Epilogue #2
Adrian cleared his throat. “As much as I am enjoying this display of devotion, I feel I should mention that Sir Edmund shall probably appear on deck within the next few minutes to deliver his seventeenth lecture on proper deportment when meeting the king and queen.”
Elizabeth laughed, a bright, genuine sound that made Darcy’s spirits lift. “Only the seventeenth? I thought we were on at least the twentieth by now.”
“I may have lost count,” Adrian admitted. “The man is thorough.”
“He is terrified I shall embarrass him,” Elizabeth said.
“Impossible,” Darcy said immediately. “You could never embarrass anyone.”
The ship sailed on, Thurnia drew closer, and Darcy found himself watching Elizabeth as she and Adrian traded teasing barbs. This was one of the many traits he loved about her, this easy humour, this refusal to take herself too seriously even now.
She would be a wonderful princess. Not because she had been trained for it, not because she had royal blood, but because she was fundamentally, essentially good.
The palace was clearly visible now. Somewhere in that grand building, a king and queen were waiting to meet their granddaughter. Somewhere in those halls, Elizabeth would be welcomed not as Miss Bennet of Longbourn, but Princess Elizabeth of Thurnia.
But she would still be Elizabeth. Still brave and clever and impossibly stubborn. Still the woman who had faced down highwaymen and fraudulent envoys and every obstacle thrown in her path with nothing but wit and determination.
Still the woman he loved.
And in two months she would be his wife. Their wedding trip would consist of touring the entire island nation of Thurnia, but they would do so together.
Darcy allowed himself a small smile at the thought. For Elizabeth, he could face anything. Highwaymen. Laudanum in his tea. Freezing weather.
Even a palace full of Thurnian royalty. Even a wedding that would undoubtedly be far grander than either of them wished. Even a future that was still uncertain and strange and utterly unlike anything he had imagined for himself.
The palace loomed before them, all gleaming stone and soaring towers—a monument to inherited power and ancient bloodlines.
But Darcy knew what those walls could not teach and those titles could not grant: that true nobility was not worn like a crown but lived like a choice, made new each day.
Elizabeth had taught him that. And he would never forget it.
Keep the Romance Coming
Darcy and Elizabeth: two sharp minds, one enduring love.
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What’s Next
The Marriage Trap, a regency D someone had to nurse the others, and who else was there?
Even Mrs. Hill had taken to her bed at last. When everyone was finally recovered, her body had exacted its price, and she had collapsed before them like a fallen meringue.
It would have been humiliating had she been well enough to care.
“You are thinking again,” Mrs. Morgan said. “I can see it in your face.”
“I am. About pride,” Elizabeth said. “And its consequences.”
“A worthy subject for contemplation. Most people should think more carefully about their pride.”
“Including you?”
This was met with a tiny smile. “I have no pride. Only standards.” Mrs. Morgan rose from the bench with a decisive movement. “Though I will say this. Pride is a luxury for those who can afford it. A woman without fortune had better trade hers for something more practical.”
Elizabeth might have asked what that something was, but she suspected the answer was a husband, and she did not feel recovered enough to argue about husbands before breakfast.
“Come,” Mrs. Morgan said. “We shall walk to the end of the promenade and back. The physician said exercise was beneficial.”
The end of the promenade was at least a mile away. Though she hated herself for it, Elizabeth was not certain she could make it there and back again. “The physician said gentle exercise. He specifically emphasised the word gentle.”
“Walking is gentle. I am not proposing we scale the cliffs.”
Elizabeth allowed herself to be helped to her feet, suppressing the automatic protest that she did not need assistance.
She did need it. That was the galling truth.
The fever that had swept through Longbourn in late May had afflicted her mother and all four sisters in succession.
Elizabeth had nursed them all, sitting by bedsides and spooning broth into reluctant mouths until the last of them was recovered.
And then she had been taken ill herself. And her body, ungrateful thing, still betrayed her at the most inconvenient moments.
“Are you out of breath?” Mrs. Morgan said, as they began their slow progress along the promenade.
She was not; it was a hopeful sign. “I am only thinking about how tired I am of being tired.”
“That is at least a productive thought. The more you walk, the less tired you shall become.”
But not today, Elizabeth thought. Today walking would make her very tired indeed.
They strolled in comfortable silence for several minutes, past the tall lodging-houses that faced the water and the bathing machines that stood ready for hardier souls than Elizabeth.
A few figures dotted the Parade even at this hour—an elderly gentleman taking his constitutional, a pair of sailors with their collars turned up against the wind, a maidservant hurrying with a covered basket, and a nurse with two sleepy children trudging at her heels.
It was quite early and the crowds that thronged to Ramsgate this time of year were still at home.
Elizabeth preferred it this way. Crowds required energy she did not possess. Conversation required wit she could not currently summon. Here, in this grey and quiet morning, she could breathe, walk, and watch the waves without anyone expecting anything more from her.
It was, she reflected, rather wonderful.
The houses further along the seafront were grander than anything in Meryton, tall, pale-fronted things with iron railings and wide windows designed to capture the sea light.
Some were clearly let lodgings for the season, houses for people with means.
Elizabeth tried to imagine what it must be like to take rooms by the sea as easily as one took tea.
Papa had incurred significant expense to engage Mrs. Morgan and to send Elizabeth here to recover.
He had not even complained about it, which she knew indicated the depth of his concern.
“You are quiet,” Mrs. Morgan said.
“I am thinking about money. It is a vulgar subject, but illness makes one practical.”