Epilogue #2
Behind her came her husband, Mr. Harcourt—tall, broad-shouldered, and carrying the quiet confidence of a man who had travelled far through snow and had not regretted a single mile.
His coat was dusted white at the shoulders; his gloves dangled forgotten in one hand.
The admiration in his eyes as he looked at Georgiana spoke more eloquently than any introduction.
“Mrs. Darcy,” he said, bowing with good-humoured solemnity, “I must thank you for the very fine weather your household arranged for our journey. My wife swears it was divine intervention; I think it was your husband’s forethought.”
Elizabeth laughed. “Then you do him too much credit. Fitzwilliam has never yet been able to govern the skies, though heaven knows he has tried.”
A ripple of laughter followed. Mrs. Gardiner ushered the new arrivals toward the fire, clucking at the cold, while Henry and Grace hovered at Georgiana’s skirts, uncertain whether to run or bow.
Georgiana knelt immediately, gathering them close, and Elizabeth felt tears sting her own eyes as the children chorused, “Aunt Georgie!”
It was homecoming in its truest form—not the grand return of guests, but the restoration of family. For all the grandeur of Pemberley, this was what filled it: the laughter of children, the clasp of familiar hands, the sudden, brilliant warmth of hearts long separated and now whole again.
They sat together by the fire, speaking quietly while Mrs. Gardiner entertained the children with tales of London’s Christmas shops.
Georgiana told her of their life in Matlock—of the bustle of court days, of the people her husband helped, of the peaceful little house they had made for themselves.
She spoke easily now, her voice lighter than Elizabeth remembered, touched with the quiet confidence of contentment found at last.
They sat together by the fire while Mrs. Gardiner entertained the children with tales of London’s Christmas shops. Georgiana’s hand rested on her lap, pale against the blue of her gown, a tiny crease of contentment at the corner of her mouth.
“How tall they have grown,” she said, watching Henry march his wooden soldiers across the hearth. “I could scarcely believe it when Grace called me ‘Aunt Georgie’ just now. The last time I saw her, she could only manage ‘Dordie.’”
Elizabeth laughed softly. “She still does, when she is tired.”
“I shall take it as a compliment,” Georgiana said. “Though I imagine she will soon be correcting my own letters.”
Her gaze drifted toward the window where flakes of snow pressed faintly against the panes. “It will be a fine Christmas,” she murmured, as if to herself. Then, after a small pause, she added with a shy smile, “Next year, perhaps, we shall bring a child of our own to join the mischief.”
Elizabeth turned to her, her heart lifting. “Oh, Georgiana—that would make it perfect.”
Georgiana’s fingers brushed hers in quiet affection. “You have made it so already.”
Before Elizabeth could answer, the door opened once more and a swirl of cold air swept through the room.
Darcy stood framed in the doorway, snow glittering in his dark hair, his coat unbuttoned, the colour high in his cheeks.
The children shrieked and ran to him—Henry tugging at his sleeve, Grace holding out her doll for inspection.
Elizabeth looked up, meeting his gaze across the bustle. The expression there—affection mingled with astonishment that life could be so kind—still undid her completely.
Darcy had scarcely crossed the threshold before Henry attached himself to his leg, chattering about the snow fort’s imminent collapse. Grace stood on tiptoe, thrusting her doll toward him as evidence of great importance.
“You see, Papa? She has a ribbon now. Aunt Georgie tied it.”
“Then she is most elegantly dressed,” he said gravely, bending to examine the doll as though it were a duchess. “But I fear, Miss Grace, your brother is correct about the fort. The walls are thin, and the engineers unreliable.”
Henry gasped. “I am the engineer!”
“Precisely,” Darcy said, straightening with a faint smile. “We shall rebuild it tomorrow and double the height.”
That promise earned an exultant shout before both children tore off again toward the window to check whether the snow still fell thick enough for their plans.
By then, Georgiana’s husband had come forward to greet him.
The two men clasped hands with the quiet ease of those who understood one another without explanation.
“Darcy,” Mr. Harcourt said, still warm from the fire, “I have just been envying your tenants their landlord. Mrs. Gardiner was telling us of the new cottages on the lower estate.”
Darcy shook his head. “Their design is Mr. Gardiner’s doing, not mine.”
“Nonsense,” Mr. Gardiner protested cheerfully, joining them. “I may have lent a few commercial suggestions, but you provided the generosity—and the land. You are spoiling every tradesman within fifty miles. Even my London partners envy your masons.”
Mr. Harcourt laughed. “It is true. My own magistrate complains he cannot keep a single workman; all have fled north to better pastures.”
Darcy’s smile deepened; there was no stiffness in it now, only shared amusement. “Then I must bribe them with good roofs and fair wages. My wife insists upon both.”
Elizabeth, listening from the hearth, caught his glance and returned it with a smile that said she knew very well what he meant by it.
The men continued easily—Harcourt asking after the mill improvements, Gardiner countering with remarks about the new market road near Matlock.
The conversation turned to storehouses and coal, then to the management of apprentices and schools, the sort of talk Elizabeth once found tedious but now found oddly dear.
It was life made steady—men content to speak of work and family instead of loss and duty.
Mrs. Gardiner appeared at Elizabeth’s side, her eyes bright. “It does my heart good to see them all so merry. Georgiana looks happier than I have ever seen her. Her husband has wrought a wonder in her countenance, I think.”
“Mr. Harcourt,” Elizabeth replied in a hushed voice, “has wrought more wonders than that. You know that he worked under Lord Matlock, I suppose? Admired Georgiana for years, but it was when he met my husband that he truly made his admiration known… for both Darcys, it seems. I think we have him, more than anyone, to thank for Georgiana’s reconciliation. ”
Mrs. Gardiner scoffed. “You do yourself too little credit, my dear. Who was it who first brought her back under this roof? It was no gentleman, but a sister who insisted it must be so.”
Elizabeth blushed. “Well. I am pleased that they have found their way.”
“So have you, my dear,” her aunt murmured. “All of you have.”
Across the room, Darcy had crouched again to let Grace place her doll in his coat pocket “for safekeeping.” Henry tugged at his sleeve, whispering with urgent conspiracy, and Darcy raised one eyebrow.
“Open them now?” he repeated. “At this hour?”
Henry nodded vigorously. “It’s nearly Christmas already.”
Mrs. Gardiner laughed aloud. “And who told you that, Master Henry?”
“Papa did,” Henry declared, “when he said we might stay up as late as we liked, and that the time to open them was midnight on Christmas Eve.”
Darcy’s expression of mock horror betrayed him at once. “Did I? I must learn to guard my words more carefully.”
Elizabeth crossed to them, smiling despite herself. “Then you may open one each,” she said, “and only one. The rest must wait for morning.”
Henry whooped in triumph; Grace began negotiating for two.
Laughter swelled again, the sort of laughter that carried no sharp edges, only light.
And for one shimmering instant, Elizabeth saw it all as if from a distance—their families intertwined, their past sorrows absorbed into a single, generous present.
Whatever trials had once separated them were gone. In their place was warmth: a hearth, a handful of loved ones, and a world that, for this night at least, had learned to be kind.
The house had fallen to its midnight hush. The laughter and candlelight of the evening lingered faintly in the air, but now only the fire in the library kept watch — a slow, steady glow that painted the room in amber and shadow.
Darcy sat at his desk, the same walnut piece he had once kept locked against the world.
Tonight, the drawer stood open. Within lay a handful of small treasures: a child’s drawing of a very round horse, a ribboned lock of hair, a letter in Elizabeth’s quick, confident hand.
And beside them, wrapped in soft linen, the keepsake he had once believed would never again be returned.
He unfolded the cloth. The little book looked unchanged — the green leather deepened with age; the faint sheen of wax still caught in the threads of the twine. The ribbon was there too, though Elizabeth had long ago removed it for her sewing basket. Or so he had thought.
It lay now inside the cover, pressed flat between the pages, its colour faded but still bright enough to recall the candlelight of that first Christmas. On its edge, in her hand, were the stitched letters Fidelis.
A quiet laugh escaped him — not disbelief, but the kind of laughter that comes when one has found the end of a long journey and still cannot quite believe the road led here.
Footsteps sounded softly behind him. He did not turn until her hand brushed his shoulder.
“Still awake?” she murmured.
He took her fingers in his, drew her closer. “I was making a study of old possessions.”
Her gaze fell to the book, and the smile that rose to her lips was both fond and rueful. “You kept it still.”
“I could no more discard it than forget my own name.” He traced the edge of the ribbon. “It has seen much repair since its first life.”
“So have we,” she said quietly.
He looked up at her then, the lamplight catching the gold in her hair. “You mended it,” he said. “And me.”
She shook her head, the faintest smile curving her mouth. “You were never broken. Only waiting.”
He closed the book and held it for a while, the worn leather warm from his touch.
For years he had feared to open it, as though the past might spill out and demand its old dominion.
Tonight, there was no fear—only gratitude for the hand that had placed it in his keeping, the life it had come to represent.
He set it aside gently. On the desk stood two new candles, their wicks pale against the untouched wax. Moonlight washed across the glass, turning the brass holders to silver. Beyond the window, the park lay hushed beneath its mantle of snow.
Without speaking, Elizabeth reached for the taper and coaxed a flame from the hearth.
It flared bright, then softened to gold as she touched it to the first candle.
The light caught her features—the curve of her mouth, the warmth that years of contentment had written into her face—and he felt something inside him ache with wonder.
He leaned forward and lit the second. For a breath, the two flames burned apart, each distinct in the glass. Then the faintest stir of air drew them toward one another until they swayed and glowed side by side, their light mingling, inseparable.
“Five years,” he said quietly. “And still the wind has not found us.”
She watched the candles, her expression soft with memory. “Because we learned how to shelter one another.”
He turned to her. The shadows played along her throat, her hair gleaming like copper against the firelight. He reached up, tracing the line of her cheek with his thumb.
“Then let this be our keepsake,” he said. “Not of what was nearly lost, but of what endured.”
Her hand found his, fingers closing with that calm assurance that had become his truest compass. “It endures still,” she murmured.
They stood together by the window, their joined hands mirrored in the glass. The candles’ light pooled around them, a quiet circle against the greater dark. No storm, no scandal, no sorrow had managed to reach this far; the years had worn their edges smooth and left behind something whole.
Outside, snow drifted over the lawns, erasing every path, every mark, until even the horizon seemed to vanish in white. The wind whispered against the panes but did not enter. Within, the air was golden and still, and the heart of Pemberley glowed like a secret kept for love’s sake alone.
Lose yourself in the delights of the season with more Darcy and Elizabeth Christmas tales!