Epilogue
A scatter of crimson coats stood against the pale stone in the swept and ordered courtyard below.
The winter sun shone cold and clear above Windsor’s towers, catching on the gilded window frames and the drifting smoke of the chimneys.
The courtyard below was swept and ordered, a scatter of crimson coats against the pale stone.
Somewhere far off, a bell struck eleven, each note carrying through the crisp air.
Elizabeth stood beside Fitzwilliam at the foot of the grand staircase, her gloved hand resting lightly on his arm.
The hush of the corridor before the Queen’s Drawing Room seemed almost unreal after the life they had led — the sound of distant violins, the indistinct murmur of courtiers, the shimmer of silks and stars.
“You are certain you will not be nervous?” Fitzwilliam murmured, his voice warm with teasing.
“I have faced cannon fire,” she whispered, her eyes bright. “I think I can withstand a drawing room.”
He smiled, bending close enough for his words to brush her ear. “Then you are braver than most men here.”
The chamberlain appeared, bowing. “Lady Elizabeth Darcy, Sir Fitzwilliam Darcy.”
The doors opened, and light poured in — golden and steady, filling the vast room with warmth. The Queen sat beneath a canopy of crimson and gold, her countenance serene, her gaze kind. Beside her stood the Princess, her hands folded, her expression bright with curiosity and welcome.
Elizabeth advanced slowly, her heart beating with calm precision. The soft whisper of her gown, the gleam of candlelight on the polished floor, the faint rustle of expectation — all of it seemed a dream made solid.
When she curtseyed before the throne, the Queen inclined her head with grace. “Lady Elizabeth,” she said, her voice low but distinct, “we are pleased to receive you.”
Elizabeth rose. “Your Majesty does me great honour.”
The Princess smiled. “I have heard of your courage, Lady Elizabeth. England owes you much, though few will ever know how much.”
Elizabeth’s cheeks coloured. “It was not mine alone, ma’am. Many brave hearts served where I only followed.”
Fitzwilliam’s quiet pride beside her said all that need not be spoken.
The Queen’s gaze softened. “And now you are to serve in peace, not war — a change we trust will suit you well.”
“I shall endeavour to deserve it, Your Majesty.”
There was a pause, then the faintest smile. “We believe you already do.”
When they withdrew at last, the doors closed softly behind them. The corridors of Windsor stretched long and bright, their footsteps echoing faintly through the hush.
Fitzwilliam glanced down at her, a faint smile playing about his mouth. “Was it as terrible as you feared?”
Elizabeth’s laugh was low and light. “Worse. I was almost overcome by kindness.”
He took her hand as they descended the stairs. “Then let us flee before they discover we are merely human.”
Outside, the frost still clung to the lawns, and the Thames shimmered pale beyond the walls. The royal standard stirred in the wind, and far below, the carriages waited.
Elizabeth drew a breath of the cold air and looked up toward the spire against the winter sky. “It seems strange to think of everything ending here,” she breathed.
Fitzwilliam’s hand closed around hers. “Not an ending,” he said. “Only peace, at last.”
They lingered a moment on the steps, the world around them still and white.
Jane and Major Bingley were settled at Netherfield now, their letters full of warmth and good-humoured confusion at country life.
William Lucas had accepted a commission in the north and promised to visit before spring; his last note had ended with the words, Tell Lady Elizabeth I am content.
Mrs Bennet, meanwhile, could scarcely contain her joy.
She had already told every neighbour within ten miles that her eldest was Mrs Bingley of Netherfield, and her second a lady of the royal household.
In her letters to town she wrote grandly of my daughter, Lady Elizabeth Darcy, and hinted that she hoped to see her younger girls presented at court in due time.
Even Lady Catherine de Bourgh had condescended to acknowledge the match.
Her letter, written in her most commanding hand, declared herself “exceedingly disappointed that you could not be persuaded to do your duty by marrying Anne. Nevertheless, I am gratified that you have at least chosen a lady of discernment, and one who appears to have made herself useful to the Crown. I trust she will remember that distinction requires propriety.”
Fitzwilliam had laughed when he read it. “It is as near to approval as my aunt has ever ventured.”
Elizabeth’s reply had been simple and amused. “Then I shall count it among my honours, Fitzwilliam.”
Together they stepped out into the pale sunlight, the sound of the bells following them down the long drive, clear and bright across the quiet grounds of Windsor.