, smiled, yet a trifle abstractly, and said, "Go change, George. I washed the floors only two hours ago and do not wish for you to mess them up again!"

Wickham did so, meekly enough, though he took a moment to kiss his seven-year-old daughter Marianne, who was seated by the fire, carefully sewing her initials into a handkerchief.

"Hello, Papa," she said, looking up with dark eyes alight with pleasure. "Did you have a good day?"

His day had been, as usual, a wearying one, dealing with problems at his father-in-law's mill, carrying bags of wheat as needed, and writing business letters, but he merely nodded and said, "Yes, it was a good day, Marianne."

"I am glad," she said. "Mamma says that we are to have treacle tart for dessert, but we must wait until my brothers have returned from work."

"Your mother does a wonderful job of making treacle tart," Wickham said, casting an admiring look at his wife.

"Go change, George," his wife ordered, though not unpleasantly. "I need you to collect eggs from the henhouse."

"Yes, my dear," Wickham agreed compliantly and stepped through into the small bedchamber. It was only just large enough to accommodate the bed and the wardrobe that held both their clothes, but it was sufficient for himself and his wife. He swung the unadorned wooden door open and reached in for a fresh shirt and breeches, reflecting on the strange turns his life had taken some twelve years previously.

He could scarcely think of the voyage from England without trembling, even after so much time. It was blazoned forever in his mind. His horror and terror on the English docks, listening to Colonel Fitzwilliam speak with the captain who would transport him to Botany Bay penal colony, had been, in retrospect, so insufficient. The conditions in the belly of the ship had been unspeakable, the convicts chained together at the ankle, with inches of filthy sludgy water swirling around them where they slumped onto the slimy boards. More than one of the prisoners had succumbed to illness or infection or starvation, their bodies left to rot and further putrefy the stinking waters.

As plainly as the unspeakable voyage, did Wickham remember emerging into the sunlight upon docking in Australia. The harsh sunlight had seared his eyes, and he had cringed away from it. The sores on his wrists had stabbed at him as the iron manacles shifted when he lifted a hand to shield his face, but the fresh air had been the sweetest of balms after the livid stench of the hold.

Wickham dropped his dirty clothes to the floor, pulling on his clean breeches. He took a moment to stare down at his own stomach, thoughts still far away and long ago. He had emerged from the hold weakened, thin and sickly and covered in filth, his cheeks hollow and sunken, his eyes wild, his hair and whiskers in desperate need of a good trimming.

Further horrors and humiliations had awaited him. His education as a gentleman, which had stood him in such good stead in England, was utterly useless to him as just another convict fresh off the boat in Australia. His refined ways and smooth hands had earned him nothing but mockery, and he had been put to the back-breaking task of digging wells and trenches to water the sprawling ranch-lands.

The boredom had been enough to drive him insane. The only relief he had found was in begging for or stealing the old newspapers discarded by the overseers. The news was driveling and insipid and out of date, but it had been a slight relief from the tedium, and he had devoured every word. It had also been his greatest fortune. Mr. Sydney, a local mill owner, had visited the prison-house late one night while Wickham hunched beside the stove with the paper tilted desperately towards the meager light leaking out of the ancient iron contraption.

Sydney, himself a former prisoner, had come in search of more workers for his mills and had regarded the pathetic figure with interest. He had demanded of Wickham whether he was reading the paper or had some other interest in it. Wickham had looked up, startled, and responded with a deference that had been beaten into him by now that yes, sir, he was indeed reading it. Sydney had stood over his shoulder and ordered Wickham to read the next few lines aloud. The article itself had been entirely dull – something about the price of wool impacting sheep breeding – but to read aloud was a skill that had for so long lain unneeded that Wickham had leapt at the chance and infused his voice with all the emotion and variety he deemed even remotely appropriate.

Two sentences had been enough for Sydney, and the very next morning he had arranged for Wickham to serve the balance of his sentence in the mills. The work was not particularly interesting – letters and accounts and ledgers and running errands and hauling sacks of flour – but it was not as miserable as digging holes down into the dirt under the blazing sun. Wickham had rebuilt some muscle as the result of his labors, and though his look was rather more rugged than he was used to, after a wash and a comb and a shave, he was far more tolerable than most of his fellow convicts. Nor had his urbane charm altogether deserted him, and as Wickham went to great pains to make himself agreeable and useful, Mr. Sydney was not impervious to his new assistant's pleasantness.

But it was not – at least, not only – Mr. Sydney who was Wickham's true target. Sydney's daughter dwelt with him, one Emily Woodstone, a handsome woman some five years older than Wickham himself, with two sons from her previous marriage. A carriage accident had left her widowed, and her father had taken her back into his house and provided for the education and care of his grandsons. Wickham was not hasty in his wooing, but subtle, and clever, and four years after he came to work for Sydney, Emily had accepted his suit, and he had gone from a mere convict and assistant to being Sydney's son-in-law.

There had been a price to be paid for his new security, Wickham reflected ruefully as he tugged on his shirt and reached for his waistcoat. Emily Wickham had proven to be a redoubtable woman, with no patience for a roving eye in her husband and an inclination to be dictatorial. Her will was quite as strong as his own, and her father's influence wide-reaching. Wickham, by no means a fool, had swiftly come to the realization that he had best behave himself now.

It had been a trial, at times, to curb his instincts to chase pretty females, to pass by the gaming tables and the saloons without a glance. But as time went on and he exercised his new self-control – at first both reluctant and bitter, then indifferent to the temptations before him – it had become easier. He had also grown wiser, he thought. The rattle of the bones and the whispering shuffle of cards were no longer quite the siren's song they had once been. He was not always sure he was entirely content with this new life – it was dull, at times – but the memory of splitting rocks and digging heavy shovelfuls of dirt, or worse, being back in the belly of a transport ship, would swiftly remind him of how awful it could be. Anything was better than to be a convict without a patron, and this – food in his stomach and clothes on his back, a wife and young daughter, and now, a free man, his sentence finished up a year previously – was infinitely preferable.

Every so often, he would think wistfully of merry olde England, of innocent, pliable Georgiana and her massive dowry. It would have been a grand thing to have married a sweet, timid wife and lived the high life on her money. But it would not have lasted, he knew. Darcy would have always been breathing down his neck, and his own penchant for gambling would have run through even the princely sum of Georgiana's lavish dowry in a few short years. All things considered, this was a safer place for him than England. He was far from Darcy's moralizing or Fitzwilliam's hostility, married to a woman he respected and even held in esteem, with a little daughter he truly adored.

Wickham ran his comb through his hair again, looking himself over critically in his wife's small glass hanging up beside the wardrobe. He looked … respectable. Not grand. His life was not grand – but it was sufficient, and he was not going to be such a fool as to grasp greedily for more, and by so doing, lose all he had.

He gave his reflection a stern nod and turned to go back out into the kitchen and fetch his wife's eggs.

/

Pemberley

4 th October, 1825

The air was balmy enough to be reminiscent of summer, despite the blazing glory of the red and orange trees. The sun was warm and heavy, bugs droning in the grass and parkland. Only a steady breeze, a bit too chilly to be entirely comfortable, reminded anyone out of doors of the approaching winter.

Elizabeth tilted her head, enjoying the heat of the sun seeping through her straw hat and her hair, the stones of the terrace warming her shoes. Down near the stables, her two eldest children, Esther and Samuel, rode around inside the white paddock on their trim ponies, closely attended by a pair of grooms watching the children. Closer up the sloping greensward of the lawn, Christopher and Luke, the next oldest Darcy children, tumbled across the grass with one of the older litters of collie puppies from the Darcy kennels. Two nursery maids stood nearby with their backs to the sun, sharing desultory conversation and intently supervising the romping. Only little Ruth was missing, and she, Elizabeth knew, was upstairs in the nursery having her afternoon nap.

Elizabeth relaxed on the cushions of the chair that had been brought out for her. She was weary; weary enough that sitting down made her limbs feel leaden. The last few weeks had been very hard, and the week just past the busiest yet. Tomorrow would prove equally hurried, with no time to rest, and so Elizabeth allowed herself to do so now, soaking up the sun's rays and the sound of her happy children, the birds singing and the insects droning and the trout stream burbling just on the edge of hearing. With a long soft sigh, she let her head fall back on the cushions behind her, the sun caressing her face, the breeze tugging at her hair, her mind pleasantly blank.

A door opened behind her, and Elizabeth opened her eyes, turned her head, and then leaped to her feet.

"Mamma!" she said with a mixture of concern and disapproval, "did you come downstairs by yourself?"

Mrs. Bennet cast her blue eyes heavenward and said irascibly, "I did, yes, Lizzy. I am not an invalid, and I held on carefully to the bannister. I do wish you would not fuss!"

Elizabeth, who knew that illness was responsible for her mother's unusual irritability, blew out a breath and produced a smile. "I know, Mamma; it is truly annoying! But you are still weakened, and I wish you would permit one of the footmen to support you when you are walking up and down the stairs. I would hate for you to fall."

"I have no intention of falling!"

Elizabeth bit her tongue, breathed deeply, and then said, "Do sit down, Mamma, and I will have the servants bring us some hot chocolate."

"I do not need hot chocolate."

"Well, I do; it is a little chilly today."

Mrs. Bennet reluctantly sat down on the offered chair, and Elizabeth darted into the house in search of a maid. She found Mrs. Simmons, who had replaced Mrs. Reynolds as housekeeper some five years earlier and was presently looking distressed.

"I am so sorry, Mrs. Darcy," the woman said. "I had no idea that Mrs. Bennet had come downstairs completely alone!"

"It is quite all right. Can you arrange for hot chocolate and a rug for my mother?"

"Of course!"

Elizabeth hurried back out to see her mother leaning back in her chair, her eyelids closed, though Mrs. Bennet opened her eyes upon hearing the return of her second daughter.

"I am sorry, Lizzy," she said contritely. "I know I am being difficult and rude."

"Being sick is hard," Elizabeth replied, sitting down in another chair and reaching over to pat her mother's thin arm.

"It is," the older woman said and sighed deeply, "but I ought not to take out my frustrations on you. You and your husband have been exceedingly kind to me."

"You know that we love you dearly and are very glad we were able to assist you."

"I know," Mrs. Bennet replied just as two maids exited the manse behind them, one with cups of hot chocolate, the other with a rug for Mrs. Bennet.

Elizabeth took the hot chocolate with a smile and a nod, and she watched as her mother took a long sip of her own drink, set it down on a small wooden table next to her, snuggled happily under the rug, leaned back and closed her eyes.

Elizabeth watched her mother a moment longer before slumping back onto her own chair. It had been an anxious and tense couple of months, as Mrs. Bennet, now elderly, had succumbed to a severe bout of influenza some seven weeks ago. Her symptoms had presented most dreadfully; a raging fever had left her delirious and restless, rejecting all food and nearly all drink. For weeks, the illness had gripped her increasingly frail body. The local doctor had visited every day, and his cautious optimism of the beginning slowly waned into a grave expression and slow head-shakes when Elizabeth pressed him.

She had refused to give up, despite the bleak outlook. The maids and housekeeper had fought alongside her, sitting vigil over Mrs. Bennet's sickbed and plying her with beef broth and bone broth and pork jelly. It had been discouraging as, time after time, the older woman turned her head away from the cups and spoons held to her mouth, her skin pale and translucent over her thin face. But she, too, had fought, and with the unflagging efforts of Elizabeth and the servants, at last her fever had broken, and her open eyes were weak but clear.

It had not been the end of the road, of course. Though the danger had passed and the cough diminished, all the strength was gone from her frail body, and her throat was still sore at times. The after-effects were lingering on, and proving a sore trial to Mrs. Bennet's patience. She found herself unwontedly cranky and had to restrain herself multiple times a day from snapping at some unfortunate soul. Elizabeth bore her mother's small bursts of annoyance patiently, fully understanding how it must chafe to be so feeble still. There was no malice or meanness in Mrs. Bennet's manner, and her impatience was not so great a trial as to be unbearable.

Once it had become clear that Mrs. Bennet would indeed recover, Elizabeth had penned invitations to her four sisters to come and celebrate their mother's return to health. She was not expecting all of them to be able to visit, but they had surprised her; not only were Jane and Mary and Kitty and Lydia coming, but so were their respective husbands, and they were bringing their children as well. How the halls of Pemberley would ring! And how excited the Darcy children were to see their cousins! Not only Jane's five, but also Mary's six, and Kitty's three, and Lydia's two – as well as the unborn child she was still carrying – not to mention Georgiana's brood, for she and Matthew were coming too. How busy and full the house would be!

"All one and twenty of my grandchildren will be together for the first time," Mrs. Bennet murmured, reflecting Elizabeth's own thoughts.

"It will be marvelous," Elizabeth said with a fond smile.

"Indeed, it will be."

/

Pemberley

Three Days Later

As planned, all of Elizabeth's sisters plus her sister-in-law, Georgiana, along with their families had arrived at Pemberley over the course of two days, and now the estate was alive with husbands and wives, parents and children, and one matriarchal grandmother surrounded by her one and twenty grandchildren.

The weather had held fine, with a soft breeze and mild temperatures. Elizabeth Darcy, seated on a blanket under a spreading tree, looked around with satisfaction. While Pemberley was massive enough to accommodate all the guests, the children themselves were full of energy and inclined to hurtle up and down corridors and stairways, which was more than a little unnerving for the servants, who were not used to an entire army of children in the house.

Thus the decision had been made, only this morning, to have a picnic less than a quarter of a mile beyond the stables, where a small lake, surrounded by rushes and filled with goldfish, glistened in the bright sunshine. A short distance away, on a slight hill which rose above the pond, stood a belvedere, and within sat Mrs. Bennet, well wrapped, on a comfortable padded chair with a small table in front of her and two more chairs nearby. Here the Bennet matriarch was holding court, with her various children and grandchildren taking turns visiting her.

Elizabeth, gazing through the open windows into the belvedere, smiled at the sight of Mrs. Bennet and her eldest granddaughter, Isabella Collins, who was thirteen years old, chatting with one another. Mrs. Bennet already seemed brighter and livelier, and Elizabeth was filled with a surge of gratitude that her sisters and their families had willingly traveled, some of them a long distance, to spend time with Mrs. Bennet here at Pemberley.

Elizabeth picked up the apple lying beside her hand and took a bite, the tart sweet juice exploding across her tongue, and looked about at the swirling mass of activity around herself in contentment.

Sally and Maggie, the nursery maids, were closest to her, strictly supervising the very small children who were crawling or tearing around on short legs, saving startled insects from being shoved into tiny mouths and generally ensuring safety and happiness. Closer to the lake, several footmen lingered, having been chosen specifically for their swimming prowess; should any child escape their attentive nurse and tumble into the luring water, they would be fished out in short order. The older children, more trustworthy with their own lives, were running to and fro without as much supervision, swirling together and apart again. Esther was acting her part as the eldest child of the Darcy family quite seriously, Elizabeth noted proudly, with the girl taking it upon herself to guide her cousins around the nearer parts of the estate.

Samuel and Christopher, their breeches rolled up above their knees, were splashing among the cattails at the edge of the lake, with John the footman lingering near and watching the boys. Samuel sprang suddenly and popped up with a shout of glee, hoisting a glistening and alarmed frog in his hands. Christopher cheered, clapping both hands as he hopped in place, then both boys raced up out of the water to show off their catch to their admiring cousins.

Her sisters and brothers-in-law mingled with their children or sat on blankets nibbling at food, the same as she was doing. Matthew Lyndon, Georgiana's husband, had been pressed into service as a horse and now toted a shrieking and delighted little boy around on his back. Not far from this scene, Jane and Charles Bingley were seated on a blanket with Mary and William Collins, chatting merrily. Elizabeth smiled to herself, amused and pleased at once. Years of marriage to sensible, sweet Mary had influenced William for the better. With Lady Catherine passed on to her reward some three years ago, the worst influences around him had been removed, and his beloved wife was his sole focus as the woman to whom he granted his attention and his ear. The improvement had been remarkable and immediate, and he now held Mary's advice and opinions – more kindly phrased and intentioned – quite as highly as he had held those of his former patroness.

At the moment, Elizabeth was not tempted to join her relations. She was content, there on the blanket in the sun, her apple sweet and juicy in her hand and in her mouth, the grass crinkling and crunching beneath her every time she shifted. It had been a delightful but terrifically busy few days, hurrying around with Mrs. Simmons to ensure every bedchamber and hastily converted nursery had everything it needed, the personal servants her family had brought settled in, and the meals prepared at the necessary scale. And too, it was imperative that Elizabeth play her role as hostess, entertaining her guests and catching up with the goings on of her family. It was a glorious sort of bustle, but bustle it still was, and she appreciated the chance to sit quietly and rest.

"I am sorry I was late, darling."

Elizabeth turned and smiled at her beloved husband as he dropped to the ground next to her, his eyes crinkling apologetically.

Time had been kind to Fitzwilliam Darcy, she thought affectionately. The streaks of silver at his temples and throughout his dark hair made him look distinguished, and the fine wrinkles around his eyes lent him an air of grave wisdom, and the smile lines around his mouth showed the laughter of the past decade. But his posture and his energy were those of a man half his age, and she knew from watching him tote about their giggling children that his strength remained unimpaired.

"It is quite all right," she replied and leaned forward to enjoy a quick kiss. "I know you had some business letters to finish writing."

"Yes, and then an express came with news that Richard's wife was delivered of a healthy son yesterday, and I wished to send a note of congratulations back."

"Oh!" Elizabeth exclaimed joyfully. "How wonderful! Wait, a son? Does this mean that...?"

"That barring something startling, the earldom will move into Richard's family line eventually. The current Lady Matlock has birthed three girls, and the youngest is already seven years old; I think it most unlikely that Richard's brother will sire a son."

Elizabeth nodded in acknowledgement and shifted a little closer toward her husband, who put his arm around her. The former Richard Fitzwilliam had married only five years previously, to an heiress a decade younger than himself, and they now shared a three-year-old daughter and an infant son. Elizabeth, who, while always courteous to the current Earl of Matlock and his wife, did not particularly like the couple; she thought that Richard, when he inherited Matlock, would be an excellent master of the estate, like his own father had been.

"I am so happy for them," she murmured.

"I am as well," Darcy murmured back and tightened his grip. For a moment, husband and wife were silent as they enjoyed one another's company, as they reveled in the sights and sounds of their children, their sisters and brothers, their nieces and nephews.

"We are very blessed," Elizabeth said softly, and Darcy nodded and leaned over to plant a kiss on her pink cheek.

"We are indeed, my darling. Very blessed."

The End