Epilogue Chapter 3 #2
“Not precisely, though we know it began in the kitchen. We are thankful that there was rain the previous two days, which meant that the grass and trees were wet and thus the fire did not spread, not even to the stables.”
“Which meant that the Dower House and parsonage were not damaged at all,” Elizabeth stated.
“Yes,” Anne said. “We are so grateful to Gregory and Charlotte Allen, who have ministered with such care, including arranging for housing for the servants. Many of the servants, plus the Parfitts, are settled in the Dower House, which has been standing empty since Lady Catherine died. I am relieved my mother did pass on before the fire, as it would have broken her heart. She always cared more about the mansion than me or the estate proper.”
Elizabeth opened her mouth at this and then closed it without speaking. She could not argue with that statement. It was true that Lady Catherine de Bourgh had always looked on her daughter as a piece on a chessboard.
This was in stark contrast to the Matlocks, who adored their three sons and one daughter.
“Have you and Richard decided what you will do about Rosings?” Elizabeth asked.
Anne wrinkled her nose and said, “Not yet. We cannot afford to rebuild the entire house, not with the needs of Gray Acres. We had always intended for Rosings to go to Alexander, given that Lewis will inherit Gray Acres, of course, as the heir to the earldom. Now we have to decide…”
She trailed off and shook her head. “Enough of that. I have been wondering and worrying for weeks now, and I intend to relax and enjoy this time with you all. A full three weeks with extended family is the best gift I can imagine right now. Georgiana, my dear, I am so glad to see you too. For all that Gray Acres is only sixty miles from Pemberley and Marlborough, we do not encounter one another often enough.”
Georgiana Rutherford, at age five and thirty, was a confident mistress of her husband’s manse and mother to four sturdy sons. While she had endured two Seasons in her girlhood, she was not particularly fond of high-society crushes and had largely stayed in Derbyshire during her marriage.
“We are all very busy,” Georgiana said. “I am overjoyed that we were able to take the time to come down and visit with the extended family this month.”
“We are thankful as well,” Elizabeth said. “You know we former Bennets have not been in the same place for many years thanks to babies and sickness and the like. We have only been out of mourning for our mother for a few days now, and to all be together, well…”
She blew out a breath, and Jane chimed in, “Indeed, it is marvelous to have you and Kitty and Lydia in the neighborhood for a time. Charles and I intend to hold a ball in two weeks, which will allow all our old friends and acquaintances to see you again. By then, all the families who spent the Season in Town will have returned.”
Elizabeth suppressed a sigh. The last year had been exhausting with Mrs. Bennet’s death and mumps infecting most of the Darcy children, and they had only recovered in time for the family to move to Darcy House in London for part of the Season.
Her preference was to merely enjoy her sisters and their families, but unsurprisingly the Bingleys, as the foremost family in the area, could not insult their neighbors by denying them the opportunity of spending time with the Darcys and Fitzwilliams and Stantons and Ferndells and Redgraves and Rutherfords…
“How many people do you think you will invite?” Georgiana asked, her expression uneasy.
The door opened abruptly, and Elizabeth looked up and smiled at the sight of her beloved Fitzwilliam, with Adam Rutherford, Lord Richard Matlock, and Charles Bingley at his heels.
Seconds later, her smile gave way to concern; she knew her husband incredibly well, and his expression was more than usually solemn.
She was on her feet in a moment, and she asked, “What is it?”
Darcy drew in a deep breath, let it out, and then said, “We just received word that the King is dead.”
All four women gasped in shock, and Elizabeth sank back into the chair. It should not, she thought dazedly, be so surprising given that King George IV had been living a hedonistic life for literally decades, but nonetheless…
“Oh, Richard,” Anne said. “Does this mean … do we have to return to London immediately because of the Demise of the Crown?”
Elizabeth cast a worried look at Anne. The death of the King was naturally a serious event, but it did not touch the Darcys in the way it touched the Matlocks. The earl, as a peer, was a member of the House of Lords, so he had special responsibilities.
“We do not have to do so immediately,” Richard said, sinking down next to his wife and taking her hand. “It will take some time for Parliament to reconvene, probably at least a month.”
Anne sighed in relief. “I am glad.”
“But we will have to go into mourning again,” Jane remarked, “and of course, we will not be able to hold any balls or large dinner parties.”
“Lydia will be furious about going into mourning again,” Elizabeth added, which provoked a chuckle from everyone assembled.
“Indeed, she will,” Jane said fondly.
***
Nursery
Netherfield Park
Early
Thursday, 1st July 1830
The south-facing windows of the playroom in the Netherfield nursery let in the sun throughout the day.
It was on the third floor and faced south, which meant it was awash with sunlight very early.
It was a delightful space for children with numerous toys; Noah's Arks, and brightly painted wooden blocks, and sturdy cloth dolls with yarn hair and cotton frocks, and tops and the strings that spun them, while elaborate little theaters sat in one corner.
The chairs were deep-cushioned and comfortable, the tables low and convenient for little people, the sofas equally excellent for sitting in a group or stretching out for a nap.
It was a much-beloved room that had long rung to the rafters with joyful young Bingley voices.
Right now, it was largely quiet. The children who would fill it shortly were most of them still abed and asleep, worn out by their recent exertions and their joy in seeing their relatives.
Only the Darcys' youngest two, following the tradition of small children, had risen early, and they required the attention of their mother at the start of their day.
Elizabeth found this no hardship; she and Fitzwilliam had both been in the habit of rising early since long before they had met one another.
Elizabeth had woken with the dawn this morning and was spending time with her two youngest children while her husband attended to his correspondence; his business did not cease just because he was visiting his numerous in-laws.
Esther, who had only just learned to walk, was wandering around the room, one hand clutching an extremely raggedy doll to her chest, the other gesturing expansively.
The cadence of her voice was familiar, but the nonsensical gibberish she spouted was less so.
Elizabeth was tentatively guessing that Esther was repeating to herself some tale or story that she had been read.
At any rate, she was content, and her mother was too.
Samuel had abandoned his block tower in one corner and, after firmly admonishing his little sister not to touch it, had crossed to his mother, a puzzled frown contorting his little face. He tugged at Elizabeth's sleeve.
“Mamma?”
Elizabeth looked down on her littlest boy. “Yes, my dear?”
“Did Grandmamma die again?”
For a moment, Elizabeth was confused, but then she realized that Samuel’s gaze was fixed on her black sleeve.
“No, darling,” she said, pulling him into an embrace. “The King of England died a few days ago, and for the next fortnight, many of his subjects will wear black to mourn his death.”
Samuel frowned. “So we do not have a king anymore?”
“We do, King William IV. He is the former king’s younger brother.”
She waited patiently to see if this provoked more questions, but Samuel seemed content with this answer and released his mother to play more with wooden blocks in the corner.
The door opened at this juncture to reveal the nine-year-old Darcy twins, with three of their Bingley cousins, the two youngest Fitzwilliams, and several Rutherfords in their train, along with several nursemaids.