Epilogue
More than a year after his first marriage, the divorce was pronounced, and Parliament issued the bill confirming it.
They were in London when the document arrived, borne by a special emissary. The whole family was gathered in the parlour, waiting for the paper that would bring an end to so long a period of uncertainty and expectation.
Moments earlier, alone in Elizabeth’s parlour, they had sat in quiet anticipation before joining the others.
“It is impossible that we should be refused permission to marry,” Darcy said, looking at Elizabeth, who appeared less assured. “But what shall we do if it is denied?”
Elizabeth rose and began to pace the room.
There had been a time when all hope had deserted her—when life without him had seemed empty and without purpose.
She had agreed to enter society and to know his friends only because they mattered to him.
For herself, nothing existed beyond Darcy.
So long as she had him, she was prepared to shape whatever life might be required.
“We shall defy them, and be happy together,” she said, with a gesture towards the town beyond the windows. “We have each other—and we always shall.”
On a nearby table lay an opened letter, the latest from America.
A delicate watercolour accompanied it, depicting a woman standing before a fine house.
Anne had written to wish them well. Once more, she had apologised for her marriage to Darcy.
In the end, the composed figure before that house in Philadelphia had, in her way, secured their happiness.
“Do not be uneasy, my love,” Darcy said. “It is only a formality. His Grace is a reasonable and compassionate man.”
Still, Elizabeth could not entirely trust it. When they joined the others in the parlour, she looked about her at their assembled families and friends, all waiting for the conclusion of their long trial.
Darcy broke the heavy seal of the Archbishop of Canterbury. He read the first line—and could not restrain his emotion. Elizabeth, alarmed, feared at once that permission had been refused. She took the letter from his hands and read only a single sentence:
“His Grace, Charles Manners-Sutton, Archbishop of Canterbury, grants Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy the right to marry.”
A collective breath of relief filled the room. Mr Bennet was the first to take the document and read it through.
“Yes,” he said at last. “His Grace has decided in Darcy’s favour—in your favour,” he added, as he embraced Elizabeth.
The letter passed from hand to hand, and soon congratulations followed for the future bride and bridegroom.
On a windy day in December, Elizabeth Bennet and Fitzwilliam Darcy were married in London.
The ceremony was attended by family and close friends. Though it was a moment of happiness, tears welled in many eyes. The path from the first anxious days of the previous year to this church, adorned with white flowers, had been long.
Their marriage felt like a gift, and both entered into it with a deep sense of gratitude.
As the ceremony unfolded, Darcy had the strange impression that he was marrying for the first time. No effort of memory could restore the earlier occasion. Every word spoken, every vow, every answer to the minister—each seemed new, and full of meaning.
“I hope that you—Elizabeth and Fitzwilliam—will live your lives together, cherishing each day the gift you have received,” the minister said.
It was precisely what they intended.
At last, alone in his room, Darcy watched his bride as she prepared for the night. When he took her into his arms, it was with a feeling wholly different from all that had come before. Now she was his—openly, irrevocably, and without fear.
“Mrs Darcy…how much easier it would have been, had you accepted me in Kent,” he said, with a smile, as he loosened her gown.
“Mr Darcy, how much easier it would have been, had you not married another woman,” she returned, with her usual spirit.
He smiled again, but the sight of her still left him, for a moment, without words.
“Is Mrs Darcy a bride in every sense?” he asked lightly.
“Well…not entirely,” Elizabeth answered, helping him with his coat.
“Not entirely?” he repeated. “That is unfortunate news for your husband. And when, madam, did you part with such innocence?”
“Some months ago—when I first came to Pemberley,” she said. “He took advantage of me.”
“And what did you do?” he asked, amused.
She hesitated, then met his gaze.
“Did you attempt to resist?”
“No,” Elizabeth said, smiling.
“And why not?”
“Because I did not wish to.”
He laughed softly, drawing her closer, his expression softened by something deeper than amusement.
“But I have other news for you,” she added, her tone gently changing.
“Oh?”
“Not only is your wife no innocent bride, but it appears she is also with child.”
For a moment, he did not speak. Then, with a tenderness that no wit could disguise, he gathered her into his arms, as though the happiness granted to him exceeded even what he had once believed possible.
And in that quiet room, at last free from every shadow of the past, their future began.