Epilogue Chapter 3
Conservatory
Pemberley
The conservatory was peaceful, the air heavy with the scent of citrus and leaves and manure and tanning bark and exotic flowers.
The sun through the banks of glazed glass windows was delightfully warm, lending its heat to the stoves humming away.
The sound of water splashing and playing was audible from the very center of the greenhouse, a handsome fountain being employed there to keep maintain the necessary humidity.
The air around the corner of the building dedicated to the pinery was rather smelly, but Mrs. Bennet was not sitting in that corner; she had taken her seat on a charming white wrought-iron bench with a green cushion that had been set beneath a row of orange trees.
It was a seat that commanded a fine view of some of the more beautiful plants.
Orchids clung to a mossy branch carefully strung up on wires, a brilliant profusion of colorful blooms growing beneath them.
At the far end of the building, cherry trees and pear trees and grape vines promised fruit later in the year.
Closer were the nectarines and peaches, branches weighed down by fruit close to harvest.
The quiet solitude of the orangery might be considered lonely, but Mrs. Bennet was glad of it.
She did not want company at precisely this moment but instead wanted space to think and grieve in peace.
She looked down at the band on the fourth finger of her left hand, as aware of its weight and feel as ever she had been as a new bride.
She touched it with one trembling forefinger, the sight of it swimming in her vision, which was suddenly obscured by the tears that rolled unheeded down her cheeks.
One year. It had been precisely a year to the day since her dear husband had been discovered cold in his bed, his face set forever in an expression of peaceful repose.
The unselfish part of her had known even then that it was as well for him, that he was free of the pain and suffering he had borne so patiently for two long years.
He was with the Almighty, where every tear was wiped away and every pain so entirely eclipsed as to be completely forgotten.
It was a comfort to think of him walking Heaven's shining golden streets.
Some days, however, such thoughts seemed like very thin comfort indeed; the grief of her loss a yawning abyss.
Thomas had been her dearest friend, especially after their daughters had married and left Longbourn, and his absence felt like a wound on her very soul.
Annabelle still found herself wishing to speak to him, or telling herself to remember something to tell him over dinner, before remembering with a dart of pain that she could not speak to him in such a manner ever again.
She thought that she might have drowned in her grief, were it not for her dear daughters and their families.
All five of her daughters had been so incredibly kind to her, and their husbands as well.
And her grandchildren all adored her as much as she adored them.
The Almighty had blessed her richly in her family, and even on her darkest days, she was able to remember her blessings.
Among other things, her sons-in-law had been staggeringly generous, providing her with a rather palatial eight hundred pounds a year in income.
William and Charlotte Collins had been considerate as well, giving her time to collect herself and her belongings before she moved out of Longbourn.
They had even offered her the furniture from her bedchamber so that she would have a familiar bed in her own establishment.
After consideration, Mrs. Bennet had decided against renting a cottage or a set of rooms for herself.
Her daughters were horrified at the very notion that at such a time Mrs. Bennet should live alone, with only Miss Trent as companion.
For the past year, she and Miss Trent had dwelt with the Darcys and the Bingleys.
She delighted in her children and grandchildren; the love of her family a balm to her soul. She was even happy most of the time.
Days like today, however, she could not quite escape the melancholy, and Mrs. Bennet had learned that the best thing she could do was sit with her grief and fondly remember her beloved Thomas.
The side door to the conservator creaked open, and Mrs. Bennet glanced over, and then she leaped to her feet, her sadness giving way to joy.
“Jane, my dear!” she exclaimed, rushing over to pull her stepdaughter into her arms. “Oh, how wonderful to see you! It has been too long!”
Jane returned the embrace with fervor, and then the ladies separated to regard one another solemnly.
Jane, Mrs. Bennet thought, was still a very pretty woman, though she had exchanged the freshness of youth for the slight wrinkles of middle age. She was plumper than when Mrs. Bennet had last seen her, but then again…
“How is Baby Josiah?” she asked.
Jane smiled and said, “He is very well, thank you, Mamma. Such a sturdy little boy, and Richard and I are enormously grateful.”
Mrs. Bennet leaned forward to give Jane a gentle kiss on the cheek, and then said, “Do you have time to sit down with me and talk?”
“I do. The servants are settling the children, and we brought Patricia, you know, Josiah’s wet nurse.”
Mrs. Bennet guided Jane over to the chairs, and they sat down, and she said, “Patricia sounds like a great blessing.”
“Indeed she is,” Jane agreed fervently. “I do not know why I had so much trouble nursing Josiah; perhaps I am too old to have enough milk, but if not for Patricia, I fear…”
She trailed off, and Mrs. Bennet leaned over to press her daughter’s hand reassuringly.
Jane had borne five children with perfect ease, only to lose the sixth to stillbirth.
Then, five years later, at one and forty years of age, Jane had conceived again, to the surprise of everyone.
The pregnancy had been a difficult one and had prevented the Fitzwilliams from traveling south from their estate in Lancashire to mourn Mr. Bennet the previous year.
“I have missed you, Mamma,” Jane said. “Letters are all very well, but they are not the same as actually seeing you in person.”
Mrs. Bennet nodded and said, “I understand entirely. I cannot tell you how happy I am that you girls will all be together again in one place, along with all of your husbands and children!”
Jane glanced out the window toward the mansion with its great walls and rows of windows and said, “It is a good thing that Pemberley is so large.”
“It is indeed. Now, tell me about Hillsdale. You said that your husband is expanding his sheep herd?”
“Yes,” Jane said with a brisk nod. “Much of the land is best suited for grazing, but Richard is…”
Mrs. Bennet leaned back and listened with fond amusement.
The Fitzwilliams, after living for fifteen years on a subsidiary Darcy estate in Scotland, had made the courageous decision to purchase a small estate in Lancashire a few years ago.
It was charming to hear Jane speak so solemnly of livestock and farming.
The eldest Miss Bennet had certainly enjoyed the delights of her two Seasons in London so many years previously, but now she was a loving and diligent wife to Richard Fitzwilliam, and mother to their six children.
***
Drawing Room
Pemberley
“… we have mostly Cheviot sheep, but I am thinking of purchasing some Cotswolds,” Richard Fitzwilliam said. “What is your opinion on that breed?”
“Our Cotswolds have produced excellent wool,” Darcy said with a nod. “We have a great many, and I would be glad to provide you with a ram and a few ewes.”
“I will purchase them, of course,” Richard said firmly, “but I would be grateful indeed. Now, do you have any Dorsets?”
“I do…”
Elizabeth knew just enough of sheep and wool and pastures to follow the conversation, but she did not join in.
She was curled comfortably in a deep armchair pulled into the corner of the room, a branch of candles set beside her to illuminate her work.
Some of the wool under discussion, cleaned and dyed and spun into yarn, sat at her feet in a workbasket full of neat balls.
A single strand strung up to her needles, which industriously clacked, a tiny sock taking shape on the slender sticks.
Elizabeth had never been more than in indifferent needlewoman, her seams tending to meander rather than march straight and neat.
Every lady needed to know how to mend a tear, or better yet, to sew a frock, even if she eschewed the fine art of embroidery.
So Elizabeth knew how to sew, but she did not enjoy it, and the results of her needle and thread invariably displayed this indifference.
She had grown up among knitters, all the maids being well-versed in the skill and putting it to good use in their rare times of being seated without other employment.
Mrs. Hill, likewise, and Mrs. Phillips, and even the Lucas women, had all knitted as well, so Elizabeth was passingly familiar with the skill.
It was not until Mrs. Reynolds had presented her with a beautiful baby blanket and matching socks upon the birth of the heir of Pemberley that Elizabeth had taken an interest in learning.
It was not a skill much cultivated by ladies of the higher classes, although it was not unprecedented either.
Mrs. Reynolds had proven a patient and competent teacher, and Elizabeth an industrious student.
It had not been long at all before her uneven work had assumed a uniform definition and respectable speed.