Epilogue
Thomas Bennet shifted quickly to his left as a thundering herd of small children pounded past him through the French doors and into the garden. In years past, he might have been taken aback at such an intrusion into the library, but it was no longer an uncommon occurrence at Pemberley.
Over the past decade, he had regained some of the joy of that time when his own girls had climbed into his lap to beg for stories.
Most of the children were still young—Phillip Darcy was the eldest of the brood by a year, far too old at nine years of age to do anything so undignified as to sit on his grandfather’s lap.
He never strayed too far when a story was promised, but he did his level best to appear as though he had heard them all before.
Little Charles Bingley, the next oldest at eight, tried to emulate his older cousin in every way.
There were ten grandchildren now, and Georgiana Darcy Astley’s two girls, upon whom he doted every bit as much as his own blood, made an even dozen.
Because all the families gathered together in this way at least twice a year at their various homes to do business as well as celebrate holidays and christenings and breechings, Thomas Bennet had the very great pleasure of watching them all grow.
Fanny would have loved this, he thought with a sigh.
She would have been calling for her salts every day, but she would have loved it.
Upon returning from Lizzy’s wedding, he had seen to the renovations of the dower house and Fanny had happily busied herself with the redecorating.
It had kept her humming and happy for over a year—she had spent every last farthing of her budget but had not gone over.
Even Thomas had to admit that Fanny had made the place shine—but she had never lived there. Instead, Mrs. Grover did.
He was alone at Longbourn now. Fanny had passed three years ago, bemoaning even in her final illness that she had only managed to get four of her five girls married.
To Thomas’s surprise, it had not been his adventurous Mary who was the last to wed. Although he had waited until she was of age, Richard Fitzwilliam had convinced Mary to marry him, making her the third of his girls to leave Longbourn. Kitty had followed suit a few years later.
Boisterous Lydia had been the last of the Bennet girls to leave home.
Mr. Matthew Ennis, a quiet, serious young man with a pretty estate in Buckinghamshire had asked to court her a year ago, but Lydia was quite happy being fêted as Mrs. Darcy’s only unmarried sister.
Thomas laughed at the memory—Lydia had suggested that Mr. Ennis ask again when she was older.
That she was already twenty-four had not made the slightest difference to her; Fanny would have had something to say about that.
Mr. Ennis had returned six months later to resume his suit.
Elizabeth had finally run out of patience with her sister, and insisted she give Mr. Ennis an answer one way or the other.
Lydia had chosen to say yes. This was Ennis’s first family gathering, and the poor man appeared a little overwhelmed.
Thomas sympathized. When Lizzy and Darcy had come to him after his Aunt Olivia’s death to tell him that they had been left a staggering sum bound up in an irrevocable trust to be used for charitable causes, he had felt more than a little lost himself.
How could Phillip Russell have made that much money, even in forty years, after having been so thoroughly bankrupted by his own guilt and generosity?
“John’s father,” Lizzy had said. He had given her Uncle Phillip the capital, ostensibly to allow Phillip to share in the profits, but ultimately, Aunt Olivia's husband had refused to accept a single penny. So the duke’s share, a rather significant sum, had been put away for charitable giving.
Thomas did not like to think of it but considered it likely that this was the source the Russells had used to keep Longbourn afloat in those lean early years when he had taken over the estate and all the debt that came with it.
“I had no idea the principal was so high. Uncle Phillip simply called it ‘the fund,’” she had said with a tiny smile.
The fund, indeed. The money the Duke had refused to accept, left nearly untouched for decades, had grown to over three quarters of a million pounds.
Depending upon their annual returns, there had been between thirty to fifty thousand pounds in interest available to be given away each year.
The Darcys had insisted from the first that it was too much money and society’s need too great to rely only upon the pair of them to make all the decisions.
Thus, philanthropy—anonymous philanthropy—had become the family business.
That a good deal of additional business was conducted at these retreats by the men and the women alike, well, that was neither here nor there.
The Darcys were known in society as fabulously wealthy and very well-connected; their guest lists were highly exclusive, primarily limited to close friends and relations.
There was a running joke in the family that an invitation to a soiree or dinner at Russell House was nearly as sought after as a voucher to Almack’s, and the food was a great deal better.
The latter was more than a jest. Upon her retirement from service, Mrs. Thistlethwaite had been persuaded to teach the Darcy cooks to prepare many of her dishes.
Apparently the Darcys had added a generous competency to her retirement in thanks—and in return, Thomas recalled, Mrs. Thistlethwaite had given them her receipt for Elizabeth’s favorite dessert—the chocolate cream.
At the family meetings over the years, Thomas had listened to a variety of discussions about canning factories and threshing machines and ensuring those who depended on the various estates represented in the room had no reason to become desperate.
Kitty’s husband, the vicar of a large congregation who held one of Bedford’s livings, was an advocate for the poor and argued for charities that served society’s most defenseless, especially women and children.
No one protested the need, but they all had a great deal to say about which charities were most effective and which should receive their donations.
Elizabeth was still on about passenger railways, which she insisted would transform the country and change the future of their horse breeding enterprises.
Only Darcy supported her endeavors in this area.
In any case, Thomas was sure he would not live to see it.
Thomas enjoyed these gatherings enormously.
He relished the debates on legislation pending in Parliament nearly as much as the many games of chess to which he was certain to be challenged.
Through the former Captain Fitzwilliam, he knew more about horseflesh than he might wish.
Now in their seventh year of marriage, Mary still seemed happy with him.
She had even become an accomplished rider, something of a minor miracle and a testament to the influence of her husband.
Their two boys were as enthusiastic and daring as their parents, and Mary, he had noticed, was increasing again.
He imagined they were hoping for a daughter this time.
As for the deliberations over how to allocate Phillip and Olivia Russell’s legacy, that was for the younger generation to carry on.
He had made one suggestion in the first year—that everyone who wished to learn ought to be taught to read.
He emphasized that he meant boys and girls, men and women.
That idea had been embraced, and both schools and tutors dedicated to the purpose had been funded as an annual gift. After that, he felt he had said enough.
Thomas took a chair he did not often use, one with a tall back and wide wings situated facing the window that overlooked a garden.
There they all were, even little Thomas Edward Bingley, the youngest grandchild at two years of age who was still in leading strings.
Despite his restraints, the boy was determined to join in the ruckus and was giving his nursemaid a good deal of trouble trying to toddle after his sisters. The scene warmed his heart.
He heard more footsteps entering the room but, caught up as he was in the activity outside, he did not stand to greet the newcomers. Whoever it was, they would only be walking through on their way out of doors.
“Alone at last,” he heard Darcy growl from the far corner of the room, and suddenly Thomas realized he ought to have alerted the man to his presence.
There was a light laugh—Lizzy was with him, of course. “Not for long, I am afraid. Are you not worried about the hordes descending upon us?”
Something was being tossed onto a table—a book perhaps—and then there was the unmistakable sound of a kiss. Thomas grinned to himself, caught between embarrassment and laughter. Not just a peck on the lips, either.
“Fitzwilliam,” Lizzy scolded her husband, though her voice was anything but disapproving. “You must wait for tonight. We have guests. The children…”
“If we ever want more children,” Darcy replied, “we should not wait too long.”
Lizzy laughed again, harder this time. “I believe that ship has sailed, my dear.”
Thomas perked up.
There was a long silence, and then Fitzwilliam replied, his voice deep with emotion, asked, “So—it is certain?”
“I felt the quickening this morning,” Lizzy said. Thomas imagined her looking up into her husband’s face and smiling. “Are you pleased?” she asked.
There were more sounds indicating just how pleased Darcy was—sounds that Thomas wished he could not hear. Then they spoke of something he did not understand.
“Darcy secret number three, tonight?” Darcy inquired, the words muffled. Thomas was certain he did not wish to know why.
“That is how we made Olivia,” Lizzy responded teasingly. “Perhaps Russell secret number one?”
“That was William,” Darcy quipped. “Must we choose?”
Thomas silently willed them to leave.
Eventually, the two collected whatever it was they had put aside and went out into the garden.
Thomas watched as they called the oldest children together for a drawing lesson.
There was a great deal of running around and shouting while a few of the older boys disappeared with Darcy; when they reappeared, Darcy was holding something in both hands.
Darcy sat as the older children picked up their drawing materials, and Thomas Bennet felt as though he had been transported back in time twenty years. His Lizzy was giving drawing instruction exactly as her aunt had all those years ago in the garden at Weymouth House.
There was more, though, and Thomas Bennet was sure he had never seen the like.
The serious master of Pemberley, elusive and influential member of the ton, wealthy beyond imagining for anyone lower than a duke, was currently abandoning all pretense of propriety.
He was sitting cross-legged on the ground like one of the boys, barefoot, the hems of his pants wet, his shirt sleeves rolled up, trying to keep hold of a slimy frog who was unimpressed by the honor of having his likeness taken.
The frog finally escaped, leaping wildly from Darcy’s hands as he grasped at it, sending most of the girls scampering away and the boys off on a chase.
With a great deal of shouting and good-natured commands, the frog was recaptured, and the lesson resumed.
Thomas opened the window to let in the spring sun and air. He peered out far enough to spy what his Lizzy was drawing. It was not a portrait of the slippery, big-eyed amphibian. Instead, it appeared to be a rather deft depiction of the disheveled man holding it.
There was another disturbance behind him, and he wondered how he had managed to choose the busiest spot in Pemberley for his morning reading. This time, however, he was not hidden, and Lydia was soon at his side, dragging Ennis with her.
“What are you looking at, Papa?” she asked, craning her neck to see. “Oh.” She turned to her new husband and giggled. “It is just Lizzy. She is always drawing Mr. Darcy.”
THE END