Epilogue
It had been only five weeks since Elizabeth Bennet became Mrs Fitzwilliam Darcy, and her new life felt both astonishing yet curiously inevitable, as though some part of her had always known she would one day be here, in this place, with him.
They had married quietly from Longbourn, just as she had wished. No grand spectacle, no lace-draped carriages or hothouse blooms; only their nearest family and dearest friends. The ceremony was brief, the breakfast that followed long, and their joy enduring.
From Hertfordshire they travelled to London, where Darcy’s townhouse in Grosvenor Square became their first shared home.
For weeks, they settled into the rhythms of the city: walks in Hyde Park wrapped in scarves and laughter; rainy afternoons in galleries and bookshops; restful evenings by the fire, reading aloud to one another.
That first month became a season of discoveries.
She learned how he took his tea (strong, with one sugar), how often he murmured under his breath when he thought himself unobserved, and how determinedly he avoided mince pies, despite their cook’s assertion that he had once hoarded them as a boy.
In turn, he professed to have discovered the exact shade her eyes turned in candlelight, the soft hum she made while thinking, and the quiet ferocity of her loyalty, even to those with whom she disagreed.
During their stay in town, two letters arrived from Kent, bearing news of very different natures.
The first brought glad tidings: Charlotte had been safely delivered of a healthy boy.
Elizabeth wept when she read it, out of joy, yes, but also from profound relief.
With the child’s birth, Longbourn’s future was secured at last, and she trusted Charlotte would raise her son to be a man of sense and integrity, one who would do right by the estate.
The second letter arrived scarcely a week later, with more sobering news: Mr Collins, in a final act of misplaced zeal, had been struck by a passing mail coach while hurrying across the lane to bow to Lady Catherine’s carriage.
The irony was not lost on Elizabeth—nor, apparently, on Charlotte, who wrote with her customary composure: He died as he lived, attempting to impress someone who was not looking.
Now, as the last days of Advent waned, Elizabeth and Darcy left the bustle of London behind and travelled north to Pemberley.
The air in Derbyshire was fresh and bracing, and Elizabeth could not imagine the house ever looking more welcoming than it did adorned for the season, with garlands of evergreen wound along the banisters and fragrant boughs set upon every mantel and sill.
Georgiana was expected that evening from Matlock.
Darcy had missed his sister deeply, and Elizabeth was equally eager to see her again.
Yet, if she were honest, she felt nearly as much anticipation at renewing her acquaintance with Miss Darcy’s companion.
Although she had met Mrs Annesley only once, on the morning of the wedding, there had been something in the lady’s manner that had stirred a strange awareness within her, like a quiet impression she could neither explain nor dismiss.
She had told no one of her feelings, not even her husband.
Still, her fingers often drifted to the locket at her throat, grateful beyond measure that it had not been lost. It belonged to her in a way she could not account for, its steady presence a reminder of something half-forgotten but never wholly gone.
Her memories were no longer as vivid as before.
What remained were fragments, elusive and disordered, like pages torn from a book whose ending she would never know.
However, there were times when she felt she stood close to that other life, as if it hovered just beyond her reach, glimpsed for an instant through a fog.
The carriage arrived just as the sun began to sink lower in the sky. From the drawing room window, Elizabeth saw it turn the final bend in the drive, its wheels crunching faintly in the December air.
Darcy, who had been standing at the hearth, moved at once to the door, and Elizabeth followed with quickening steps. By the time they reached the hall, the great doors had been thrown open, letting in a rush of cold air and the bustle of arrival.
Georgiana descended first, wrapped in a thick cloak, her face flushed from the cold.
“Elizabeth!” she exclaimed, all formality forgotten as she hurried to embrace her new sister.
Elizabeth returned the hug with genuine warmth. “Georgiana. Welcome home.”
“I have been counting the days,” the younger girl replied. “Though my aunt did not make it easy to leave. If Lady Matlock had her way, I would be with them till Easter.”
Elizabeth laughed. “I can only imagine.”
A second figure now stepped from the carriage. Mrs Annesley, neat in her dark travelling coat and matching bonnet, moved with the same easy grace Elizabeth remembered. But then she lifted her gaze, and their eyes met—and something shifted.
For a fleeting instant, Elizabeth was somewhere else, walking along a sunlit path, a hedge maze rising in the distance, the sound of voices hovering just beyond her reach. The vision dissolved almost as quickly as it came, leaving her slightly unsettled.
Mrs Annesley nodded with composed politeness. “Mrs Darcy. It is a pleasure.”
Elizabeth shook her head, forcing herself to return to the present. “And you, Mrs Annesley. It is very good to see you again.”
The older woman stepped closer, her expression unreadable, though her eyes held a brightness that roused something unaccountably familiar.
Elizabeth drew breath, but before she could speak, Georgiana seized her arm and began chattering about the journey. The moment slipped away, like a stone dropped into water, its ripples vanishing before they could be traced.
The days that followed settled into a peaceful rhythm. For all its grandeur, Pemberley did not overwhelm Elizabeth; rather, it welcomed her with its wide corridors, generous windows, and the calm dignity that seemed to emanate from the stone itself.
She rose early most mornings, walking the grounds before the household stirred. Sometimes she was joined by Darcy or Georgiana; at other times, she wandered alone, letting the stillness deepen her sense of belonging.
Within the house, she found satisfaction in the pattern of daily life: consulting on provisions with the cook, reviewing the linen inventory with the housekeeper, and assisting with the tenants’ Christmas baskets.
She introduced small changes where she could, never anything too drastic, only enough to make the great house feel a little more her own.
Georgiana proved a joyful companion, full of lighthearted mischief and genuine affection. And Mrs Annesley soon became one of the family, her steadying presence a balm to them all.
Before Elizabeth knew it, Christmas was upon them at last.
She and Mr Darcy had chosen to spend their first yuletide quietly at Pemberley; they were still so newly married that the thought of hosting a house full of guests seemed more wearying than festive.
Although Elizabeth missed her family—Jane most of all—she found unexpected delight in the gentle patterns of the season and took pleasure in establishing a few new traditions of their own.
Jane and Mr Bingley had promised to visit in the new year, and the thought of their arrival wove itself happily through Elizabeth’s mind.
Christmas Eve dawned clear and cold, the stillness broken only by the hushed fall of snow.
By mid-morning, fine flakes drifted steadily down, casting a pale glow over the house already dressed in evergreen and holly.
Elizabeth spent the morning exploring the gallery with Georgiana, listening to the histories of so many unfamiliar faces, and the afternoon strolling the frosted grounds with Darcy, their footprints trailing side by side through the fresh snow.
Now it was evening, and the four of them were gathered in the drawing room.
A bright fire crackled in the hearth, and the air carried the mingled scents of pine and clove-studded oranges.
Georgiana played a gentle melody at the pianoforte, while Mrs Annesley sat with her needlework.
Curled into one corner of the settee, Elizabeth half-listened until Darcy, seated beside her, suddenly stirred.
“I nearly forgot,” he said, reaching into the inner pocket of his coat. “A letter arrived from Fitzwilliam this morning.”
Elizabeth straightened with interest. “He is still in Kent?”
Darcy nodded, unfolding the pages. “He writes from Rosings.”
He cleared his throat and began to read aloud:
My dear Darcy, I trust this letter finds you and your new bride well—and, I hope, surviving the rigours of married life with good humour and minimal bloodshed.
Darcy glanced at Elizabeth with an arched brow before continuing:
I write with news which I believe neither of us expected, though in retrospect, perhaps we should have. Anne is engaged. To Dr Latham, her physician.
Elizabeth gave a soft gasp, her hand rising to her mouth as Darcy read on:
Lady Catherine, to everyone’s amazement, is entirely satisfied with her daughter’s choice.
She now insists she always suspected the match would come about, and that Dr Latham’s steady presence and concern for Anne’s well-being made him ‘the obvious candidate’.
She is determined they remain at Rosings, of course, where she may ‘guide their household with wisdom and experience’.
I leave you to imagine Anne’s expression.
Darcy paused, folding the page loosely against his fingers. “I am happy for her. Latham is a good man. Though I confess, I am curious to see how long the harmony with Lady Catherine lasts.”
“I give it a fortnight,” Elizabeth replied with a grin. “At most.”
He chuckled, then continued: