Epilogue
Five Years Later
Snow had begun at dawn, slow and deliberate, settling over the park in perfect stillness.
By evening, the world beyond Pemberley’s windows was white to the horizon, and the air inside the house shimmered with firelight and spice.
The great hall was garlanded with cedar and holly; oranges dried in ribbons of clove hung from the banisters, perfuming every breath.
Somewhere upstairs, her children were laughing—the full, unrestrained laughter that belonged to those who had never known fear of what the world might say.
Elizabeth stood by the parlour fire with a letter in her hand, smiling at the familiar double handwriting that filled both margins—the sharp, angular lines of her father’s sarcasm giving way halfway down the page to her mother’s looping enthusiasm where her mother’s excitement had outpaced her pen. .
Her father’s opening was brief and characteristically dry:
My dearest Lizzy,
Your mother has filled these pages so completely that I have been permitted only this narrow margin in which to assure you that I still exist, though I begin to suspect I shall be smothered in ink before the New Year.
Your husband’s last letter mentioned the frost at Pemberley; I beg you will keep him from heroics with shovels or snowdrifts, though I know how he enjoys making an example of himself.
Jane and her excellent Mr. Lesley are to join us for Christmas, which means your mother will be in transports for at least a week, and I in my library for the same duration.
Lydia’s name is not to be spoken aloud this week—it interrupts your mother’s enjoyment of the season.
I miss your conversation most acutely; the rest of your family are, as ever, incorrigible.
The rest of the paper, predictably, belonged to Mrs. Bennet:
Your father says Jane and her good Mr. Lesley are expected to call for the holiday at last—she writes that his estate in Surrey has the prettiest orchard and a library nearly as fine as Pemberley’s (though of course, how could it be!).
Lydia, poor girl, sends her thanks for your kind parcel and says the vicar’s wife has asked her to help with the schoolroom children.
It may do her good to have a purpose. Your uncle Philips has a new gig, and Mary has taken to reading sermons aloud of an evening, which I find very affecting though your father claims it shortens his life.
We are all in health and miss you terribly.
I tell everyone how happy you are, though I am sure they can see it in your face when you visit.
Elizabeth laughed softly at that—the image of her mother triumphantly sharing family tidings in Meryton’s parlours was too vivid to resist—and laid the letter on the mantel, her father’s margin overlapping her mother’s exuberant signature.
The mix of their voices—his wry affection, her untidy devotion—warmed her more than the fire. For all their noise and folly, they had given her the only courage that had ever mattered: the courage to speak her mind and trust her heart.
The parlour was bright with candles; they had been set in pairs along the mantel and in tall glass holders near the windows, their flames reflecting in the dark panes like distant stars.
Mistletoe hung from the lintel, holly from the sconces; the air smelled faintly of beeswax, cinnamon, and the smoke that clung to the winter air.
Elizabeth laid her parents’ letter aside and reached for her pen to begin a reply.
She was still shaping the words—half a line in her father’s teasing style, half in her mother’s eager one—when the jingle of harness bells carried faintly through the walls.
A moment later came the muffled thud of doors, the voices of servants hurrying along the passage, the crisp announcement—
“Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, madam.”
Laughter followed immediately, spilling from the hall into the quiet parlour like sunlight breaking through cloud.
Elizabeth rose, smiling before she saw them.
The door opened wide, letting in a gust of cold air and the scent of snow.
The Gardiners swept in, powdered white at the edges, their cloaks dusted with frost and their cheeks flushed from the ride.
The younger footmen trailed behind with parcels and baskets—one filled with mince pies, another wrapped in cloth that already betrayed the rich scent of brandy butter.
“My dear Lizzy!” cried Mrs. Gardiner, catching her niece in a hug that left a sprinkle of snowflakes on Elizabeth’s sleeve. “We thought we should never reach you. The road from Lambton was half a ribbon of ice, and your uncle nearly lost his hat to the wind twice over.”
Mr. Gardiner laughed, shaking the snow from his gloves. “An exaggeration. Once would suffice. Though I will own the scenery was enough to freeze a poet’s tongue—and that is no small feat, knowing my wife.”
“You see what I endure,” Mrs. Gardiner said with mock gravity, unfastening her cloak and handing it to a waiting maid.
“But we come bearing all the delights of London in our baskets. I promised your husband we would not arrive empty-handed, though whether these can survive the children’s curiosity, I cannot promise. ”
Elizabeth stepped back to take them in—their easy banter, the warmth they carried with them, the sense of home they brought wherever they went—and felt her heart lift. The house, though vast, suddenly felt entirely full.
Two small shapes thundered down the corridor before Elizabeth could reply. Henry reached the threshold first—dark curls wild, boots untied, his small face bright with victory. “Aunt Gardiner! Uncle! We saw your carriage from the window! Papa said we must wait, but we did not.”
Little Grace followed at her own pace, her half-dressed doll dangling from one hand, the other clinging to the banister as she navigated the final step. “Mama, we did wait,” she declared, “but only a tiny wait.”
Within a moment, both children were in the Gardiners’ arms, squealing and talking at once.
Henry launched into an account of the snow fort he and his father had built that morning, complete with battlements and an unfortunate snowman that had collapsed under its own hat.
Grace interrupted with a breathless announcement that she had made a pie for Christmas, “all by myself,” which Mrs. Gardiner accepted with the gravity such achievements required.
“My darling Henry,” Mrs. Gardiner said, brushing the snow from his sleeve, “you grow more like your father every day—though I do hope you are rather easier to scold.”
“And you, Miss Grace,” added Mr. Gardiner, solemnly offering his arm for inspection, “do I detect flour on your gown? Or are we to believe you escaped the kitchen unscathed?”
Grace pressed her lips together to hide a grin. “I only tasted the sugar.”
“So, you are indeed a Bennet,” he said, and kissed the top of her curls.
Laughter rippled through the room, rich and effortless.
Elizabeth’s heart caught at the sight—their aunt’s face softened by delight, her uncle’s arms steady around the laughing children.
They had no sons or daughters of their own, yet the bond between them had always seemed indestructible, quiet and sure as the Derbyshire hills.
Watching them now, Elizabeth understood more deeply what strength a good marriage lent the world—not grandeur, not ease, but this: laughter and gentleness, love offered without condition. It was what she had longed for without knowing it, and what she now lived every day.
“Come, Lizzy,” said Mrs. Gardiner, drawing her toward the tree. “We must add our presents before the little ones decide they own every parcel in sight.”
Elizabeth laughed, surrendering. In the corner stood the great Christmas bough, an evergreen branch set upright in an urn and dressed with ribbons, sprigs of holly, and small gilt apples that caught the candlelight.
Beneath it lay a modest scatter of gifts wrapped in paper and twine, their bright seals glinting against the dark leaves.
She bent to slip a silver-wrapped book among them—Darcy’s gift for Georgiana, chosen with his usual care: Cowper’s The Task, bound in green leather.
Elizabeth traced the edge of the parcel with her fingertips, half-smiling.
The thought of Georgiana—pensive, gentle Georgiana—made her glance instinctively toward the window, half hoping for the first crunch of carriage wheels on snow.
The house had taken on that particular hush that falls just before an arrival.
Somewhere near the entry, she heard the distant rumble of voices, the stamp of boots shaken free of snow, the quickened rhythm of servants moving in practiced coordination.
A gust of cold air rolled down the corridor, stirring the candles.
Then came the announcement: “Madam—Mr. and Mrs. Harcourt have arrived.”
Elizabeth’s heart leapt before the words were finished. Georgiana. Even now, the name had power—the memory of distance turned suddenly to light.
She turned just as the doors opened. The winter evening spilled in behind them: a scattering of snowflakes, the bright scent of frost, and the unmistakable hum of cheer that came from long journeys ended well.
Georgiana stood framed in the doorway, her fair hair touched with melted snow, cheeks flushed with cold and happiness.
Every trace of past uncertainty seemed to have melted away; her smile was radiant, sure, and Elizabeth, seeing it, felt something in her own chest bubble up for pure joy.
“Elizabeth!” Georgiana cried, stepping forward with both hands outstretched. “How good it is to be home.”
They met in the middle of the room—no curtseys, no careful reserve, only the warmth of a sister’s embrace. When they drew apart, Georgiana’s eyes shone with tears unshed, and laughter not yet spoken.