Chapter 28

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

T he day could not have been more beautiful. The October air was clear, the sky was cloudless and vibrant blue; the woods surrounding the great house of Pemberley were at the peak of their autumn glory. It was the perfect setting for a wedding in the family, this time a happy, long-awaited one. Georgiana had been radiant in her joy. Darcy's heart swelled with pride, nostalgia, regret, and love. He had given his little sister away to Lionel Fielding, a fine young man.

It had been a simple ceremony, with only family and close friends. No expensive spectacle, only their own chapel. No bishop, only the rector from Kympton parish. No important guests from the first circles, except their Fitzwilliam relatives. Glad for some joy after burying his sister and niece, the earl and countess had been there, along with the viscount and his wife.

Fitzwilliam and his new bride, Lucy, had come all the way from Kent to attend. After sorting out the last wills of Lady Catherine and Anne, Darcy had gifted Rosings to his cousin outright. He never wanted to see the place again. Fitzwilliam had then in astonishingly quick succession resigned his commission, proposed to his commanding officer's daughter, and married her—a gracious, sensible woman named Lucy Maxwell. She had grown up following the drum and had experiences most other ladies could never comprehend. Together, the two shared an excellent understanding. The Cronies were also all there in fine style with their spouses. They had invited the Bingleys, but Mr Grantley was quite ill, and they did not want to be away from home even for a few days.

Now the wedding celebrations were nearly over, though the guests remained comfortably chatting at their tables. Darcy stood apart from the crowd, pleased beyond measure with how the day had gone, telling himself that his bittersweet sadness would pass. His baby sister had spent her last night as Georgiana Darcy, her last night at Pemberley. She was now Georgiana Fielding, the mistress of Birchwood Grange. It was, he reminded himself for the hundredth time, only seven miles from his home.

"That was a beautiful toast, Darcy," said a voice at his side. He turned to see his cousin standing next to him, holding two glasses of wine.

"As was yours," Darcy replied, accepting one of the glasses. As Georgiana's guardians, both had stood and made toasts to the bride and groom to begin the celebrations. Fitzwilliam's had been the longer, full of amusing tales from his little cousin's childhood. Darcy's had been short but powerfully emotional in its brevity. He had begun with how proud their parents would have been of their daughter and how she had become the beautiful, kind, and strong young lady they would have wished her to be. He had spoken of their bond and how they had found their way together through the years after their father's death. He had spoken of his respect for Fielding and what a good husband he would be. Mostly, he had spoken of his love for his sister and his happiness for her. When he had finished, Georgiana had risen and run to him, throwing her arms around him in a tight embrace. There had not been a dry eye in the room.

The two men clinked glasses and sipped their wine silently. After several minutes, Fitzwilliam asked, "Do you still think of her?"

Darcy knew exactly whom he meant. "I do."

He sipped his wine again. Although Elizabeth was never completely out of his thoughts, he did not languish over her like a mooncalf, drinking himself to oblivion every night or weeping into his brandy. It was a greater depth of feeling, of—dare he say—imagining. She would often come to mind, for example, whenever he found something amusing, or when he read an especially eloquent poem, or when he dispensed charity or assistance in his community. Would she laugh? Would the poem be meaningful to her? Would she think well of his actions?

And sometimes, early in the morning, in that misty, cobwebbed world between sleep and wakefulness, he thought he heard the fading echo of her laughter.

She had changed him profoundly. His friends, his habits, the way he managed his life and affairs, all had changed, both consciously and unconsciously. His view of the world had changed. He hoped she would approve, if she knew, wherever she was.

"I did not find her, but I discovered that the Longbourn estate is still held by her father, so she has a home to return to if need be. That is a comfort. I have come to believe that the former Miss Bingley fabricated the entire story out of whole cloth. Her allegations simply do not add up."

"And you have no plans to seek a wife?"

"None." Darcy turned to his cousin. "That is what true love is, I think. When no other woman will do, no matter how exemplary. When it would be worse to try to substitute another lady than to go without. I only want Elizabeth." After a long moment, he continued, "Do you think me ridiculous?"

Fitzwilliam finished his wine. "No. I should, but I do not. You may choose to do things differently from how I would, but you have always been firmly grounded in reality." He hesitated, put his hand on Darcy's shoulder, and continued gently, "Though perhaps do not close yourself off completely to the possibility of meeting another lady someday. I hate to see you alone."

Darcy, feeling the love and concern from his dear friend and cousin, nodded slightly. Maybe he would do that. Eventually.

Elizabeth settled back into the captain's quarters after a se'nnight's stay in Bombay. Samuel had given her the gift of a respite from the crowded conditions aboard ship while he saw to needed repairs and supplies for the vessel . A naval officer he had known aboard the Morwenna had married a woman from India, and they had settled in Bombay, operating an inn. Agueda had come with her, and their hosts had taken them around the city and surrounding countryside.

Now the Melisande was off on the long return voyage back to England. It would take many months, and there would be many stops on the way, but they were going home.

While she had been ashore, they had received mail, but there had not been such a large accumulation as the time before. Nonetheless, dozens of letters awaited her, from her family and even a few from Alice in Singapore.

She read Alice's missives first, then picked up the letters from her family members. The first one she opened, dated December 1814, was from her father.

My dear Lizzy,

You know my history as a negligent correspondent. However, today I am more than happy to write to anyone and everyone. I have such news! Mrs Bennet was delivered of a son last night. Mother and child are well. My dear girl, you have a brother, and the entail is broken. We shall do all we can to ensure that he grows up safely, in good health and happiness.

The entire household, indeed the entire estate, is in a joyous uproar. I have discovered something that my wife and my servants were keeping from me. If Mr Collins had inherited, every single person who worked and lived at Longbourn would have gone elsewhere. Mrs Collins would have had no servants whatsoever; the home farm would have had no farmhands. Now they will no longer have to worry themselves about that.

I do not know what Sir William and his family will think of this most felicitous event. Lady Lucas will be unhappy, and I may be persona non grata at Lucas Lodge for a long time, if not forever. Mr Collins will be angry, so I shall not open his letters; rather I shall consign them directly to the fire.

I have been unexpectedly sentimental these last months, as my wife grew great with child. I remember your birth as if it were yesterday. You came into the world with a cap of thick, unruly curls and wide, bright eyes that seemed to take in everything about you. You looked like a little owl wrapped tightly in your swaddling clothes. I remember the births of all my daughters and loved you all the first moment I saw you.

It transpired that Mrs Bennet had already chosen a name for the boy. It was a fait accompli. He is Francis Clement Grenville Bennet. Yes, you have it. He is named after your mother. Mrs Bennet was quite adamant about it and barely permitted me to add my father's given name as his third name. I was surprised, to say the least, but there is a peculiar sort of rightness about it. Your mother was terrified of the entail, and this little boy has broken it. She can rest easy.

I was not an attentive father in the past, my failures were many, but I mean to reform myself and raise our little Francis to love Longbourn as we all do, to care for it diligently and keep it safe far into the future.

Come home to us as soon as you may, my dear little voyager, and meet your brother.

Your loving papa,

Thomas Bennet

Elizabeth reread the letter, a lump in her throat, and wiped away a tear. Francis Clement Grenville Bennet. She could almost hear her mother's voice saying How well that sounds! And Sarah had insisted upon it. It was a fitting tribute indeed. She quietly rejoiced at the news. She wondered whether her father would be a more diligent parent because he had learnt his lesson or because the child was a son; but in the end, it did not matter.

She read the letters from her sisters and particularly enjoyed the descriptions of the daily lives of Jane, Kitty, and the Gardiners in London, and Mary in Cambridge. In their most recent letters, they had all written of their little brother and had all been to Longbourn to see him. Jane wrote:

Lizzy, I believe he takes after you the most. His hair is like yours, and he is a bright little thing! Although he is our brother, he will grow up with his nieces and nephews as if he were their cousin.

Elizabeth felt a little pang. In the past, she had never thought much about children of her own, but now she had a strange yearning to raise a child with Samuel. They would not make a baby together, but she knew he would be an excellent father in every other respect. Perhaps they could adopt children who had been orphaned as he had been. When they were back in England, she would broach the subject with him.