Epilogue

EPILOGUE

E ven as Elizabeth tugged her shawl more securely about her shoulders to protect herself from the chilly air, she sighed in wonder at the early signs of spring as she strolled along the banks of Pemberley's infamous lake. Although the locals whispered stories of ghosts dwelling within its depths, it was brimming with new life as winter gave way to warmer weather. The first shoots of daffodils were breaking through the dirt along the edge of the path—bright patches of verdancy peeking out of the shade. The budding willows swayed gently in the breeze, a preponderance of birds sheltering within their branches as they built their nests. A pair of swans paddled out on the water, nuzzling one another the way lovers do.

Elizabeth sighed again, this time with more wistfulness. "And to think, I nearly missed my chance to become mistress of all this. 'Tis a good thing Fate led me here against my own wrongheaded notions."

Fate, as her dear Darcy was wont to claim, had reunited them above six months ago and performed whatever magic was required to result in the only possible conclusion of their love story. Had it not, they may have spent the rest of their lives wallowing in regret and longing for what might have been. Instead, they were married, settled, and?—

Elizabeth stumbled to a halt, her hand reflexively flying to her abdomen. Could it be? She held painfully still, her heart thudding heavily in her chest, and waited. A few seconds more rewarded her impatience with the delicate, barely perceptible sensation of butterfly wings fluttering just below her navel.

Instantly, joyful tears welled in her eyes as her dearest suspicions were at last confirmed. The hand not pressed to her belly rose to cup her mouth as a stuttering gasp fell from her lips, followed quickly by a sob. "A babe," she whispered as a tear rolled down her cheek.

The wind kicked up, sending the willow branches into a swirling frenzy. The sun shone brighter, the birds twittered a jubilant melody, and leaves rained down upon her. Elizabeth thought she heard an ethereal whisper of congratulations tickle at her ears, though she was too overcome to swear by it.

More tears cascaded down Elizabeth's face even as she laughed. She wiped them away and exclaimed, "Oh! Oh, I must tell Fitzwilliam he is to be a father. A father!"

With one hand upon the spot where she had first felt the fluttering signs of life within her body and the other lifting her hem out of the way, Elizabeth turned round and dashed back the way she had come. Sense prevailed soon thereafter, and she slowed to a more careful pace, but her journey to the house was swift even so.

Knowing that Darcy was sure to be at his desk, Elizabeth made directly for the pair of doors that led into his study. She grasped the knob, gave it the necessary tug, and threw herself inside once the door was worked free. How surprised he will be! We have not been married seven months yet and ? —

Darcy was exactly where she expected him to be, seated behind his desk with a letter in his hand. When he looked up, however, his countenance was far more grim than she was accustomed to. Perhaps at one time she had considered him solemn and unsmiling—but not since well before their marriage.

A glance at the paper in his hand caused her to swallow convulsively. It was edged in black. "What news?" Dear Lord, let it not be from Longbourn.

Darcy stood from his chair and crossed the room to stand before her, the dreaded letter still clasped in his fingers. A passing cloud drifted across the sun, dimming the room. "It is my cousin Anne. I have received word only this morning that she has died unexpectedly."

Elizabeth's initial response was relief that her parents and sisters were all well, followed immediately by a sickening sense of guilt. There ought to be no celebration that Miss de Bourgh was gone and others spared.

"When? How?" Anne de Bourgh, as Elizabeth had known her, had not been a healthful creature, but no one had suspected she was so close to death. The way Darcy told it, most of her complaints were believed to be fabricated for the sake of feminine delicacy. How humbling and terrible to be so wrong!

"Only two days ago, or so my uncle writes. She suffered one of her bouts and…" Darcy paused, his eyes glassy as he stared down at the letter. "Did not recover."

Setting her own announcement aside, Elizabeth folded herself into Darcy's embrace and held him tightly. "I am so sorry, my love."

He cradled her to his chest and kissed the crown of her bonneted head. "Lord Matlock insists that we attend the funeral, but I am uncertain whether we would be welcomed. It might be kinder to remain at Pemberley."

Darcy had deemed it better to wait until after their nuptials to inform Lady Catherine of their union, just in case she intended to meddle, and her response to the intelligence had been extremely indignant. She had given way to all the genuine frankness of her character, sending him language so very abusive, especially of Elizabeth, that Darcy had declared all intercourse at an end. They had heard from neither Lady Catherine nor Miss de Bourgh since. With this report, it was time to put any lingering animosity aside.

Gently pulling back to see his face, Elizabeth cupped it between her palms. "We must go and pay our respects. Miss de Bourgh was your cousin, Lady Catherine your mother's sister."

Darcy turned his head to kiss one of her hands. "I cannot condone the way Lady Catherine spoke of you. I will not endure her disrespect or allow her to treat you with less than the honour that you are due."

"She was angry and spoke unwisely. You must forgive her and show her the compassion you wish she would feel. If not for yourself, then for our family." Our growing family. Elizabeth bit her lip to contain that last thought; this was not the moment to bask in their own happiness.

Darcy sighed, his shoulders drooping. "I know you are correct, little though I like it. Lord Matlock says the very same in his letter. To Rosings, then, I suppose we must go."

The news of his cousin's demise cut Darcy deeply. Not because he harboured regrets of a romantic sort—certainly not, especially since meeting and falling desperately in love with Elizabeth—but due rather to a nebulous feeling of guilt. Guilt for dismissing her frailty as fictitious. Guilt for neglecting her. Guilt for not protecting her. Much as he told himself that he was being ridiculous, that he could not possibly have prevented her death, he still felt somehow responsible.

Lady Catherine, he was sure, would agree with this estimation of his culpability. She had said as much in her horrid letter:

It was the fondest wish of your mother, as well as hers! In abandoning Anne in this way, you have destroyed her every chance at happiness. I should not be surprised if she dies of a broken heart.

It seemed her grim prognostications had come to pass.

Darcy shook his head to dispel his aunt's haunting words. If he took to heart all of Lady Catherine's pronouncements, he would be no wiser than that addlepate Collins. Anne's sudden death was an unfortunate twist of fate, not a consequence of following his own inclinations. Further, it was not as if Anne had desired the match any more than he, which she had made perfectly clear nearly a decade ago. She would not have him when he had dutifully asked, and he had not felt an inclination strong enough to pursue the matter further. Not at all like with Elizabeth.

Recollection of his beloved wife urged Darcy to look at the mantel clock, which read half past ten in the evening. He had not intended to brood in his gloomy solitude for so long; Elizabeth was almost certainly asleep already. He breathed a heavy sigh of disappointment. At one time, he could expect her to be awake and waiting for him in their bed, full of amorous energy, but of late she had been more fatigued and could barely keep her eyes open past nine. At least I shall be able to take comfort in holding her.

Swallowing the last of his brandy, Darcy stood and set aside his glass on the table next to his chair. The fire was low, but its embers still glowed brightly enough for him to find his way to the door without lighting a candle. He left his study and climbed the grand staircase on the way to the suite of rooms he shared with his wife.

Rather than enter through the master's side, as had been his former practice, he let himself into what was formerly the mistress's bedchamber. Closed up for many years and suffering from neglect, it had been in a terrible state between his mother's occupation and Elizabeth's. He had spent the weeks of their courtship diligently overseeing its repair—following the directives of his betrothed and her aunt, of course—until perfection had been achieved.

It was no longer a bedroom, however. Elizabeth had indulged his fancy to share a bed, and so what would have been the room in which she slept had been converted into a shared sitting area. Although the bed had been removed, many of the old furnishings had been cleaned and repurposed; Darcy fondly recalled the softness of that Prussian blue rug upon his bare feet as a lad, as well as the soothing cream, willow-patterned wallpaper that made him feel as if he were inside a china teacup.

Even so, the room was not entirely as Lady Anne would have designed it; Elizabeth had left her own mark, and the familiar was favourably blended with the new. Green accents were added to the blue—cushions, armchairs, tassels, and the like—which his wife assured him created more contrast in the palette, whatever that meant. It looked well, which was all Darcy could intelligently speak to. Whitewashed bookshelves, filled with their most perused tomes, had been built into the wall surrounding the marble fireplace. The portrait of his parents, which had once hung in his bedchamber, had been moved to a place of prominence above said fireplace, which was just as well; he would not have wished to enjoy his wedding night with the pair of them benevolently looking on. In place of the bed, furniture more suited to lounging had been brought in to fill out the space.

The most prominent piece was an emerald and ivory striped sofa facing the hearth, upon which he discovered the reclined figure of his beautiful wife. Already in her billowing white nightgown with her hair coming loose from its braid, she was the very image of home and comfort. She was stretched out beneath a blanket, with a book splayed upon her abdomen, snoring lightly, and he could not but smile.

I could never regret marrying Elizabeth.

Darcy trod lightly over to the sofa and sat down near her feet. Reaching out with two fingers, he softly stroked the curls resting upon her cheek, tucking them behind her ear. She snorted, eyes blinking rapidly, and his smile widened. "Dearest, wake up. It is time for bed."

Elizabeth moaned and swatted playfully at his hand. "I was already sleeping—there was no need to wake me."

"So you would prefer to spend the entire night on the sofa?"

Rolling away from him as she tugged the blanket up over her shoulders, she made a disgruntled sound in response.

Chuckling, he rose and scooped her up into his arms, eliciting a startled squeak. She thrashed and complained without conviction before settling into his hold, her head lolling onto his shoulder. "Come now, you will regret sleeping anywhere but our bed in the morning."

The door between the master's and mistress's chambers had been removed, leaving an open arch for Darcy to cross through as he carried her to bed. His—now their—bedchamber had suffered little renovation upon his marriage, with Elizabeth assuring him that it was unneeded. A few of those green accents had been added and curtains made to match the ones in their sitting room, but otherwise it was largely what it had been in his bachelor days. Except so much more with his beloved in residence.

Darcy laid his bride gently upon their bed, tugging the blankets free so as to cover her. He drew them up to her chin, and she charmingly snuggled deeper into their warmth. "There now. Is that not much better?"

Around a yawn, her words lightly indistinct, Elizabeth said, "You are so high-handed, Mr Darcy."

"I confess I am." So saying, he pressed a kiss to her forehead and stood to back away, tugging at the knot in his cravat. He did not mean to go far, only to strip down so he could join her imminently. Bailey would not be pleased with the state of his wrinkled clothing, but then he must forgive his newly married master for the lapse—as he had done often these past seven months. A larger bonus on Boxing Day had paid for it.

"I suppose you will need to be…"

"Oh?" he queried, working free the buttons of his waistcoat. "And why is that? Do you intend to be naughty?" The last was said with an impish smirk that Elizabeth could not appreciate with her eyes closed.

"Mm…no, for the baby."

Darcy's hands stilled on the fall of his trousers. "W-what?"

Elizabeth did not answer at first, merely grunted and turned her face away. When Darcy prodded her again, her eyes fluttered open, and she squinted at him as if bewildered by his presence. "What?"

Darcy's heart drummed in his chest. He leant forwards, caging Elizabeth between his arms where she reclined upon the mattress. "You said ‘for the baby'. What baby?"

Elizabeth tensed, and the haze of sleep dissipated from her expression. Her mouth dropped open in apparent alarm. "I had not meant to say that."

"Say what? What baby do you speak of?"

Cringing slightly, Elizabeth replied, " Our baby."

"Our…? Elizabeth, are you…?"

"Yes." She inhaled a deep breath, a trembling smile breaking across her face. "I am pregnant."

Before his wife had even completed her declaration, Darcy had pulled her into his arms and begun kissing her fervently. "Dearest, loveliest Elizabeth! Is it true? Are you certain?"

"As certain as it is possible to be, yes." She laughed, a warbling sound of relief, as she brought her arms up to wrap around his back. He could feel her fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt. "I felt the quickening this morning."

"Why did you not say?"

"I was on my way to tell you when…well, you had just received the letter from Lord Matlock about Miss de Bourgh, and…it did not feel like the proper time."

Darcy kissed her again, tangling his fingers into her hair, which had almost entirely unravelled from its braid during their impassioned celebration. When he pulled back, it was only far enough to rest his forehead against hers. "I understand your hesitation, but…my God, a baby! I thought nothing could redeem this awful day, but this…I love you so very much."

Elizabeth nuzzled deeper into his embrace, pressed against his galloping heart. Exactly where she belonged. "As I love you."