Epilogue Chapter 3
Vicarage Kitchen
Kympton
Derbyshire
“Mamma, may I take a basket of eggs and a loaf of bread to the Ashtons? Mrs. Ashton had a baby girl last night.”
Mary Knowles looked up from the dough she was kneading and smiled at her eldest daughter, sixteen-year-old Priscilla. “Of course, my dear. You can bring along a jar of preserves if you like, too.”
Priscilla smiled happily. “Thank you, Mamma.”
The girl made her hasty way to the door, which opened to the cellar stairs. A moment later, Priscilla had descended into the cellar, where Mary stored jams and jellies and various foodstuffs, which benefited from storage in cooler temperatures.
Priscilla, unlike her mother, was exceptionally handsome, along with being blonde and blue-eyed like her aunts Jane and Lydia. Mary was proud of the fact that her only daughter was a sensible, even-tempered young lady whose head was not turned by the extravagant compliments of the local lads.
She heard the sound of familiar footsteps and looked up as her fourteen-year-old twin sons, Michael and Vincent, entered the room.
Michael was dark-haired like she was, and Vincent sported red hair like his father, but at least for now, they were more or less joined at the hip.
Her pregnancy and delivery with the twins had been difficult, and she had never conceived again, but she was incredibly grateful for her healthy sons.
“Mamma,” Vincent said, “you do not mind if we ride ponies to Pemberley, do you? Our cousin Nicholas sent a note this morning that a new foal was born last night, and we wish to see him.”
“Of course you may,” Mary said with a smile. “I daresay that he misses his parents and siblings and would greatly enjoy his time with you. Do you wish for a small nuncheon before you go?”
Michael shook his head and said, “We will have tea with Cousin Nicholas.”
“Be gone with you, then,” she replied, and smiled as both boys, now taller than she was, planted kisses on her cheek before departing in haste.
She turned back to the dough, which had been sufficiently kneaded, and separated it into two lumps, then stretched them both out and placed them in separate pans. They would rise for two hours and be baked in time for dinner.
She quickly washed her hands, glanced at the clock, and then made her way to her husband’s book room, which was in the corner of the parsonage facing the glebe.
The door was open, and she paused in the doorway to stare at her husband, who was busily writing his sermon on a piece of foolscap.
It was a sight of which she would never tire.
His back was a little broader than it had been on their wedding day, nearly eighteen years ago, and his hair somewhat more gray.
Every blessed day, every trial and tribulation, every joy and bliss, had been a gift.
Theirs had been a union of amity, mutual respect and devotion and love which made them a well-matched team.
Mary had never wished she had chosen differently.
The Darcys were extremely generous patrons, and the glitter of her sisters' lives was not something Mary had ever coveted.
The squeezes and crushes of London did not appeal to her, nor did the running of a great estate.
She could be as much help to the tenants of Pemberley as the parson's wife as their mistress could, and with a much more personal touch.
She felt no envy that her sisters' wealth meant they could purchase new gowns at will, or live in vast and venerable mansions.
They could not, she knew, be any happier than she was with her Cedric.
His kindness to the parishioners under his care was rivaled only by his devotion to and care for his small family.
He was truly a man of God, and it showed in his every word and action.
Indeed, Mary could not imagine a better life than to be Mrs. Knowles, mother to their three precious children, and shepherdess to their flock.
***
Mrs. Bennet’s Sitting Room
Darcy House
London
Afternoon
9th April 1833
There had been a time years ago that Mrs. Bennet had enjoyed gadding about on various errands and merrymaking.
That time was long since gone. She was content with a roaring fire and heaps of rugs and a variety of comfortable chairs with thick plush cushions.
She would never see sixty again, nor her youthful spryness, but the thought caused her no real pangs.
She was satisfied now, the beloved and well-respected matriarch of her extended family.
She was seated this sunny afternoon in one of her favorite wingbacks, which a footman had carried over to set beside the window for her.
The lace curtains had been drawn back to permit her to look out on the view outside as the garden started to wake to springtime life.
Elizabeth had developed a love for Lady Anne's rose garden at Pemberley, so much so that she had ordered the planting of a smaller, more modest version in the garden behind Darcy House in London.
It had been established for many years now and had grown every bit as lovely as its country counterpart.
The delicate pink and pale yellow blossoms of early spring were already unfurling, filling the garden with pastel color.
Mrs. Bennet knew from the experience of previous years that they smelled as heavenly as they looked, but her window remained firmly closed against winter's lingering nip, not yet driven away entirely by spring's mild breezes.
Twenty, even as few as ten years ago, the chill would not have bothered her.
Now it settled into her aging bones and stayed there if given half a chance.
Mrs. Bennet took precautions against this; one such, in the form of a thick knitted wool rug, was spread over her knees presently.
She drew it up higher over her lap and leaned to tuck it around her feet more securely.
Darcy House was well insulated and tight against draughts, and behind her the fire was built to blazing height, but even the tightest house could have small eddies of air currents.
Longbourn had been draughty well into spring, she remembered.
She barely even missed her old home these days, as she was very comfortable with Lizzy and Darcy.
They had both been incredibly kind to her ever since Mr. Bennet had gone to his reward.
She had been so deep in grief and shock that she had been unable to think or decide anything for herself.
Mr. Darcy, such a handsome and masterful man, had stepped right in and taken care of everything that Charles Bingley had not yet done.
Lizzy herself had been the greatest comfort in Mrs. Bennet's affliction, patient and kind and sympathetic.
The hedgerows would never be the elderly widow's lot.
Every one of her girls had had the good sense to marry kind and generous men, and all except Mary had managed to find husbands who were also wealthy.
Lizzy and Darcy were the ones who had ultimately taken her in, however.
Darcy could well afford it, with an income of ten thousand pounds a year, and no mother could ever ask for more solicitous or considerate a daughter.
Lizzy constantly studied to make her mother's life easier and more enjoyable.
When Mrs. Bennet's knees had begun to stiffen and ache with arthritis, Elizabeth had entirely redone two of the rooms on the ground floor of Darcy House.
One of the back parlors, decorated all in roses to match the view out the window, had adjoined Elizabeth's own study.
Both of these rooms had been promptly dedicated to Mrs. Bennet's own use, her bed and favorite furniture borne carefully downstairs by footmen and delivered into the former rose parlor.
Elizabeth had ordered her desk removed, and her office had been transformed into a sitting room for her mother.
Mrs. Bennet was deeply grateful. It was much easier for her now to get to the dining room and the drawing room and the main sitting room, or outside to the garden or even the carriage, on the increasingly rare occasions she went out.
She was thankful that Lizzy had forgiven her mother’s foolish anger over the failed engagement to Mr. Collins.
Mrs. Bennet remembered, dimly, that she had been absolutely furious; she had wanted, above all else, to keep Longbourn in the family.
Lizzy had been in the right of it, though.
Mr. Collins was a small prize in the grand scheme of things.
Really, Elizabeth had been very wise to bide her time for a rich husband.
Attracting Mr. Darcy was quite the cleverest thing she had ever done!
Life was pleasant indeed when one was very wealthy, even with aching knees.
The door opened, and she looked up and smiled broadly.
“My dear girls,” she cried out, “come in, my dears, come in!”
Her two eldest granddaughters, Susannah Darcy and Arabella Bingley, obediently entered the room arm in arm.
They were a study in contrasts, with Susannah inheriting her mother’s dark hair and eyes, while Arabella took after her mother, Jane, with blonde tresses and blue eyes.
In Mrs. Bennet’s view, Arabella was the handsomer of the two, but they were both very beautiful, and Susannah had the advantage of a larger dowry than her cousin, though Arabella’s was also a handsome prize that would help her attract eligible suitors.
“We thought you might like to see our evening gowns, Grandmamma,” Susannah said, and Mrs. Bennet immediately shifted her attention to the girls’ dresses. Susannah wore soft green, and Arabella soft blue, and both were exquisite, absolutely splendid.