Thirty Years Later
William Talbot Darcy, named for his grandfather and great-grandfather, was a sturdy boy scarcely a month old.
He lay peacefully in his mother’s arms while the assembled company regarded him with that mixture of affection and solemn pride that attends the continuation of a family line.
As the only son of Edmund Talbot Darcy, the present Earl of Granfield, the child already bore the courtesy title of Viscount Fenmore and would one day inherit his father’s honours.
Edmund, now six and twenty, had borne the earldom for nearly half his life.
His great-grandfather had died not long after his twelfth birthday, and the title had descended to him at that tender age.
During his minority, the management of the Granfield estates had remained in the careful hands of his father and his father’s cousin.
Once Edmund reached his majority, he assumed his duties with a seriousness that won him both the respect of his tenants and the quiet satisfaction of his parents.
His marriage, solemnised scarcely more than a year before, had occasioned much happiness within the family, but not without a certain degree of amusement.
For if Edmund had been one of the most eligible gentlemen in the kingdom since his earliest introduction to society, he had proved remarkably difficult to persuade into matrimony.
Many a young lady had hoped to become the future Countess of Granfield, and their efforts had been neither subtle nor few.
At first, Edmund had remained unmoved by the many ladies who pursued him, much as his father once had. That indifference lasted until he encountered the young woman who now stood beside him—one who, to his initial astonishment, possessed very little interest in marrying a peer at all.
It had been Edmund, for once, who was required to pursue her.
Elizabeth had watched this unfold with no small degree of amusement, being reminded of her own husband’s need to pursue her.
She declared that she would adore her daughter-in-law for the simple fact that she had forced her son to work for her attention, and she was further pleased that the match was not only suitable, but founded upon a deep and genuine affection.
Their eldest child, Eleanor Anne Livesay, was present as well for the occasion, having arrived two days earlier with her husband and their three lively children.
Now eight and twenty, she had been married several years and was settled in Lancashire with her husband, appearing as contented in her domestic life as her mother had ever wished her to be.
Her eldest son, who considered himself already quite grown at the age of seven, had spent the entire morning attempting to instruct his younger cousins in the proper way to approach the ornamental lake and the birds that rested nearby, with very little success.
Edmund’s younger sister Rosalind, now three and twenty, had also come with her husband, whose estate lay within a convenient distance of Pemberley.
Their frequent visits ensured that Elizabeth never passed too long without seeing her daughter or grandchildren, a circumstance she regarded as one of the happier arrangements of Providence.
Rosalind possessed much of her mother’s lively intelligence and had long been considered one of the most agreeable women in her neighbourhood.
Meanwhile William James Darcy, one and twenty and newly entered into his full responsibilities as a man of property, had spent much of the morning in conversation with his father regarding improvements to the Pemberley tenants’ cottages.
Fitzwilliam Darcy had long intended that Pemberley should pass to his second son, and William had already begun to take an active interest in the management of the lands he would one day possess.
Richard Andrew, the youngest of the family and recently turned eighteen, had been observed more than once wandering the gardens with a small volume tucked beneath his arm.
Having lately taken an interest in reading the law, he had developed a serious ambition of one day being called to the Bar—an intention that amused his elder brother, who maintained that Richard’s greatest success would likely lie in arguing with judges rather than persuading them.
Smaller properties might have been settled upon him, but Richard had declined such arrangements, preferring instead to pursue a profession of his own choosing.
The christening itself was performed in the small parish church not far from the house.
Once the party returned to Granfield Park, the atmosphere soon resumed its customary warmth.
Children raced across the lawns, friendships were renewed amongst those who had not seen one another in some time, and several of the gentlemen found themselves drawn into spirited debate regarding matters of estate management, politics, and the merits of various horseflesh.
Elizabeth observed this with quiet satisfaction as she stood upon the terrace overlooking the gardens.
Time had altered many things, though perhaps not as greatly as one might suppose.
Her children were grown, and now her grandchildren were beginning to fill the halls with noise and laughter.
As her sons matured, the responsibilities of the estates were gradually being placed into younger hands, even as she knew her husband would not relinquish his role as advisor for many years to come.
The pleasures of family life had only deepened with time.
Darcy joined her there presently, pausing beside her with the same thoughtful composure she had first admired long ago.
“You appear very content,” he said. “I am surprised you are not amongst them. I had expected you would insist upon holding young William.”
Elizabeth glanced across the lawn, where Edmund stood beside his wife, their infant son now being solemnly inspected by several enthusiastic relations.
“It is difficult not to be content, with so many here,” she replied.
“I am pleased that Jane and Sir Richard could join us, as well as Mary and her husband, along with both their families. I am glad, too, that we kept in touch with two of my cousins, for it became apparent after our wedding that my aunt and uncle wished to have little to do with me, and my youngest two cousins followed their lead.”
All those years ago, not long after the Darcys had married, Elizabeth received a letter from her aunt, nearly demanding that she invite her youngest daughters to London.
Elizabeth had refused, citing her own recent entry into society as reason enough not to introduce them at that time.
When she met her aunt some months later, the lady’s displeasure had been evident, but Elizabeth resolved not to let it trouble her.
Yet the request had been repeated again and again over the following year—pressed not only upon Elizabeth, but upon Jane as well after her own marriage.
Jane, who had at first attempted to placate her mother, had eventually yielded, only for Lydia to mortify her new family at the very first event she attended.
She had been sent home in disgrace—at least in the estimation of most—but Mrs Bennet had been incensed at her favourite’s ill-treatment.
In her anger, she attributed Jane’s earlier refusals to Elizabeth’s influence, and from that moment spared no complaint in declaring how little her niece had done for the family after all the years she had lived under their roof.
Such accusations had wounded Elizabeth more than she had expected.
She had long believed herself welcome in her uncle’s house and, for that reason, had never spoken to her grandfather of the smaller discomforts she had endured there.
He, like Elizabeth herself, had been content to think her happy there with her cousins.
In time, however, she had come to understand that her aunt and uncle had likely never regarded her with true affection.
That she had believed otherwise had been owing chiefly to Jane, whose steady kindness had softened every slight and filled every absence, and Mary.
Through those two cousins, Elizabeth had felt herself part of the family—secure, valued, and loved.
That such a sense of belonging had rested upon so narrow a foundation was not something she dwelt upon often; yet, once understood, it could not be entirely forgotten.
“Georgiana is here as well, and I believe she was nearly as excited for William’s birth as she was when her own children were born,” Darcy said, breaking into Elizabeth’s thoughts.
Elizabeth followed his gaze as they looked upon the gathering on the lawn. For a moment, neither spoke.
It was Elizabeth who broke the silence at last, a faint smile touching her lips.
“Do you recall,” she began, “how Grandpapa argued against our match, insisting that we were unsuitable for one another?”
Darcy raised an eyebrow.
“I do,” he said drily. “He was not entirely pleased by our courtship, and while he grudgingly gave his permission for us to wed, I recall him attempting to persuade you to withdraw your promise.”
“He could not have done so,” she said with certainty. “I liked your cousin, but he was far better suited to Jane. We are better off as friends.”
Darcy looked once more upon the gathering below—their children, their grandchildren, the family that had grown from that once-questioned union.
“I cannot imagine,” he said quietly, “that any arrangement could have proved more fortunate than the one we made for ourselves. Richard has done well with Netherfield, even if they did sell the estate after only a few years and purchase one nearer to Derbyshire.”
Elizabeth laughed softly at that reminder. “Aunt Bennet visited them entirely too often, and you and I were both pleased to have them nearer to us. I remain convinced that you assisted with that purchase.” She cast her husband an arch look, but, as always, he merely smiled and offered no reply.
“Regardless, we have managed very well these last three decades,” Elizabeth said after a moment.
“I would say we were perfectly suited, my love,” Darcy replied, “and that no arrangement could have answered better.”
“Yes,” she said softly, turning so that her back rested against him.
His arms came about her at once, and together they remained upon the terrace, watching as another generation of their family filled the gardens of Granfield Park—the happiest consequence of what had once been deemed a most unsuitable arrangement.