Epilogue

September 1812

Elizabeth Darcy looked up from the tiny garment she was stitching as a gift for Sarah Fitzwilliam when her husband entered the parlour. She could tell at once that he had news, although his expression was not appreciably different. Something in the way he held himself, perhaps.

“What is it?” she asked.

He smiled as he took a seat beside her. “Perhaps I only miss my lovely wife. It has been several hours since last we spoke.”

Since the last they had spoken was during a post-passionate interlude before breakfast, she smiled back, and set aside her stitchery. “You are right—it has been hours.”

He took her hand in his. “Lord Roden has asked for my blessing. He wishes to wed Anne.”

“What? But he is at least thirty years her senior!”

“Twenty-two years, to be exact. But he brought me a letter from her in town, and she certainly seems to desire it. He is a good man.”

“Oh, of course. It is only…” she trailed off, and he squeezed the hand he held.

“I know. But as I think of it, it is not a bad match. He is old enough to stand up to her mother, should she decide to interfere. His first marriage was a happy one, he has two living sons, and his finances are sound—there is no fear that he is marrying her for her estate or as a brood mare. If they did have a child, why, Rosings Park could still go to him or her. She does not need my permission, of course, but he told me that she wanted it. I thought it kind of him to indulge her, and was touched that she desires the goodwill of her family.”

“Mrs Annesley has been very good for her.” Her companion’s extraordinary patience had been very needed at first, but in a much shorter time than Elizabeth could have predicted, Anne’s letters had changed from self-pitying and anxious to newsy and interesting.

“They are thinking of marrying over the festive season.”

“A Christmas wedding. It sounds lovely.” Perhaps Mrs Annesley would agree to come to Pemberley afterwards; it was time to bring out Georgiana, and yet Elizabeth suspected that a Certain Event—as yet to be confirmed—might stand in the way of her attendance at every ton party and ball her younger sister might enjoy.

From an inner pocket, he withdrew a letter. “This arrived today as well.”

Elizabeth took it, and felt a spark of shock travel down her spine. It was her mother’s writing on the envelope.

“From Mama,” she said.

He nodded.

She had considered writing. Had it not been for Mr Collins, she might have done so. But she was not ready to open any doors to him.

“You must not feel obligated to read it,” he said—probably concerned about the length of time she had stared at it.

“Oh, I know. Letters are wonderful that way—so unintrusive.” She smiled at him to show that she was not upset.

And she was not. Curious, yes, but not upset. She opened the letter. There it was, more of Mama’s handwriting—a painstaking script.

Dearest Lizzy,

It is good to be able to write to you. Lydia says I always could have. It did not seem so to me, but she may be right. Mr Collins encourages me to do it now, but he is a dunderhead. I do not blame you for refusing to read this, or to write me back. My brother invites us to come and live with him, but some days Mary needs my help to bear with her husband. Since it is partly my fault she married him, I will stay. But I have encouraged Kitty and Lydia to go. He will send his man for them soon, so if you are in town, you might wish to visit.

I hope you are well. I will only add, God bless you.

Love c,

Mama

It was a stiff, short note.

“What does she say?”

Elizabeth handed him the letter.

“What do you think about it?” he asked, handing it back to her momentarily.

“I think it reads like a letter to a daughter for which nearly every subject is fraught.”

“She does not apologise, I notice.”

“I noticed that as well, but her adieu is charity itself. She sounds miserable. There was a time when she would never have wanted Lydia to go anyplace without her. I am happy that my uncle will have much more management over their upbringing.”

“That is good. Perhaps we shall bring them to Pemberley next summer. Will you write back to her?”

“Probably. Eventually.” She turned into his arms, enjoying the strength and feel of him. He would always, always be here when she needed him. He was not simply her husband, but her best, most loyal friend. “Shall we walk?”

Darcy glanceddown at his quiet wife as they trod one of their favourite paths, one taking them along the forested edge of their property. He knew the letter from her mother had affected her; she had wanted peace between all her family. They both laid much more culpability upon Collins, for putting a grieving and terrified widow in such a position—and yet, Mrs Bennet was by no means blameless.

The summer had been a wet one; the harvest was late and poor. Fortunately, his investments prospered; Pemberley and her tenants would never suffer. He spared a grateful thought for old Mr Bingley, and it brought another memory to mind. “I had a letter from Bingley,” he said, and her aspect immediately lightened. Bingley and Jane had already gone to town, whereas he and Elizabeth would likely not leave Pemberley until next month. They both preferred a country life over the city.

“What news? I have not heard from Jane in a week, so I know they have been busy.”

“Well, it is difficult to say, between his scores and crosses. But as nearly as I can decipher, Miss Bingley is now Mrs Hickinbottom. She has wed a linen draper.”

Elizabeth stopped walking and turned to look at him in astonished disbelief. “What? Inconceivable! I cannot believe Bingley would give his permission!”

He grinned. It had been worth saving the news, just to see the look on her face now.

“To be fair, she did not ask it. She is of age, and she presented him with a fait accompli. But Bingley’s uncle came to town with the story, and spoke with him about it. Apparently, the wedding was, ahem, necessary.”

“Oh. Ohh. Is it awful that I feel sorry for the linen draper?”

“Were not you the one who recommended that I leave the door open for a future clemency?”

“The thought of her ever returning is somewhat terrifying. I might one day aspire to some sort of forgiveness. Today is not that day.”

He smiled, as he knew she had meant him to. He hated that she was troubled, however, for any reason.

“Perhaps, my love, there is a difference between forgiveness and accountability. All the forgiveness in the world does not erase the consequences of a weak character. You are free to forgive your mother, while maintaining a strict boundary upon her influence. Mrs, um, Hickinbottom had no control over her temper, her impulses, or any other emotion. It does not seem she has learnt any.”

“Thankfully, she is someone else’s problem. I feel sorry for her child.”

“Her child will have a large extended family to turn to for support and succour—including Bingley. He and your sister will not forget. However, the child has a father, and apparently a good one.”

“That is nice to hear.” They had paused near the top of a gradual grade above the gardens, overlooking a gorgeous vista of Pemberley and the clear blue skies of late summer, with a backdrop of Pemberley woods. “We should have a bench placed here,” she said. “This is a beautiful lookout. I imagine that when the leaves begin changing colours, it will be even better.”

“Like so many of your ideas for our home, that is an excellent suggestion,” he replied. It was true. Elizabeth had exquisite taste, and she never undertook any changes except to bring about improvements in both appearance and usefulness.

She suddenly put up one hand to shade her eyes, looking back towards the direction from which they had just come. “Who is that?”

He turned to look, and saw a man on a horse riding towards them. There was only one man he knew possessing such a correct military bearing; Richard could place a shilling between his boot and saddle stirrups, jump a five-rail fence on his horse, and land on the other side with the shilling in the exact same place.

“I believe it is my cousin. I was not expecting him, so near to Mrs Fitzwilliam’s forthcoming confinement. I hope nothing is the matter.”

They both waited a bit anxiously, hand in hand, for him to approach. But when he did, he was all smiles, and something within Darcy eased.

This was the cousin he thought had died in Portugal, jovial and friendly. He could be serious more often than his former self, but it was a happy man who hailed them now.

“Greetings from town!” he called, lifting a parcel from one of his saddlebags and swinging down from the saddle. “It arrived, and before you abuse me for abandoning my wife at such a delicate time, I shall have you know that it was at her insistence that I deliver it personally, and at once. She does not trust the mails with such a precious cargo.”

Darcy noticed his wife’s eyes widen at the sight.

“You did not have to come all this way with it,” she said. “I am sorry you were put to such inconvenience.”

“Nonsense!” he chuckled. “I am under strict instructions to watch you open it, and describe your expressions in every particular. What would you call that look, Darcy? ‘Startled deer’?”

He smiled at his cousin and reached for the package; withdrawing a small pocket-knife, he cut through the string that tied it before handing it over to his wife.

She held it for some moments, however, without making a move to unwrap it. “You should open it,” Darcy said, smiling gently, “before Richard begins comparing you to less dignified animals.”

Biting her lip, she almost reverently removed the brown paper to reveal a handsome, leather-bound book. In gilt tooling, the cover was inscribed Poetry to My Beloved and beneath the title, ‘By A Lady’.

As a national hero, Richard was respected in all quarters of public life. Upon the advice of Mr Gardiner, he had begun to make a substantial living handling delicate matters of all sorts. Beginning with Miss Lushington’s fanciful and fantastical nude portraits—thankfully, none of them of Darcy—painted under the pseudonym of Pierre Moreau, Richard had begun to nurture a deeply private clientele.

It was Richard who had conducted all discussions with the publisher as Elizabeth’s trusted intermediary—she had insisted upon anonymity. Darcy had no doubt that, as word of his successful negotiations continued to spread, his cousin would receive more and more commissions, leading to a fulfilling future.

She smoothed a hand over the volume, opening it and carefully turning the pages. Looking up at him, she said in almost a whisper, “I cannot believe it is real.”

“May I?” he asked, and she handed him the tome. Randomly, he opened to a page and read the light-hearted The Charms of a Man—a mock panegyric she had penned one morning while watching him sleep.

His wit descends on foes and friends

Like famed Niagara’s Fall;

And travellers gaze in wild amaze,

And listen, one and all.

His judgment sound, thick, black, profound,

Like transatlantic groves,

Dispenses aid, and friendly shade

To all that in it roves

If thus his mind to be defined

America exhausts,

And all that’s grand in that great land

In similes it costs?—

Oh how can I his person try

To image and portray?

How paint the face, the form how trace

In which those virtues lay?

Another world must be unfurled,

Another language known,

Ere tongue or sound can publish round

His charms of flesh and bone.

He turned the page, to read another love poem—this one a tribute to her dead father. Her mind, her beautiful mind, captured the heated wounds of feeling and loss, the healing whispers of gratitude and gain from life’s many victories and failures. He had known, when she had begun to share them with him, that many others with less talent for words would find expression within hers. It had been easy for Richard to find a publisher who agreed.

“I shall leave you two to your walk, now,” Richard said, evidently pleased with their mutual reverence. “I have been riding since dawn. I will nap and see you at dinner, shall I?”

He departed after their pleased agreement and thanks, and they continued their course at the forest’s edge. Darcy asked her to read aloud her favourites, as he held her arm and guided her over the uneven ground. Although he had read and heard each one of them before, he never tired of hearing them again.

“Did I ever thank you for helping me to become a published author?” she asked, her eyes twinkling.

“An anonymous one,” he replied soberly. “I am so sorry that marrying me made it more difficult for you to be known for your work.”

“Had I not married you, I would never have written at least three-quarters of this poetry, my love.”

“Your talent is extraordinary,” he said. “I am in awe of you. I am awed.”

She gazed shyly up at him, and he could do naught else except kiss her, fully and deeply, trying to express his own lack of vocabulary for the immensity of the feelings in his heart.

At that moment, a bright crimson leaf came tumbling down from the tree over their heads to land upon hers. Grinning, he plucked it off.

“The first fallen leaf of autumn, milady.” He glanced upwards. “Odd. As you mentioned earlier, none of the trees have changed colours yet—the nights have not yet been cold enough. I see only green.”

Elizabeth stared at the foliage he held; to his distress, her eyes filled with sudden tears.

“What is it darling?”

She shook her head a little as if to clear it, smiling through her tears. “It is probably meaningless…it is just... Sarah has told me of the times when she feels she receives ‘messages from heaven’—little remembrances from her mother. And you will think me silly, but I feel as if…as if I have just received one from Papa.”

“I do not think it silly in the slightest,” he declared stoutly. “Why should not his love for his daughter exist eternally? I cannot imagine mine for you ever fading, grave or no grave. We shall keep this leaf, and press it, as a reminder.”

He handed her his handkerchief, and she blotted her tears. When she looked at him once more, it was with her usual affectionate smile. Opening her book again, she turned to the front of it and showed it to him; for the first time he read her dedication.

For the one man I trust above all others, it read. Thank you for being so safe to love.

It was a gift.

The End