Epilogue
Two years later, Elizabeth Darcy stood in the shade of the stable as her husband crossed the paddock with their son cradled against his chest. Bennet Fitzwilliam Darcy, eight weeks old, blinked against the spring sunshine as his father approached the horse grazing peacefully near the fence.
“Atlas,” Darcy called softly. “Come meet someone.”
The old gelding raised his head, his movements slower, but his eyes still bright. He walked toward them with the dignity that had defined his long life. The horse lowered his head to investigate the bundle in Darcy’s arms.
“This is my son,” her husband said, his voice thick with emotion. “And when he is old enough, you will teach him to ride just as you taught me, Georgiana, and his mother. Will you do that for us, old friend?”
Atlas snuffled softly against the baby’s dark hair, and Elizabeth pressed her hand to her heart at the gentleness of it.
Darcy turned toward her. “Elizabeth? Will you help me?”
She crossed the paddock quickly. Her husband handed their son to her. Then he swung onto Atlas with effortless grace, settling into the saddle before reaching down.
“On my honor,” he said, his eyes meeting hers. “Our son’s first ride.”
Elizabeth lifted Bennet carefully, placing him in his father’s waiting arms. Darcy cradled the baby against him, one arm secure around the small body, the other hand resting on Atlas’s neck.
“Walk on.” He clicked his tongue.
Atlas moved forward with sure steps, as though he understood the precious cargo his rider carried. They made a slow circuit of the paddock—man, baby, and horse—while Elizabeth’s tears streamed down her face.
When they returned to her, Darcy’s eyes were bright with unshed tears. He handed Bennet to Elizabeth, then dismounted and pulled them both into his embrace.
“Thank you,” he whispered against her hair as Sam removed the bridle and saddle, leading Atlas out to the pasture.
Elizabeth had been five years old the first time she fell in love. Then Fitzwilliam—proud, reserved, impossibly generous Fitzwilliam—saw what she hoped before she could ask for it.
Atlas had carried her husband from boy to man and had taken her from longing into joy. And soon enough, he would carry their son. The circle was complete.
In the pasture, Atlas lifted his head and whinnied.
Elizabeth smiled. She had been right all along. Some dreams were worth waiting for.
The End