Epilogue #2
Indeed, it had been a considerable effort to persuade her to come to London for Georgiana’s presentation—a season Elizabeth remembered with both amusement and admiration, for Lady Anne had borne it with remarkable fortitude, though she had retreated from it the moment she was able.
But Georgiana had done exceedingly well, stunning them all with her adoration of London and all its delights.
She and her husband sat on the same row as Lady Anne.
He was attentive without being ostentatious, his manners easy, and his regard for his lovely wife was unmistakable.
Georgiana had married the eldest son of a duke, with all the consequence such a position entailed, and yet he was a man of genuine character—something Darcy valued far more highly for his sister.
The alliance had not gone unnoticed, however. Indeed, it had stirred certain long-dormant interests within the Fitzwilliam family.
Elizabeth’s expression cooled slightly at the thought.
There had been letters that were burned. Calls that went unreturned.
The sudden and most inconvenient resurgence of familial affection from those who had once shown very little inclination toward it was distasteful.
Their overtures, though carefully worded, had not deceived anyone in the Darcy family, and the Fitzwilliams had been met with precisely the attention they deserved.
Which was, to say, none at all. There was no benefit to connection with that family.
Except for Richard, of course.
Elizabeth shifted her gaze toward where he sat.
Time had altered him, as it had them all, but there remained something of the man she had first known—though tempered now by responsibility and experience.
His elder brother, now the earl, was the only other member left of the Fitzwilliam line.
Shortly after his marriage, the then-viscount had contracted a ruinous condition, the consequence of long-indulged vices for which neither wealth nor prudence had ever been sufficient.
That same affliction had been passed to his unfortunate bride, leaving her unable to bear children.
Thus, it seemed, the direct line would fail.
And Richard’s eldest son would, in time, inherit the title, the Matlock estate, and all that came with it.
But it was not the title that had given Richard Fitzwilliam a special place in her heart.
It was the lady seated beside him: Charlotte.
Of all the matches made in those tumultuous years, that had been the one Elizabeth would never have predicted—and yet, in retrospect, it made a certain, quiet sense.
Anne de Bourgh had not lived long after her marriage—just over a year.
She had died bringing a daughter into the world, leaving Richard with an infant child and a grief that had driven him as far from Kent as he could go.
For a time, Lady Catherine resumed her management of Rosings, while Richard removed himself to Pemberley, bringing his daughter with him.
There, she had grown alongside Elizabeth’s own youngest, their companionship a comfort to them both.
Charlotte had still been at Pemberley then.
The dearth of men in Hertfordshire due to the Napoleonic wars was, unfortunately, the same in northern counties as it had been in Hertfordshire.
Even as the particular friend of the new mistress of Pemberley, Charlotte had been forced to give way to the younger, prettier, livelier girls in Derbyshire.
But when Richard came, his heart heavy with sorrow, he found a respite in Miss Lucas.
Richard had once confided to Darcy—though not in detail—that Charlotte’s desire to leave her family’s home had not been without cause.
Elizabeth had never pressed for particulars, but she had seen the difference for herself.
The quiet resignation that had once marked her friend had given way to something freer, steadier, once she was removed from it.
And what had begun as companionship between Richard and Charlotte had deepened. In time, it became something far more. Their marriage had not been hurried, nor born of desperation, but chosen—deliberately, and with understanding on both sides.
They had returned to Rosings together. In less than a year, Charlotte had given her husband twin sons, the eldest to become the heir apparent to the earldom.
And then, eighteen years ago, she bore him a daughter.
Charlotte sat with her hands clasped tightly together, her composure only just maintained. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears as she watched her daughter—Susan Elizabeth Fitzwilliam—standing before the altar.
Elizabeth followed her gaze to her own son, Bennet, looking down on Susan with a love in his eyes that mirrored Darcy’s when he had once looked upon Elizabeth so many years before.
Tall.
Steady.
Certain.
The two mothers’ eyes met across the aisle, and they shared a smile—one of pure, unguarded joy.
Then a hand closed over hers. Elizabeth started slightly, then turned her head.
Darcy.
He had been beside her all along, though in her wandering thoughts she had scarcely paid him heed. Now, as she looked up at him, she saw the faint sheen of tears in his eyes, the quiet depth of feeling he did not trouble to conceal as he watched their eldest son marry the woman he loved.
Her breath caught at his rare display of emotion, and she leaned into him without hesitation, finding in his presence the same steady comfort she had known from the beginning.
Time had marked them both—there was silver now at his temples, and she knew well enough that she was no longer the girl who had first stood up with him at Meryton.
Life had shaped her, as it had shaped him.
And yet, nothing essential had been lost.
If anything, it had only deepened.
His hand tightened slightly around hers, as though he felt it too—that unspoken certainty, that quiet, enduring bond which had weathered every trial set before it and emerged the stronger for it.
She rested her head lightly against his shoulder, breathing him in, the familiar steadiness of him grounding her in the present even as memory stirred.
She would never forget it, though she could not actually remember it.
The moment the door gave way, his voice calling for her, his arms lifting her to safety.
He had come for her.
Had chosen her—at cost, at risk, with no guarantee but hope.
And she had chosen him in return.
Her fingers curled more firmly in his grasp. Whatever had followed—whatever changes, whatever trials, whatever joys—had grown from that single act of courage and devotion.
And as she sat beside him now, their children grown, their lives full, their love no less strong for the years that had passed between, Elizabeth knew, with a quiet and unshakable certainty, that she would be grateful.
For him.
For all of it.
For the rest of her days.