Epilogue
Elizabeth and Darcy were married, as Mrs Bennet never ceased to inform the world, with what she considered undue haste.
The ceremony took place one fine morning in May, at the church in Meryton, before such neighbours as could be collected on short notice and such relations as agreed that happiness must count for more than show.
The sun fell in pale gold across the nave, the vows were said with heart, and Elizabeth, as she stood beside Mr Darcy at the altar, felt a quiet certainty settle over her that no amount of ceremony or vastness of the breakfast could have made more real.
The air was soft with the scent of hawthorn from the churchyard.
The low murmur of the congregation faded into a hush as the rector’s voice rose in the cadence of the service.
Elizabeth’s hands were steady in Darcy’s, though his own betrayed a faint tremor.
She rejoiced that he, too, felt the weight of the moment.
When he repeated the words with a quiet firmness, she answered with a clearness that surprised herself.
The ring, cool and glittering against her finger, seemed a seal upon what had long been true between them.
Outside, the bells rang out over fields that dressed themselves in their best green for the occasion.
A few children ran along the path to catch a glimpse of the bride in her simple muslin.
As the newly married couple descended the church steps, Darcy drew a handful of coins from his purse, and cast them lightly into the air.
The children scattered with cries of delight, stooping to gather the bright pieces from the gravel.
Elizabeth turned to him with an arch smile, as though to say that even a gentleman of such consequence could not resist the small, old-fashioned pleasure of scattering silver on a wedding day.
Darcy handed her in, his hand lingered a moment longer than necessary.
He, too, wished to prolong the instant before the world closed in around them again.
All Mrs Bennet’s projects for an elegant wedding breakfast were curtailed: partly by Mr Bennet’s indolent economy, partly by Elizabeth’s indifference to the project, and still more by Mr Darcy’s grave assurance that his uncle, the Earl, had a particular dislike of display on such occasions.
Mrs Bennet could not bear the idea of offending an Earl, and submitted—though not without declaring, at least a dozen times, that she was sure no couple had ever been married with “so little proper éclat.” The breakfast was modest, but the guests were warm, the wine flowed freely, and the laughter was genuine.
Elizabeth sat between her father and her new husband, listening to Mr Bennet’s dry remarks and Darcy’s quiet responses.
If the simple meal were all her mother had to lament, then the loss was small indeed.
The room filled with the clatter of plates and the hum of conversation.
When someone proposed a toast to the bride and groom, Elizabeth met Darcy’s gaze and saw in his eyes the quiet satisfaction of a man who had at last found what he had not known how to ask for.
Jane, whose gentleness had never before been called upon to resist her mother, was not so fortunate.
She and Mr Bingley were married at Michaelmas.
Mrs Bennet had leisure to assemble all the cakes, cold meats, neighbours and compliments her heart could desire.
The house at Longbourn was filled with flowers, the table groaned with dishes, and the drawing-room rang with voices raised in admiration.
Every corner of the house seemed to have been polished beyond recognition.
As their tempers were very much alike, neither of Jane nor Bingley had resolution enough to oppose her.
Yet Jane, for all her placid acquiescence, stole a look at Elizabeth now and then, as if to ask whether such a display were truly necessary.
Jane’s happiness needed no such proof. When the last guest had departed, Jane sat down beside Elizabeth on the edge of her bed, her hair loosened and her face flushed, and whispered that she was glad it was over, and that she looked forward to a life that did not require so much smiling at strangers.
Mary returned to Pemberley not long after Elizabeth with her father’s full approbation She read with Georgiana, assisted in the village school and cottages, and played the pianoforte as much as suited her inclination, She was in truth more valued there than she had ever yet believed possible.
The housekeeper came to consult her on matters of order, the housemaids sought her advice on all manner of things, and even Mr Darcy, when he found her in the library, would pause and ask her opinion on some point of charity.
Mary discovered that being useful could be a kind of distinction.
She took charge of the village school with a quiet determination, corrected sums with a firm hand, and read aloud to the children with a clear, steady voice that made even the most restless among them sit still.
Georgiana, her firm friend, sought her company for long walks and longer conversations, and found in Mary a companion whose mind was steady and kind.
When Georgiana’s come-out in London was achieved with all proper success, Mary declined the opportunity to join her.
She had very little taste for drawing-rooms full of young men whose coats were better cut than their conversation.
She accompanied the party to town out of duty, sat through a few assemblies, and found more pleasure in the mornings at home.
She returned to Pemberley well satisfied to exchange Town for parish business.
After another year, during which she was more useful than ornamental in the village, she accepted the hand of the rector of Kympton, a serious, kind-hearted man who admired her sense and found her music a continual refreshment to his spirits.
Their wedding was small, their home modest, and their days orderly.
Mary, who had once feared she would always be the least regarded of the Bennet sisters, found that being quietly loved was no small triumph.
She found peace with her husband on Sunday evenings, when the fire crackled and the world outside seemed to have settled into a comfortable hush.
Georgiana did not remain long unmarried.
After a few seasons, she gave her hand to a gentleman of good fortune and unimpeachable character, not far removed from Derbyshire, He loved music almost as well as she did.
Having learnt from Mr Darcy’s example that a wife’s opinion was always worth hearing, Mr. Talbot was rewarded with more domestic happiness than his own deserts could entirely account for.
The match was approved by all, and Elizabeth, watching Georgiana’s face light up at the sound of his step in the hall, saw that the girl who had once trembled at the mention of her own name now carried herself with a quiet confidence that rivalled even her brother’s.
Their wedding at Pemberley was a smaller affair than Mrs Bennet would have liked, but the gardens were in full bloom, the guests were chosen with care, and music filled the drawing-room.
Georgiana, in her embroidered silk and her brother’s gift of pearls, looked like a young lady who had at last found her place in the world.
Kitty spent her time at Netherfield and some happy months at Pemberley where she learnt to prize steadiness above mere liveliness.
She married a second son of an estate in a neighbouring parish.
He was a sensible young man, with whom she was, on the whole, very well satisfied.
She was neither very rich nor very fashionable, but content.
Her house was small, her neighbours plain, and her days filled with little room for idle gossip.
Kitty, who had once thought life insupportable without balls and beaux, discovered that a husband who listened when she spoke and children who clung to her skirts could be a better diversion than anything.
She still liked a new ribbon and a lively story, but when she visited Pemberley, she would sit with Elizabeth and Georgiana and laugh at her own younger self.
All agreed that Kitty had improved more than any of them had dared to hope.
Lydia’s spirits settled into a more rational course than anyone had once dared to hope.
She divided her time, and her opinions, between Longbourn and the houses of her married sisters, as long as they could be prevailed upon to share her love of bustle and novelty.
She began to see the value of restraint.
The months Georgiana had spent under the same roof had left their mark: Lydia had watched a girl not much older than herself carry herself with quiet dignity, speak with thoughtfulness, and endure censure without losing her temper.
Lydia would never confess it, but something in that example had taken root.
Her letters remained full of exclamation marks and entreaties for advice, and she still insisted that every minor disagreement was a “scene” of the first order—yet even these scenes grew shorter, and more often ended in laughter than in tears.
She began to catch herself when her words had gone too far, and though she did not always stop herself in time, she was quicker to apologise than anyone would have believed possible.
In time, she accepted the hand of a good-humoured tradesman, who had more cheerfulness than polish, and an income that permitted her an endless supply of bonnets and ribbons.
With him she established a lively household at a distance just great enough to allow Mr Bennet to be very well pleased with his daughter’s situation, without being often disturbed by her noise.
Her husband admired her liveliness, but he also valued her sense of propriety, and when she checked herself before speaking, or paused to consider how her words might sound, he would smile and tell her that she was “coming on very well, indeed.” She found a kind of contentment she had never expected.
She was still quick to speak, and given to dramatic pronouncements, but beneath it there ran a steadier current, one that Georgiana, when there to see it, would have recognised at once.
Mr. and Mrs. Darcy, meanwhile, were as much at home at Pemberley as any reasonable person could desire.
They journeyed often to Hertfordshire and received the Bennets almost as often at Pemberley.
They visited the Bingleys when the Bingleys were to be visited, and between Derbyshire, Hertfordshire, and whatever other duties the world imposed upon them, spent far more of their time together than apart.
Elizabeth, who had once declared that she would never be mistress of such an estate, now walked its galleries and grounds with an easy familiarity The house, once so formidable, had become a place where laughter rang out in the corridors, and where Elizabeth could sit in the library with a book in her lap and her husband beside her, content in the quiet certainty of what they had together.
One evening, as they sat in the library with the fire low and the house quiet around them, Elizabeth set down her book and watched him for a moment over the rim of her candlelight.
“You are very still to-night,” she said. “Are you regretting the haste with which you married me?”
He looked up from his book and met her gaze without his old reserve. “If I had married you with less haste, I should have been a fool,” he replied. “The only thing I regret is that it took me so long to know what I wanted.”
She let the words settle between them, and when she spoke again, it was with a quietness that matched his own. “Then we had better make the most of our time, had we not? For no one can promise us more of it.”
He reached for her hand, his fingers closing gently over hers. “We have already made more of it than I once thought possible,” he said. “I intend to go on doing so.”
In that room, with the firelight flickering across the shelves and the quiet hum of the house beyond the door, they sat without speaking for some time, content in the knowledge that what had begun in misunderstanding and pride had ended in a companionship neither of them would ever take for granted.