Epilogue
The Steine at nine o’clock in the morning was empty of shrieking debutantes, strutting militia officers, loud vendors, and the rest of fashionable society. There were only the grey paving stones, the crash of the English Channel against the shingle beach, and a flock of loud seagulls.
Elizabeth Bennet considered the seagulls an improvement over her mother’s social circle.
She walked at a slow, measured pace, holding her sensible brown parasol angled carefully against the brilliant, rising sun. The sea breeze tugged at the ribbons of her bonnet, tasting of salt and victory.
Winslow walked beside her with an expression of supreme contentment, holding her customary apple in her right hand.
Scrape.
Winslow attacked the fruit, the noise echoing loudly across the empty promenade.
But Elizabeth did not find the sound irritating. She found it comforting. It was the sound of a chief architect enjoying the spoils of war.
They walked without talking for exactly ten minutes, until the sound of deliberate footsteps upon the stones broke the morning peace.
Elizabeth turned her head, and her heart executed a complicated, unladylike leap against her ribs.
Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy was walking directly to them.
He was accompanied by his valet. Both men were dressed with immaculate precision, though the sea breeze ruffled Mr Darcy’s hair into a state of distracting disorder.
He did not look like the severe, untouchable Master of Pemberley, but as someone who had not slept, yet had the energy of a soldier marching into a final battle.
Elizabeth stopped walking, and gripped the wooden handle of her parasol with both hands to prevent them from trembling.
The gentlemen came to a halt three paces away.
Darcy executed a formal bow, his eyes fixed upon Elizabeth’s face.
Horlicks executed an equally flawless bow. His attention, however, was directed firmly to the maid.
“Good morning, Miss Bennet.” Mr Darcy spoke with a rough voice. “I trust the sea air is agreeable this morning.”
“It is perfectly agreeable, Mr Darcy.” Elizabeth offered a curtsy. “It is remarkably peaceful without the presence of the regiment.”
Horlicks stepped forward. He bypassed the customary polite greetings and gazed at Winslow with unvarnished, professional reverence.
“Winslow.” Horlicks placed his hand flat over his heart. “I must offer my congratulations. Your execution of the midnight carriage stratagem was a masterpiece of tactical deception. The Duke of Wellington himself could not have orchestrated a more flawless ambush.”
Winslow lowered her apple and offered a smile.
“Thank you, Mr Horlicks.” Winslow wiped her chin. “The young man was easy to deceive. I’d be better if he’d delivered me to the Scottish border before he realised that he was about to marry me under the anvil.”
Horlicks nodded with solemn understanding.
“A shame, really. But your abilities deserve my utmost respect, Madam.” Horlicks stood perfectly straight. “I only wish I could have contributed more directly to the physical capture of the target. However, I believe I have provided a suitable supporting manoeuvre.”
Elizabeth looked at the valet with curiosity.
“What do you mean, Horlicks?” Elizabeth tilted her head.
“Allow me to explain, Miss Elizabeth.” Horlicks did not break his formal posture. “The valet grapevine operates with a speed and efficiency that the Royal Mail can only envy. I found it necessary to pay a visit to the kitchens of several prominent households early this morning.”
Mr Darcy crossed his arms behind his back, fighting and losing the battle with a smile.
“I informed my colleagues regarding the exact nature of Mr Wickham’s failed elopement.” Horlicks continued smoothly. “I provided a detailed, factual account of his attempt to steal a wealthy heiress, only to be outwitted into absolute submission by a seventy-six-year-old servant.”
Elizabeth stared at the immaculate gentleman’s gentleman.
The brilliance of the strategy was staggering.
Gossip among the Brighton elite travelled quickly.
Gossip among the Brighton servants travelled at the speed of lightning.
By noon, the entire town would know the story.
They would not know Lydia Bennet’s name, and even if they did, it would be on the positive side.
They would only know that the dashing George Wickham had been comprehensively defeated by an elderly maid.
The humiliation would be legendary.
“His ruin is complete.” Mr Darcy spoke the words with lethal satisfaction.
“Colonel Forster stripped him of his commission before sunrise. He was dismissed from the militia with utter disgrace. He can never show his face in polite society again. He will be laughed out of every assembly room in England.”
Elizabeth felt a wave of worry wash over the triumph.
“What of his creditors?” She looked up at Mr Darcy. “According to Lydia, Ensigns Burton and Miller were quite specific regarding their threats. They promised to break his legs if he did not produce the fifty pounds he owes to each one of them.”
“That is an excellent question.” Mr Darcy held her gaze. “It is also his problem.”
“Mr Horlicks.” Winslow turned to Mr Darcy’s valet. “There’s a bench over there. Shall we go and sit for a while?”
Horlicks offered his arm with the grace of a courtier.
“It would be my honour, Madam.”
The valet and the maid walked away. They moved at a slow pace, leaving their employers alone upon the empty expanse of the Brighton stones.
The silence rushed back in, but it was no longer peaceful. It was charged, and crackling with unspoken words.
Elizabeth glanced at the man standing before her.
He was a human barricade, a protector of foolish young girls, a proud, wealthy aristocrat who had spent his summer engaging in espionage to save innocent girls from ruin.
Mr Darcy took a single, hesitant step forward.
“Miss Elizabeth.” He swallowed hard, the movement of his throat visible above his cravat.
“Mr Darcy,” Elizabeth said, gripping her parasol tighter. She could hear the frantic beating of her own heart over the sound of the crashing waves.
“You taught me a harsh lesson.” His voice trembled slightly around the edges, Elizabeth noticed. “You delivered it within the parlour of Hunsford Parsonage and... I needed it. I needed every single word of it.”
Elizabeth felt a stab of guilt as the memory of her brutal, unjust accusations burned in her mind.
Mr Darcy did not allow her to speak. Instead, he took another step forward, the distance between them vanishing.
“You accused me of behaving in a manner lacking the conduct of a gentleman.” Mr Darcy held his hands tightly behind his back. “It was a sentence that has haunted every single hour of my existence since April. It was a devastating truth.”
“Mr Darcy, please.” Elizabeth felt a sudden tightness in her throat. “I was blind. I was blinded by lies and my own prejudice.”
“You were accurate,” he countered gently. “I was proud and unyielding. I was conceited. I have spent the last two months attempting to dismantle that pride. I have spent every waking moment attempting to become a man worthy of your respect.”
He stopped, now standing directly before her.
“I came to Brighton to stop Wickham.” He lowered his voice until it was a harsh, urgent whisper. “I came to correct the terrible error of my silence. When I saw you here, it was like a miracle. I had a second chance, however undeserved.”
Elizabeth could not breathe. She forgot the seagulls, the sea, the entire world beyond the borders of his blue coat.
“My feelings have not changed.” Mr Darcy pulled his hands from behind his back but he did not touch her. “They have only deepened. They have become infinitely more ardent.”
He looked at her with a surrender so raw it made her heart swell.
“I love you.”
The words were simple, direct, and without the arrogant certainty he had displayed in Kent.
“I am asking for your hand, Elizabeth.” Darcy spoke her Christian name like a prayer. “I am asking you to share my life. However, if your feelings are still what they were in April, tell me so at once. One single word from you will silence me on this subject forever.”
He waited, standing perfectly still, bracing himself for the final, crushing blow of her rejection.
Elizabeth looked at this magnificent man who had humbled himself for her sake. She thought of his bravery, his steadfast loyalty, of the way he had laughed at the prospect of a donkey stampede.
She let the sensible parasol drop backward until it rested upon her shoulder.
“Mr Darcy.” Elizabeth looked up into his fearful eyes, and allowed every ounce of the love she felt to fill her expression. “My feelings have undergone a change so complete I can barely recognise the foolish woman who stood in that parsonage.”
Darcy blinked, and seemed to have stopped breathing.
“I was prejudiced.” Elizabeth stepped closer to him without hesitation. “I was incredibly, unforgivably foolish. You are the most honourable man I have ever known. You are the best of men.”
Darcy stared at her, a slow, dawning light breaking across his features, the fear of rejection vanishing, becoming one of wonder.
“Elizabeth.” He whispered her name again.
“I love you.” Elizabeth spoke the words clearly, ensuring they carried over the noise of the sea. “I love you. If you are still foolish enough to want me, my answer is yes.”
He did not need further encouragement.
He moved with startling speed, his hands coming up to frame her face, his long fingers tracing her jawline with exquisite, trembling care. He looked at her as though she were a miracle that had manifested out of thin air only for him alone.
Elizabeth leaned forward drawing down her brown parasol. The silk canopy lowered, creating a perfect, private dome that shielded them from the rest of the world.
He kissed her.
It was not a tentative, sweet kiss, but an expression of relief, accumulated desperation, and love. It was firm, demanding, and incredibly warm.
Elizabeth kissed him back with equal fervour, dropping the wooden handle of the parasol and letting it rest awkwardly on their shoulders. She raised her hands and buried her fingers in the soft hair at the nape of his neck.
He pulled her flush against his chest, and she could feel the thud of his heart, which matched the exact, joyful rhythm of her own.
They kissed, hidden behind a silk shield, oblivious to the town, the sea, and the morning sun.
Fifty feet away, upon a comfortable wooden bench, two figures watched the proceedings with professional interest.
“Well.” Winslow said thoughtfully. “It was about time, if you ask me.”
Horlicks nodded his agreement with a satisfied smile.
“Indeed, Madam. I have always maintained that, for all their wealth and titles, our employers often wallow in the misery of their own restrictions, while we, the employees, have more freedom than they. If only we had the money, life would be perfect, would it not?”
Winslow chuckled. “You’re a bright young man, Horlicks, and you’re absolutely right. If only!”
The seagulls circled overhead, screeching their complaints to the sky, the waves crashed against the shingle beach, and the morning sun continued its steady climb above the horizon.
It was, without a single doubt, a truly perfect seaside morning.
The End