Epilogue
PEMBERLEY
Darcy found Elizabeth curled up in his favorite velvet chair in the library.
She closed her book when she noticed him, her smile brightening when she saw the letters in his hand. “Any worthwhile news?” she asked, biting her lips and lowering her eyebrows.
Darcy did not know why she tried to contain her curiosity when her inquisitive nature was one of the qualities he loved most about her. “There is no news of Wickham other than what we already know. His ship is not expected to return soon.” He handed her the envelope from Connell.
She grabbed the letter, her lips pursing as she scanned over the page. “If he had stayed with Lydia instead of going out drinking and gambling, he would not have been press ganged.”
Wickham had not been in uniform, not wanting to be recognized and forced to return to Lydia.
What had he expected, in disguise, in that part of London where seafaring men were known to seek gin and companionship during their short leaves?
Wickham had been too drunk to protest effectively, and by the following afternoon when he was sober enough to tell them he had an army commission, it was too late.
The HMS Lydia had already set sail. “His wife would be a kinder mistress than the ship he must toil on,” Darcy noted dryly.
Elizabeth set the letter down and rang for another cup to be brought in for him. “Mrs. Annesley has been a good influence on her.”
With all the stories the midwife had discreetly shared of her profession—and which Elizabeth’s sisters later recounted to her in their letters—they had learned the advantages of decorum.
Lydia, relieved and with a renewed appreciation that she had been spared the pangs of motherhood, had calmed considerably.
Tapping her chin, Elizabeth smiled. “I noticed that Connell mentioned Mrs. Annesley more than once in his letter.”
“They have been working closely,” Darcy acknowledged.
“He finds many excuses to travel through Hertfordshire.”
Darcy’s suspicions had reached the same conclusion. “You think Connell has developed a particular interest in Mrs. Annesley?”
Elizabeth huffed and jabbed her finger against his letter. “Since when is Longbourn on the way to Kent from London? He has a copy of Mrs. Annesley’s list. There is no need for him to seek her out.”
Darcy settled in the chair beside hers. “And is that so wrong?”
Her smile sparkled in her eyes. “Not at all. I have it on good authority—Jane’s—that Mrs. Annesley is not indifferent to his attentions.”
Saving the best for last, Darcy handed Elizabeth the other letter he had received. It had taken him several minutes to cipher Nick’s handwriting, but it was the first letter he had received from his brother since he and Alex had left Darcy House in London.
Elizabeth squinted her eyes, then turned the page one way, then the other. Handing it back to Darcy, she said, “It must have been storming when he wrote this. What does it say?”
Darcy loved how easily she excused Nick’s poor penmanship.
“They captured a Spanish warship off the coast of Portugal. Snuck right up on it in the dark of night, boarding her before the watchman had a chance to cry out. It was a risky move, as they had to weave around several British naval vessels, but they promptly turned their prize over to the closest ship. Alex is still mad at Nick for not pilfering the firearms and gold bars in the hold.”
Elizabeth gasped. “A prize ship! Did the Admiralty grant them amnesty and a privateering license?”
“They could do no less,” Darcy answered, relief coursing through his body. His brother could return to England now. The question only remained: when?
“After handing over such a fat prize, I should hope not!” Elizabeth untucked her feet from under her and leaned forward to pour the tea the maid set on the table.
“We shall read about it in the papers soon, I should think. Nick claims it shall be his last ship, but he knows better than to speak for Alex. Still, he hopes that when their first child is born, she might change her mind.”
“She is with child! Oh, how lovely!” Elizabeth rubbed her stomach. “Would it not be wonderful if our children were born at the same time?”
Like him and Nick. Darcy slid forward, until his knees were on the floor and he could kiss Elizabeth’s stomach. Her hands twined through his hair, pulling him closer.
Rubbing his cheek against her, he whispered, “I have not seen you, but I already love you more than anyone.” He felt Elizabeth tug on his hair.
With a laugh, he raised his head and brushed his lips over hers. “Except for you, my love.”
“That is more like it. We must be a team before our children are old enough to conspire mischief against us, or where would we be?” The way she twirled her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck sent shivers down to Darcy’s fingers and toes.
And the sweetness of her lips, the softness of her skin, the silk of her hair …
Darcy could ignore the world and remain in her embrace for days.
“Did he say when they might return to England?” she asked, stroking his cheeks.
Darcy leaned back, still on his knees but feeling the need to stay close to her. “Not exactly. He said he would wait until the war is over and it is safer for them to cross. He wants to see Uncle Matlock—”
“He called him that? He called him Uncle?”
With a nod, Darcy added, “Nick wants his children to see the portraits of their grandparents. He said to tell you that he is as much a man of promise as I am.” He eyed Elizabeth. “What did you make him promise?”
She sighed contentedly. “I knew he would remember. You and he are alike in so many ways.”
Darcy waited for her to expound on the subject, aching to hear more. To know when he might see his brother again. Nick said he wanted his children to see their grandparents’ portraits, but surely, he wanted to know his parents, too … Darcy hoped.
Tickling her fingers over his cheek, caressing his face, Elizabeth said, “I saw how sad you were when Nick left. You tried to hide it, but I knew. I thought you were worried you might not see him once he departed. So I hurried out to your carriage before it could take them to the dock. I made him promise, with Alexandra as a witness, that he would return as soon as the war was over or within the next five years. Whichever came first.”
“You gave him an ultimatum?”
She shrugged. “A time limit sounds nicer. Alexandra heard everything, and she concurred. We agreed that he could return, purchase an estate near Pemberley, and open up a fencing school.”
Darcy wrapped his arms around Elizabeth, his heart brimming with gratitude for her gift, already planning which rooms to make ready for his family and the places he wanted them to see, the stories and portraits he would share…
“What else did Nick say in his letter?” Elizabeth pressed, recalling Darcy to the present.
Pulling the chair closer, he sat and took the tea she had prepared for him just the way he liked it, with a little bit of sugar and a little more cream.
“They plan to purchase a property on the Mediterranean large enough for us to visit, as well as Richard and Emily, Aunt and Uncle, Georgiana, Jaffa…”
“They shall need their own Pemberley,” Elizabeth snorted. “What of their crew?”
“Boone shall take over as captain with Beckett as his quartermaster. Cotton and Bauer have requested places in the household. Alex figures they shall make decent nurses.”
“A more protected infant would be hard to find.” Elizabeth laughed.
They dreamed of Nick and Alex’s return, of their own child (whose birth they would entrust with Mrs. Annesley), and the end of the war when they could all be together again.
TWO YEARS LATER…
The house had not been packed with guests for months, and for the first time, Darcy was free to finally see to the business he had already been putting off for far too long … and Elizabeth would not hear of him departing for town.
Not that Darcy wished to go. He never wished to leave his dear wife, little Anne, or baby Thomas.
He had invited Elizabeth and the children to join him, but she had refuted his every suggestion. She simply, stubbornly would not budge. Nor would she allow him to leave Pemberley.
To make matters worse, it was a brilliant day—clear, azure skies with puffy clouds in changing figures and blooming flowers in the gardens.
And instead of arranging a picnic at the top of the hill with a view of the wildflower-speckled fields and the river, she had been obstinate about spreading the picnic near the house with a view, not of the river or the fields or the woods or the flowers, but of the drive leading to the house.
Trying not to act as cross as he felt, Darcy lifted little Annie and twirled her until he grew dizzy and she giggled uncontrollably. Elizabeth rocked Thomas, who drooled all over his mother’s shoulder, his toothless grin fixed on his squealing sister.
It was difficult to remain in an ill-humor, but Darcy did his best. He really must away to London. He had neglected his business too long.
Carefully setting Anne down, he was about to tell Elizabeth as much—again—when out of the corner of his eye, he saw a carriage approaching.
An imperious monstrosity with gaudy carvings embellished in gold leaf.
It did not belong to the Bennets, nor would his uncle be seen in such a horrendous conveyance.
Richard’s carriage was sleek and elegant.
Bingley and Jane had only recently departed and were not expected for several more months.
“Are you expecting callers?” He glanced over his shoulder at his wife.
Casting him the same saucy look that had won his heart ages ago, Elizabeth winked. Twice.
And he knew.
All was forgiven. Kissing the woman he adored, Darcy lifted Anne into his arms, and with Elizabeth holding Thomas, they walked the blessedly short distance to the drive.
Nick leaped out of the carriage, and Darcy thanked all the stars in the heavens that he had such a clever woman for a wife.
Alex jumped down, a baby in her arms and a toddler wrapped around her leg. “Blimey, Darcy, when ye said ye’re wealthy, ye weren’t exaggeratin’.”
Embraces were exchanged, Darcy showed Nick the portraits of their family, and they watched their children playing together.
Darcy’s life was rich enough, but that day he felt like the richest man alive.
He had his family and as much happiness as a heart could hold.
He was, truly, a fortunate man. A man of fortune.