Epilogue
EPILOGUE
JUNE 1820
Lady Anne Darcy
Beloved wife, mother, sister
1763 - 1796
D arcy looked down at the dark-haired boy laying the first roses of summer upon the grave of Lady Anne, his mother, whom they had buried in the empty plot saved for her next to George Darcy in 1814. Henry, now six years old, had been doing the honours ever since he could walk, and soon little Madeline would wish to have the privilege of carrying the bouquets and placing them in front of her grandparents’ headstones. Well, they could each choose one marker to grace with Elizabeth’s lovely roses next year. Madeline would be running by then, completely grown out of the toddling steps she was just now beginning to master. And the babe in his beloved wife’s arms would be attempting to toddle himself.
Darcy gazed at Elizabeth. They had just celebrated their eighth wedding anniversary, and she was dearer to him and more lovely than she had been on the day of their marriage, though he would never have thought it possible. She had stood by him through danger, betrayal, grief, and despair. And she had brought to him safety, fidelity, joy, and hope. Her intrinsic light served as an anchor for him, a beacon to which he could always turn for direction and stability.
Had she not been from the start? Was it not Elizabeth’s pert opinions which caused him to question the veracity of his own? Was it not her firm reprimand that made him know himself, see his faults, and wish to improve? It was her faith in him that had given him faith in himself, and her loyalty that taught him what it meant to love. He had allowed her into his heart, and she had nestled in and made herself at home, filling it with affection and laughter and delight.
Fitzwilliam Darcy had been a fugitive in so many ways, running from closeness, from love, from life itself really. Until she captured him, arrested his cloistered heart, and committed him to her loving arms. Elizabeth had fettered him to her for life.
And he had never been so free.