Epilogue
Darcy’s request for Elizabeth’s hand was naturally granted with a little teasing from Mr. Bennet.
Mr. Bennet had invited Darcy into the library with an expression of such studied solemnity that Elizabeth afterward confessed she feared her father intended to keep the gentleman waiting an hour merely for his own amusement.
Instead, the interview lasted scarcely twenty minutes.
When the door finally opened, Darcy emerged looking both relieved and faintly amused, while Mr. Bennet followed him at a more leisurely pace, one eyebrow lifted in unmistakable satisfaction.
“I suppose, Mr. Darcy,” Mr. Bennet remarked as they entered the drawing room together, “that a gentleman who has survived my Lizzy’s opinions may reasonably be trusted with the remainder of his trials.”
Darcy bowed.
“I shall endeavor to prove worthy of the confidence, sir.”
“You had best do so. My daughter possesses an alarming tendency to discover when I am wrong. I have no wish for her to begin making the same discoveries about you.”
Elizabeth laughed despite herself, and Darcy’s answering smile assured her he understood the affection concealed beneath the teasing.
The happy couple was congratulated warmly on all sides.
Mrs. Bennet wept without the least attempt to restrain herself, declaring alternately that she was the happiest mother in Hertfordshire and that she could scarcely bear to lose two daughters within so short a time.
Jane embraced Elizabeth with tears of her own, though hers sprang wholly from joy.
Kitty and Lydia demanded every particular of the proposal before propriety had even permitted the newly engaged couple a private conversation, while Mary, after offering her sincere good wishes, observed that marriages founded upon mutual esteem promised the greatest felicity.
Even Mr. Bennet abandoned his customary reserve long enough to kiss Elizabeth upon the forehead and tell her she had chosen wisely.
News of the engagement spread through Meryton with astonishing speed.
Before another day had passed, Mrs. Long professed to have anticipated the match from the beginning, though Elizabeth distinctly remembered hearing very different opinions a few months earlier.
Sir William Lucas declared it a most elegant alliance, and Lady Lucas congratulated Mrs. Bennet with such enthusiasm that even Mrs. Bennet’s lingering anxieties gave way to triumph.
Darcy made quick work of ensuring all in Meryton knew Mr. Wickham was a good man, and all discord between them was resolved.
He accomplished it with characteristic directness.
Wherever the subject arose, Darcy corrected the misunderstanding without hesitation, speaking openly of Mr. Wickham’s indispensable assistance in recovering Georgiana and acknowledging that he himself had judged too hastily.
Such candor carried considerable weight.
Those who had once repeated whispers against the young solicitor discovered equal enthusiasm for repeating favorable reports instead.
Mr. Philips, pleased beyond measure to have so respectable a gentleman publicly praise his clerk, found no shortage of opportunities to mention the reconciliation.
Darcy did what he could without exposing Georgiana.
He spoke openly of Wickham’s indispensable assistance in recovering a member of his family and acknowledged that his former opinion had been founded upon a grave misunderstanding.
Mr. Philips supplied more practical testimony, praising his clerk’s honesty, diligence, and usefulness.
Meryton did not surrender its rumors in a day, but the worst of them gradually lost their force, and those who had been quickest to condemn Wickham soon discovered reasons to remember that they had never entirely believed the stories.
The townsfolk, contrary as they were, all claimed they had never really believed that the amiable clerk could be anything other than the congenial fellow they knew.
Elizabeth found this remarkable revision of history thoroughly entertaining.
Gentlemen who had privately cautioned one another against placing confidence in Wickham now congratulated themselves upon never having doubted him.
Ladies who had once exchanged meaningful glances whenever his name arose insisted they had always considered him unfairly treated.
Lydia laughed over every fresh example she encountered, while Wickham accepted the sudden transformation of public opinion with remarkably good humor.
“I have discovered,” he remarked one evening at Longbourn, “that reputations are much easier to recover than I once feared, provided enough respectable people decide they always admired one in the first place.”
Mr. Bennet looked up from his book.
“My dear fellow, you have merely described society.”
The observation amused everyone present, including Darcy, who confessed that Hertfordshire possessed no monopoly upon that particular inconsistency.
Mr. Bingley proposed to Jane soon after Darcy and Elizabeth’s engagement became official.
No one expressed surprise except Bingley himself, who afterward admitted that he had rehearsed his proposal so many times he scarcely remembered what he actually said. Jane assured everyone that whatever words he employed had been sufficient.
When the happy news reached Longbourn, Mrs. Bennet renewed her tears with greater vigor than before, protesting between joyful exclamations that no mother in England had ever been so blessed.
Mr. Bennet declared himself thankful that his library possessed a sturdy door, as he suspected it would shortly become the final peaceful place remaining within the house.
Darcy congratulated his friend with unmistakable sincerity.
“I believe,” he said as they walked together through the Longbourn gardens the following afternoon, “that I have owed you an apology in more matters than one.”
Bingley shook his head.
“Your distraction gave me time to court Jane. I cannot think myself ill-used.”
Darcy smiled.
“You are a better man than I deserve.”
Bingley laughed.
“Nonsense. We are merely both fortunate.”
They resolved to marry together, and after comparing the needs of the settlements, the banns, and their families, fixed the ceremony for the Thursday one week before Christmas Eve.
The arrangement delighted nearly everyone.
Mrs. Bennet began planning breakfasts, dinners, gowns, invitations, musicians, flowers, and wedding cakes with such energy that Hill privately wondered whether Christmas itself would require postponement until her mistress had finished directing every detail.
Jane and Elizabeth bore the bustle with affectionate patience, frequently escaping together for walks whenever discussion of ribbons threatened to consume an entire afternoon.
The approaching season lent an added warmth to every preparation.
As the wedding week drew near, holly and evergreen began appearing at doorways and mantelpieces throughout the neighborhood, while anticipation of the coming marriages mingled naturally with the ordinary festivities of Advent.
Longbourn had seldom appeared so cheerful.
Mrs. Bennet lamented not being able to share one last festive season with her eldest daughters, but the knowledge that they had secured such notable husbands soon appeased her.
“I suppose,” she announced one evening while examining a length of lace for Elizabeth’s wedding gown, “that it would be selfish indeed to wish either of you unmarried merely that I might enjoy another Christmas beneath the same roof.”
Mr. Bennet looked over the top of his spectacles.
“Particularly when you may spend future Christmases at Pemberley.”
Mrs. Bennet brightened.
“That is perfectly true.”
Elizabeth exchanged an amused glance with Jane. Their mother possessed an enviable talent for discovering consolation with remarkable speed whenever grandsons, fine estates, or distinguished sons-in-law entered the conversation.
During the planning, Mr. Bennet received a letter from his cousin and heir, Mr. William Collins.
The arrival of the letter occasioned little notice at first. Mr. Bennet accepted it from the post with his customary indifference, remarking that Mr. Collins generally required three pages to communicate what another gentleman might accomplish in three sentences.
He broke the seal after breakfast while the family lingered over their tea, his expression growing steadily more curious with every line.
“My cousin appears to have found employment,” he observed at last.
Mrs. Bennet showed marginal interest. “Employment? Pray read it aloud.”
Mr. Bennet complied, omitting those portions he declared too tedious for civilized company. Mr. Collins’s style remained as elaborate as ever, every compliment extended until it became nearly unrecognizable beneath its own ornamentation. Nevertheless, one fact emerged with gratifying clarity.
It was with great humor they realized that the man had taken a living granted by Darcy’s aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh.
Darcy, who happened to be present when the letter arrived, closed his eyes briefly before allowing himself a resigned smile.
“I begin to pity my aunt.”
Elizabeth laughed.
“I confess my sympathies incline in another direction.”
“As do mine,” Jane admitted, unable entirely to suppress her amusement.
Mr. Bennet folded the letter upon his knee.
“I should not have thought there existed two people in England capable of conversing at equal length upon the importance of one another.”
Darcy smiled into his teacup.
“I assure you, sir, my aunt will not permit Mr. Collins to eclipse her.”
This cousin wished to visit and offer an olive branch to the Bennet family.
The declaration astonished everyone assembled.
Mrs. Bennet blinked repeatedly.
“An olive branch? From Mr. Collins?”
Mr. Bennet consulted the letter once more.
“So he says.”
“What has become of the man?”