Epilogue
Thomas Bennet relaxed as his driver passed by Pemberley Woods and the house came into view, inviting as ever in the sunlight.
It was a prospect he had seen already, having visited in the spring with Mrs Bennet, Mary and Kitty.
This time, however, he had come alone, hoping to pass more time with Elizabeth—and to give her a surprise.
Over the bridge, into the forecourt, and as stable lads ran to tend to the horses, a footman appeared at the main door.
‘Good afternoon, Hartston.’
‘Welcome, sir. I was not aware …’
‘I have come unannounced, having understood that the family is remaining at Pemberley all summer.’ He paused, noticing the servant’s frown. ‘They have not gone away, I hope.’
‘No, sir. That is, they will be back before evening. The master and mistress are in Lambton, with Miss Darcy and two guests who arrived earlier in the week.’
Thomas relaxed, entering the hall and depositing his hat and cane on a chair. ‘That is no problem. I will wait in the library, and perhaps take a walk later beside the stream.’
‘Another guest is taking tea on the terrace. Would you like to keep her company, once you are settled in?’
‘Hmm.’ Thomas frowned, having looked forward to an hour or two browsing Darcy’s latest book purchases. But it would be embarrassing to appear unsociable. ‘I will join her briefly. And take a little refreshment? A bottle of Madeira would go down well.’
‘Certainly, sir.’
The terrace adjoined a drawing room at the back, and passing through the French window Thomas saw a lady in a comfortable wicker chair looking out over the rose garden. Her dress was modest, her dark hair lightly pinned—not a grande dame then.
‘Shall I …’ Hartston began, in a whisper.
‘I will introduce myself.’
A nod, and the servant left. The woman was seated at a circular table in between two empty chairs, one of which held a book left face down to mark the page.
At least this provided a conversational opening: he could ask what she was reading.
He approached, and hearing his footsteps she turned, and flinched.
‘Excuse me.’ He advanced, afraid he had startled her, and as she rose, facing him directly, his heart jumped, and for a moment he thought he might pass out.
She moved closer, her cheeks pale but still smooth, the delicate features alive with intelligence and humour. Brown eyes studied him, with that impish smile.
‘Thomas?’
‘Concetta?’
They touched hands, and after looking into the house to check they were alone, she lightly kissed his cheek.
‘Carissimo.’ A shadow crossed her face. ‘Your wife and family …’
‘I came alone. To visit Elizabeth.’
She sighed with relief. ‘Let us sit and enjoy the sun. I was ill last year. But getting a little stronger every day.’
‘Lizzy has told me …’
‘About Simona? I know.’ A smile. ‘I tricked you there, didn’t I?’
‘Nonsense. You reported what the doctor had told you, believing it to be true.’
‘Enzo was so shocked! But you know what happens after a baby is born. Grandmothers and aunts rally round, reassuring the husband that the baby looks exactly like him! Whereas in reality it looks like a baby and nothing else.’
Thomas smiled, recalling the joy of their irreverent conversations long ago. ‘When did you tell Simona?’
‘During the journey to England, after Enzo died. She was glad, having always disliked him …’
A maid approached with wine and two glasses. ‘Shall I pour, sir?’
‘Leave it to me.’
The maid left, and Concetta continued, ‘Simona wants to meet you, if it can be done discreetly.’ The smile again. ‘She might of course hate you as much as she hated Enzo. One can never be sure with the young.’
‘I will take my chances.’
‘Dearest Thomas!’ She splashed wine into their glasses. ‘Such a miracle! I should warn you that I have become a woman of unimpeachable propriety. Wharton is a fine man and commands my full loyalty.’
Thomas clinked glasses. ‘Did you feel guilty at deceiving Basso?’
‘Never!’ Concetta waved this away. ‘You know how we deal with these matters in Venice. A trip to the confessional booth and your slate is wiped clean.’ A pause. ‘Yourself?’
‘I fear I forgive myself all too easily. But in my defence, I have striven to accept my wife as she is, without anger or criticism.’
‘There are always compensations.’ Concetta looked into the distance. ‘Simona has been mine.’
‘While I have had Jane and Lizzy.’ Thomas sighed. ‘Do Lizzy and Simona get on?’
‘Oh yes, from the beginning, although they argue a lot. I think Simona is jealous that Elizabeth made such a brilliant marriage. She would have liked Mr Darcy for herself.’
‘If she looks anything like you, Simona must have her own admirers.’
‘Yes, among my husband’s young colleagues.’ Concetta grimaced. ‘I fear I’m not much to look at now. Beauty fades, you once said.’
‘Not in your case.’
She snorted. ‘Eyesight fades too.’
‘When will Lizzy and the others return?’
‘In two hours. Maybe three.’
‘Do you remember how we walked along the beach at Lido?’
‘With Signora Bordoni trailing behind?’ She smiled. ‘I could manage a stroll round the rose gardens.’
‘You feel well enough?’
‘Your company revives me.’
‘It’s a long while since anyone has said that to me.’
They refilled their glasses, still talking.
From the guest wing Elizabeth spotted Darcy riding towards the bridge: he had been called away to resolve a dispute between tenant farmers. She descended in time to intercept him near the stables, and they walked back arm in arm.
‘All settled?’ she asked.
‘Some of Bagshaw’s cattle strayed into Worrell’s wheat field. The crop suffered little but the fence was flattened, although Bagshaw claims it was rotten already. I offered to pay for a third of the repair if they agreed to share the rest.’
‘Not even Solomon could rival you.’
He waved this away. ‘The stable boy said Mr Bennet has turned up.’
‘That’s right. Lovers reunited. Concetta is radiant, but father has retired to rest, a bit overwhelmed I think.’
‘He has met Simona?’
‘It was moving. He looked at her, then me, as if unable to believe his eyes. I introduced her as Miss Pavan, as she prefers, and they observed the formalities in front of Georgiana and the servants—while their expressions told a different story.’
‘How did he look?’
‘Proud, tender …’ Elizabeth’s voice faltered. ‘She is his love-child after all—and charming and intelligent too. She must have a special place in his heart.’
‘Do I detect a hint of envy?’
‘I have grown up believing that I was father’s favourite, so yes, I felt a twinge. But Simona envies me for wedding the most wonderful man in England, so we are even.’
He faced her, with a glint in his eye that suggested excitement later, and she continued quickly, ‘I mentioned to Simona that you had the portraits sent here. Should I have kept quiet about it?’
Darcy put a hand to his head. ‘I was planning to present them to our guests, but it slipped my mind.’
‘Where are the pictures now?’
‘In a cupboard in the library. I’ll bring them now.’
The Whartons were on the terrace, watching the sun sink as a gardener piled up old hedge clippings and other waste at the edge of the rose beds. Darcy set up the pictures on the sideboard, while Elizabeth called their guests in to view objects that might be of interest.
‘Ah.’ Wharton was first to arrive. ‘The portraits we’ve heard so much about.’
Darcy nodded. ‘And since they relate to your family rather than mine, I offer them as a gift.’
Concetta walked slowly over, and examined the artist’s name Pavan on the picture representing herself.
‘You like it, I hope?’ Wharton said.
‘It’s terrible.’ Concetta shared a look of disgust with Simona. ‘Tasteless, banal, typical Mario.’
Attention switched to the fanciulla, and Elizabeth, trying to lighten the atmosphere, said, ‘A forgery, but not a bad likeness.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Simona spoke to Darcy. ‘It’s kind of you, but I would not wish to own anything painted by Sgaravatti, and especially not his image of me.’
Concetta put an arm round her daughter’s shoulders. ‘I understand, dear. But to refuse a gift is impolite. Sir, to be clear, this is now mine …’ She pointed. ‘And the other is Simona’s? To use as we see fit?’
‘You may take them when you leave.’
Concetta whispered in Italian to her daughter, and their faces lit up in suppressed laughter. Elizabeth, struggling to understand, raised her arms.
‘What was that about?’
Concetta went to the open French window. ‘Your gardener is still at work, Mr Darcy. Do you think he would be interested in viewing these pictures? Perhaps he will offer an opinion on whether they have artistic merit.’
Darcy stared at her. ‘I very much doubt it.’
‘Humour us.’
Concetta grasped her portrait, Simona hers, and they passed to the terrace, down the steps, and round the rose gardens, to the pile from which smoke was now billowing.
The others followed, at first puzzled, then laughing as they realised what was happening.
After a word to the gardener Concetta threw her portrait into the flames; Simona came through, and with a pang of regret Elizabeth saw the fanciulla dumped on top of the old hedge clippings, used canes, and rose prunings, to be consumed in its turn.
She took Darcy’s arm. ‘That’s the last present they ever get from us!’
‘A symbolic act?’ He smiled. ‘Farewell to the past?’
‘You’re right.’ She leaned to kiss him, delighted with her new life and new friends—now dancing like savages (to the amusement of the gardener) as the frames caught fire and the canvases and oils crackled, until nothing was left but a memory.