Epilogue #2
“Yes,” Elizabeth said, the very awkwardness she sought to avoid threatening a blush. “I know you must have had certain hopes, and I want to assure you that—”
“Oh, you poor dear,” Miss de Bourgh cut in.
She waved a hand, as if brushing aside Elizabeth’s worries.
“Please, do not torment yourself apologizing for marrying Fitzwilliam. He and I never had any agreement. We never suited and never planned to wed. We both knew as much, but my mother would not permit the idea to die.” Miss de Bourgh leaned closer, causing Mrs. Jenkinson to do the same, and lowered her voice to add, “I am so relieved that Fitzwilliam finally married, and Richard as well. Now that both of her choices are taken, I am hoping my mother will permit me a Season, and to be courted by a man of my choosing.”
Elizabeth blinked, reordering her thoughts. She had expected Miss de Bourgh to echo her mother’s hauteur and anger. To look like Lady Catherine as well. Instead, here was a small, slender, pleasant creature with no designs on Fitzwilliam at all.
“You have no notion what a relief that is,” Elizabeth said. “I quite expected you to hate me.”
“Oh no, please do not think that.”
With a glance Lady Catherine’s way, Mrs. Jenkinson spoke in rapid, low words, saying, “If your mother will not give you a Season, perhaps Mrs. Darcy will assist you.”
“That is a lovely idea, Hildie.” Miss de Bourgh smiled happily.
Knowing Fitzwilliam would agree, Elizabeth said, “You are my cousin and I am pleased to aid you in any way I can.”
“It would make my mother very angry.”
Elizabeth, too, looked to where Lady Catherine continued to rant, while Fitzwilliam stood in stoic silence. “Is she ever not angry?”
Miss de Bourgh laughed.
Lady Catherine’s head snapped around, her eyes narrowing as she looked at them.
She said something more to Fitzwilliam, and Elizabeth made no effort to read her lips as she felt certain she did not want to know what her ladyship thought.
In a swirl of oversized skirts and expensive fabric, Lady Catherine started back to where Elizabeth, Miss de Bourgh, and Mrs. Jenkinson stood.
“You should call me Anne,” Miss de Bourgh whispered quickly. “And I would be ever so pleased if we could correspond, but you may want to address any letters you send to Hildie. She will give them to me.”
“Then you must call me Elizabeth, and I will,” Elizabeth replied.
Lady Catherine stormed up to them. She cast Elizabeth a glare, then took Miss de Bourgh’s arm. “Come. We are leaving.”
“But we have not even spoken with Richard,” Miss de Bourgh protested as her mother yanked her away.
“Nor will we. We do not speak to relations who sully our line with common blood.”
That turned some heads, but most wore expressions of amusement or exasperation, and Elizabeth had the impression that the people about them were accustomed to Lady Catherine’s snobbery.
“Do write,” Mrs. Jenkinson said quietly, and hurried away after the two.
“You are writing to Mrs. Jenkinson?” Fitzwilliam asked as the three women left the room.
“Miss de Bourgh asked me to correspond with her but to address any letters to her companion.” Elizabeth cast him a quick look, seeking his reaction as she continued, “I offered to help her find a husband if Lady Catherine will not give her a Season. I hope that is acceptable?”
Fitzwilliam turned warm eyes on her. “I cannot imagine finding your judgement unacceptable, and I am happy you so quickly struck a rapport with my cousin.” Dipping his head to bring his lips near her ear, he added, “It is much whispered of among our relations, how one of us might help Anne escape her mother.”
Elizabeth nodded, but thoughts of Miss de Bourgh and her plight fled the moment Fitzwilliam’s mouth dipped so near. Elizabeth was very newly married, but she had already learned that kissing her husband held much more delight than gossiping about his relations.
Turning her head to whisper back, she asked, “For how long must we remain, do you believe, to satisfy politeness?”
“Having dealt with Aunt Catherine, I feel I have been quite polite enough already.” He lightly cupped her cheek.
“We brought you drinking chocolates,” Georgiana’s voice said cheerfully.
Elizabeth turned to her new sister reluctantly, but with a smile, and accepted a cup. “Thank you.”
Sipping her chocolate, Elizabeth looked about the room.
She recognized the Earl of Matlock, his expression pinched but that of the handsome woman on his arm cheerful.
Near them stood a gentleman who must be the viscount, for he bore strong resemblance to both, and to Colonel Fitzwilliam.
He, like the countess, seemed unperturbed by Colonel Fitzwilliam’s choice of bride, and the small woman on his arm babbled away happily to everyone about her.
Who most of the others in attendance were Elizabeth could not guess, but Mr. and Mrs. Hurst moved through the room, speaking briefly with many people.
“I liked your wedding breakfast better,” Georgiana said quietly. “Your sisters were there.”
Elizabeth smiled and took another sip of chocolate. “Kitty will be in London soon, to stay for a time with the Gardiners, and after she departs, Lydia will visit.”
“Which I look forward to,” Georgiana replied. “Especially as you and Fitzwilliam will be in Pemberley, and especially as the Gardiners seem lovely.”
Elizabeth hadn’t lied when she’d assured Fitzwilliam that their wedding breakfast, not three days ago, suited her perfectly.
He and Miss Darcy had met her Aunt and Uncle Gardiner and her little cousins.
Elizabeth’s family had behaved, even Mary and Mr. Collins, who Elizabeth had reluctantly included.
They seemed to be finding their time with Farmer Grason, and Mr. Collins’ inability to secure another living, humbling.
Elizabeth had been surrounded by all the people she cared about most. To her, the perfect wedding.
Now, though they stood in the Earl of Matlock’s London home with peers and the very wealthy all about them, Elizabeth slipped her free hand into Fitzwilliam’s.
He lightly caressed her fingers, his mouth, seen from the corner of her eye, turning up in a smile.
For Elizabeth, nothing meant more than being with the people she loved and who loved her.
Her family, her new relations. Most of all, her husband.
Fitzwilliam Darcy, a man she’d met under a shadow of pretense, but who she’d come to realize had never truly, and would never, deceive her. The man to whom she’d given her heart and who would stay beside her for the remainder of their days.
Thank you so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed this tale of one Darcy too many.