EPILOGUE
Mrs Bennet, far from lamenting anything, was in excellent spirits.
With Elizabeth already engaged to Mr Darcy of Pemberley, she could afford to be generous.
She declared that she was “quite happy for poor Charlotte,” and that “not every woman could be so fortunate as to attract a gentleman of ten thousand a year.” This last remark she repeated often, particularly within Mr Collins’s hearing.
Mr Collins’s complacency at his own ceremony was unbounded.
He quoted Lady Catherine no fewer than ten times before the vows were spoken, and blessed himself repeatedly for his prudence in choosing a wife.
Yet even his self-satisfaction faltered when he arrived in Meryton the evening before the wedding and heard the astonishing report that Elizabeth Bennet was to marry Mr Darcy.
He nearly dropped the hat he was removing.
“That connection,” he sputtered, “is wholly improper and must bring Lady Catherine the greatest displeasure!”
That very night, he spoke to the family in great earnest, urging Elizabeth to think better of such a schemed match, lest she offend Lady Catherine and bring her anger upon them all.
At Mr Bennet’s suggestion, Elizabeth did not trouble herself to reply.
Mr Bennet only observed that Lady Catherine was quite at liberty to deliver her indignation in person, should she feel so inclined.
He added, with dry good humour, that he would be waiting. She never came.
Christmas brought further joy. Netherfield was all cheer and candlelight, for Mr Bingley, unable to restrain his happiness another hour, proposed to Jane on Christmas Eve. Mrs Bennet’s transports were beyond description.
“To think,” she exclaimed between tears and triumph, “two daughters settled, and both so admirably! My nerves shall never recover, never!”
The double wedding was held in February 1812, the day bright with pale winter sunshine and murmurs of wonder from every soul in Hertfordshire.
The crowd at Meryton church could scarcely be contained, all coming to see the eldest Miss Bennets wed—one to the amiable Mr Bingley, and one to the formidable yet beloved Mr Darcy.
Mrs Phillips attended with her daughters, the Gardiners came from London with affectionate pride, and even Mr Collins appeared, though with a countenance as sour as any sermon.
He muttered often to his wife that “Lady Catherine would be most grievously offended,” but Charlotte only pressed his arm and reminded him gently that nothing could be done now.
The Bingley sisters glimmered in satin and disapproval. Miss Bingley’s curtsy to Elizabeth was as stiff as her silks, and her congratulations as cool as the February wind. Mr Hurst, however, found the breakfast excellent and was therefore content.
Mr Darcy’s family made a most distinguished appearance.
The Earl and Countess of Matlock showed perfect civility, Colonel Fitzwilliam offered warm admiration for the bride, and Georgiana Darcy, whom Elizabeth had first met at Christmas, won every Bennet heart with her sweetness.
Even Mrs Bennet declared her “a most elegant young lady, and quite taken with my Lizzy.”
Only Lady Catherine was absent. She had written two furious letters—one to her nephew, condemning the union as a “shameful degradation,” and one to Elizabeth, expressing her hope that she would soon “perceive the folly of aspiring above her station.” Darcy replied with a brief, immovable statement: that he loved Elizabeth, honoured her, and required no permission to marry her.
A week later, Anne de Bourgh wrote privately to express her goodwill, and to confess that her mother had “forbidden her even to sneeze in the direction of the wedding.”
As for Mr Wickham, his fate was sealed soon after.
Dismissed from the regiment, he accepted Darcy’s terms that his debts would be paid if he quitted England entirely.
Rumour held that he sailed for the Americas and was last heard of in Puerto Rico, managing a sugar plantation of questionable repute.
Darcy remarked drily that “a land full of enterprising rogues will know how to manage one more.”
The months that followed were full of promise.
Mr and Mrs Bingley settled at an estate not five miles from Pemberley, allowing the sisters to meet as often as they pleased.
The Gardiners visited frequently, their children racing through Pemberley’s halls as though they had been born to them.
Even Mrs Bennet, amid her endless delight, learned to be tolerable company.
And Pippin—dearest Pippin—thrived in Derbyshire.
She became queen of Pemberley’s lawns, racing across the fields in gleeful bursts or dozing by the fire with Apollo, who endured her every antic with noble patience.
The servants adored her. Georgiana painted her portrait twice, and even Mr Darcy was often seen to offer her a biscuit from his own hand, to the quiet amusement of all who witnessed it.
One soft spring evening, months after the wedding, Elizabeth and Darcy stood upon the terrace watching the last light spill across the park. Apollo reclined at Darcy’s feet, stately as ever, while Pippin pressed herself against Elizabeth’s gown, tail sweeping the stone.
“I sometimes think,” Elizabeth said with a smile, “that our dogs understood the truth before we did. Perhaps they were the true match-makers.”
Darcy looked down at the pair, the one proud and steady, the other bright and affectionate, and his lips curved. “They did. Apollo’s loyalty and Pippin’s heart had the better judgment.”
Elizabeth laughed softly. “Then I shall never again doubt their instinct.”
“Nor I, their affection,” he replied, drawing her hand into his.
As twilight deepened and the first stars appeared over the quiet hills, the two dogs lay down together at their masters’ feet, their heads touching as they slipped into contented sleep, constancy, and love well earned.
Thus it was that Elizabeth Darcy of Pemberley, once Elizabeth Bennet of Longbourn, came at last to know the truest happiness—that which grows not from fortune or pride, but from instinct and affection, the very qualities that had guided her steps long before she understood them.
THE END