Epilogue My Beloved Authoress
April 1813
Hatchards Book-shop, London
Darcy
“ D id such a man exist? One who possessed sufficient wit, honour, patience, and charms to fascinate my intellect, tolerate my foibles, and capture my heart? No, I should never meet this fancied gentleman, not if I travelled the whole of England.”
My wife closed the book and set the volume upon her lap. “And so ends Chapter One.” On this occasion, Elizabeth’s second public reading since her book’s publication a fortnight ago, she exhibited nary a trace of nervousness.
I rose and added my claps to the thunderous applause in the room. Near the back wall stood Miles and his wife, Amelia. To the right of them, Lady Matlock and a throng of her friends provided their acclaim. The companionable trio of Kitty, Lydia, and Georgiana stood at my left. My two sisters-by-marriage would spend the whole of April with us in town, and Georgiana had never been more content. The trio devoted several hours each day to their studies, and far more time rapt in conversation, games, and other silliness. I had acquired a certain fondness for the frequent peals of laughter that accompanied their gatherings.
“Thank you all very much.” Elizabeth’s sparkling eyes held mine for a moment, and her left brow arched. I acknowledged her with a nod.
As we all retook our seats, Mrs. Fortescue, the society matron who had organised the reading, approached Elizabeth. “That was delightful, Mrs. Darcy. I am certain everyone here is eager to read more of The Wayward Heart on their own.” Mrs. Fortescue faced the crowd. “We shall take a few questions for Mrs. Darcy from the audience.”
Five or six arms shot up. Mrs. Fortescue pointed to one person at a time, and Elizabeth addressed their queries.
Next, Mrs. Fortescue invited those who had purchased Elizabeth’s book to form a line to have their copies signed.
On that memorable Sunday in Bedford in July 1812, I had accompanied Elizabeth to Mr. Baxter’s home. While Mr. Baxter had given me a cordial greeting, Mr. Bennet held me in an inimical stare that grew fiercer when Elizabeth declared her intention of marrying me. With the combined encouragement of Elizabeth and Mr. Baxter, Mr. Bennet had progressed to a mute sulk, indicative of his grudging acceptance of our inevitable union. Elizabeth and I wed in a double ceremony in London with Miles and Amelia on the third of August 1812.
We had spent our wedding night at Darcy House, then departed the next day for Pemberley. By all appearances, Elizabeth loved her new home from her initial views of the woods and house. We have traversed my favourite paths through hills, meadows, and moors, and she has formed friendships among the local gentry. We spent eight blissful weeks alone at the estate before Amelia and Miles arrived with Georgiana and Mrs. Annesley.
Miles and Amelia remained at the estate a month before returning to town, where he has been in constant demand for commissions of paintings. Although Elizabeth and I encouraged them to stay at Darcy House indefinitely, they chose instead to lease a small residence in a nearby neighbourhood.
Elizabeth and I returned to London in early February so she could meet with her publisher, and Lady Matlock hosted a ball in our honour. My wife’s reception in town has been overwhelmingly cordial, thanks in part to Lady Matlock; my aunt confided to her friends the fiction that she had recognised characteristics in Elizabeth that made her my ideal match and contrived to bring about our marriage.
A week ago, Bingley and Jane, along with my sister Mary, had departed for Portsmouth to attend Miss Bingley’s wedding to a distant cousin, a wealthy naval captain.
True to my word, I have supported Elizabeth’s writing at every turn. I encouraged her to delegate most household matters to Mrs. Reynolds and her apprentice, yet Elizabeth decided to retain many of the mistress duties and devote no more than two hours each day to her craft. In light of my marriage, Georgiana had no longer required a companion; thus, I offered Mrs. Annesley a position as Elizabeth’s literary assistant, and the lady has become an indispensable aide to my wife.
“Excuse me, Mr. Darcy.”
The voice belonged to a red-haired gentleman and fellow resident of Park Lane with whom I shared a distant acquaintance. “Good day, Mr. Oakley.”
“Good day.” He drew my attention to the ladies waiting for Elizabeth to sign their books. “Mrs. Oakley is next in line. She insisted we come today.”
“I see.”
Mr. Oakley’s brow crinkled. “I hope you do not take offence, but I am puzzled why a gentleman of your standing would embrace a cousin who worked as an artist—that alone is exceptional.”
My deportment stiffened—the man had audacity. I glanced at Miles, who crossed his arms and smirked; he stood behind Mr. Oakley and near enough to overhear his remarks.
“But for your wife to publish a book using your name is still more difficult to comprehend. Why did you allow her to do this?”
With effort, I suppressed my pique. Mr. Oakley was neither the first to broach the subject, nor would he be the last. “Darcy is my wife’s name—nothing could be more natural and just than for her to use it.”
“Yes, but most ladies of any consequence either write under an alias or publish anonymously. For her to make a spectacle of herself this way…” His features constricted. “Are you not concerned her actions will damage your… reputation ?”
“Not in the least. I cannot be troubled over the opinions of those who are intolerant and inflexible in their beliefs. I am proud to celebrate the achievements of my wife and cousin. They both have enriched my life in ways too numerous to mention.” I stepped to the side and swept my arm towards Miles and Amelia, who offered complacent smiles. “Mr. Oakley, I do not believe you have had the pleasure of meeting my cousin, Mr. Miles Darcy, and his wife, Mrs. Darcy.”
The gentleman coughed and bowed to Amelia and Miles in turn. “Ah no, I have not. How do you do?”
Miles and Amelia extended their greetings.
Following a quick look over his shoulder, Mr. Oakley consulted his watch. “The hour is late, so if you will excuse me…” He edged away and went to join his wife.
Amelia bent her upper body nearer to me. “Is he a friend of yours?”
“An acquaintance, I should say.”
She straightened, and her gaze followed Mr. Oakley’s progress to Mrs. Oakley, who clutched a copy of Elizabeth’s book to her chest. “I am inclined to think well of his wife at least.”
“You have the right of it.”
Lady Matlock beckoned Miles and Amelia to join her group. I wandered to the side of the room and chose a seat with an unobstructed view of Elizabeth. She bestowed a sweet smile upon a lady in her seventh decade who handed over a copy of The Wayward Heart . My wife had written the first few chapters of a new manuscript inspired by Miles and Amelia’s romance, with sufficient alterations to prevent anyone guessing the story’s origin.
At last, Mrs. Fortescue declared the event to be over, and my darling wife strode in my direction, her pupils fixed upon me. “Well, this has been diverting, but I am relieved to have reached the end. I hope you did not find the reading to be tedious.”
I lifted her hand to bestow a kiss. “No, I adore listening to your voice. And several of the ladies posed insightful questions.”
“Yes, they did. Shall we collect our sisters and make our farewells? I thought we might return home via Gunter’s.”
“That is a fine suggestion.”
Her head tilted as her left eyebrow arched. “Do you know how much I love you?”
“I may, but perhaps you will be good enough to remind me this evening.”
“Her fine, hazel eyes widened and lingered upon me in a way that never failed to stir my blood. “You may depend upon it, Mr. Darcy.” She slipped her arm around mine, and we made our way to Lady Matlock.
At moments such as these, I marvelled at my amazing prosperity. Thanks to the addition of Elizabeth and Miles in my life, I have enjoyed wondrous sources of happiness, the likes of which I could never have conceived before I won the heart of an enchanting and singular lady from Hertfordshire.