Epilogue
Mary
Eight months later
The letter from Hertfordshire was well-received.
Mary had read it at the breakfast table with pleasure.
Elizabeth and her husband Mr Darcy would stop in London on their way back to Pemberley.
They had been in Hertfordshire to see the Bennets, where they had also visited Netherfield to see Jane and Bingley as well.
The letter, written in Elizabeth’s hand, reported that they would half visit Thwaite House in the coming days before continuing north.
Mary had written back immediately to say she would be very glad to see them both.
She herself had returned from Hertfordshire only a week previously. A ten-day visit, made in August, which had been the first time she had been back since her and Mr Thwaite’s wedding.
Her parents had been pleased to see her, as always.
Her father had commented dryly that being married looked great on her and her mother had marvelled at the gowns Mary had brought with her from London as gifts.
She had then gone on to declare that Mary was the best daughter she had ever had, at which point Mary had pointed out that she had five.
Her mother had responded that that didn't matter.
She loved her children equally and each was the best to her in unique capacities.
Mary had returned to London with a full heart and had told Louis all of it over dinner. He had listened to her attentively and when she finished, he informed her that he was glad that she had spent time with her loved ones, but he was also glad she was home.
She, too, was glad to be back with him. Louis made her world brighter and filled with immense joy.
They had married in the small church in Meryron that Mary had attended for years faithfully.
Mr Bennet had given her away with speeches so affectionate that it had taken several attendees a moment to reconcile that with the witty Mr Bennet they all knew.
Mrs Bennet had sat in the front pew and wept through the entirety of the service, which was expected.
She declared afterwards that she had never been more proud in her life, a gesture so sweet it drew happy tears from Mary’s eyes.
She sat in the dressing room now, on the day Elizabeth and Mr Darcy were due to arrive, as her maid arranged her hair in a stylish bun.
The architect's notes on the dormitory ceiling she and Mr Thwaite were in the process of constructing rested in her hands, because the question of the east wing’s roof was not going to resolve itself simply because there were visitors.
She had been studying the notes all morning. The maid had, with admirable restraint, ceased to comment on it.
Louis appeared in the doorway.
His face was at ease and there was an unhurried air about him. He made it a habit every day to tell her he loved her and that she was the person he would always choose to spend his time with.
This softness that existed within him had not, across four months of marriage, reduced its effect on her to any measurable degree.
"Your sister will be here shortly," he said.
"I know. However, if we do not resolve the question of the dormitory roof before October, the builder will not have time—"
"It can be unresolved until the next day without consequence.
" He crossed the room with deliberateness, took her hand and squeezed it lovingly.
"Your sister, on the other hand, will be here for a few hours and gone in the afternoon.
I'm sure she has things she wishes to tell you and thus requires your full attention. "
Mary set the notes on the dressing table, heeding his advice.
"You're correct. Elizabeth and her husband deserve my undivided attention and I had best prepare for that."
"The architect trusts your insight. I'm sure whatever suggestion you provide will be valued."
"Thank you for saying that."
Louis grinned. "You're welcome, darling."
The maid excused herself once the hairdo was complete. Mary’s heartbeat picked up as her husband kissed her deeply. She doubted the feelings his affections stirred in her would ever diminish. Marrying him was the best choice she had ever made in her life.
She glanced at him for a moment in the dressing room mirror.
Together, they provided the domestic scene of a married young couple, enthralled by each other.
She had hoped for this, in the dedicated manner in which she aspired to her goals.
She had understood from early in their acquaintance that he was a man she could spend copious amounts of time in conversation with, which was her primary requirement.
But she had not quite anticipated how beautiful their union would be.
The ease of their interactions. The way the library at Thwaite House had become the room they worked in, sometimes together and sometimes separately, having found a correct configuration.
The way he brought her tea at half past ten without being asked, because he had noticed, without her telling him, that she ran out of concentration around half past ten without it.
He was exactly the husband she required, and she was the same for him, The two aspects had gradually unfurled due to months of conversation about Cowper, Paley, the proper interpretation of sacred music, and other topics.
The husband and wife pair stirred into movement and went downstairs together.
As they descended, Mary ruminated on life thus far.
The months since the season had been considerably more eventful than the season itself, which had already been eventful enough to constitute a reasonable lifetime's experience for most people.
Alice had been tried in August on the charges of unlawful detention, fraud and the circumstances of her husband's death had come to light in the course of the investigation.
James received a separate conviction. The proceedings had been conducted with an efficiency that Mary attributed to Mr Darcy's connections.
She had been called upon to give evidence once and had not attended subsequent hearings.
All she hoped was for the outcome to be satisfactory. The method was not her concern.
In the end, Alice and James were declared guilty and neither of them was a concern anymore.
Mary had discovered afterwards that she did not spend much time thinking about Alice. The resolution was adequate, and she had things of more interest to attend to.
The case of her biological family was rather different.
Her grandfather's first letter had arrived in July, formal in its contents.
He was in his late seventies, he informed her, in moderate but not alarming health.
He had known about Mary since the maid's confession and had spent subsequent years with the weight of that knowledge.
He wanted to know her. He also wished, he said in his second letter, to make right what his daughter had made wrong, to whatever extent that was possible from his current position.
Mary had written back telling him she was well and did not require either sympathy or restitution, but that she was willing to correspond and even visit.
After that, the correspondence had deepened.
Her grandmother had begun signing humorous postscripts for the letters written by her grandfather in a hand more energetic than his, which never failed to make Mary smile each time.
The existence of her half-brothers, Ian and Oakley had been the part she most approached with uncertainty, and which in turn produced the least of what she had feared.
They were fourteen and eleven, boys who had grown up under Alice's manipulative hold.
They had the watchful wariness of children who had learned to assess the emotional state of a room before making any statement or gesture.
Mary had recognised this, because she was familiar with having to minimise her own sense of self after being trapped by Alice.
She had met them, once, at their deceased father’s home in Wiltshire.
She had sat with them in the garden and discussed topics she thought might interest two boys of their ages, which had required some research in advance.
By the end of the afternoon, there was a degree of ease that reflected a promising beginning.
They had written to her since. lan's letters were short and factual; Oakley's were illustrated.
The trust had been released to her in its entirety upon her signature and a solicitor's confirmation.
But she had not signed until she was certain doing so would give Alice Haverford nothing.
Not a penny or a claim that could be subsequently taken advantage of.
Once satisfied, she had picked up the quill.
The money was now in the hands of her solicitor and was being disbursed in portions towards the orphanage that she and Louis had begun constructing.
The east wing was the current difficulty. She had strong opinions about it, and the architect had strong opinions that differed from hers. Louis's position was that they were both probably right about different aspects of the problem and a resolution would require another meeting.
She was looking forward to that.
The Darcy carriage arrived a couple of minutes later, which Mary had learned to attribute to Mr Darcy’s influence. Elizabeth could sometimes be prone to lateness, but never her husband. His relationship with punctuality was of the variety that treated the appropriate hour as a necessary event.
Elizabeth walked through the door with great enthusiasm. She embraced Mary deeply, making it clear that she missed her and was not going to obscure the fact with social composure, and Mary returned it with equal sincerity.
"You look well," Elizabeth said, stepping back to see her properly.
"I am, indeed."
"In fact, you look more than well."
"As do you, dearest sister, and I'm grateful for that."
Elizabeth laughed. Mr Darcy came in behind her and shook Louis's hand. They exchanged more pleasantries heading into the drawing room to sit.
The space reflected the tastes of its occupants. There were mahogany bookshelves that Mary had insisted upon, slightly bigger than the housekeeper considered necessary. The furniture was arranged just as Louis preferred, which was more oriented towards the fireplace.
"I'm happy to see you two again," Elizabeth said, sitting down. "It's always a pleasing sight."
"We ought to be the ones saying that. Elizabeth, you have always had a friendly personality, but it appears to have grown more after marriage."
"That’s because my life is extraordinarily good. I am, in fact, so nicely adjusted that I find it occasionally alarming, which Darcy here says is a characteristic response to contentment for people of my disposition. But I suspect he also finds it charming and is being too restrained to say so."
Mr Darcy’s mouth curved in a smile. "I shall make no further comments on that."
"His restraint," Elizabeth said after exchanging a loving look with her husband, "is one of his most reliable qualities.
It's difficult to know this until one grows closer to him.
He has opinions about everything, including, as I recently discovered, methods of soil drainage, and he expresses them all with the same degree of measured certainty. "
"The drainage assessment I suggested was correct," Mr Darcy said. "The roses in the garden at Pemberley have confirmed that."
"Speaking of the roses at Darcy’s family estate," Elizabeth continued, leaning forward to signal that she was arriving at a subject she distinctly enjoyed, "they are extraordinary.
I planted them months ago in a bed along the south-facing terrace at Pemberley, which had previously been uninspired shrubbery.
Darcy, whom I had not known to possess an affinity for gardens, proceeded to become deeply involved.
He spent an entire day lying on the floor with a measuring stick, determining the angle of drainage. The gardener was quite at a loss."
"The gardener's initial assessment would have resulted in root waterlogging by autumn. I expressed this. He adjusted the approach."
"But lying on the floor with a stick!" Elizabeth exclaimed, her eyes twinkling in affection. "I feel this detail is of utmost importance."
Louis made an amused sound. "I have similar difficulty with our gardener on the question of the east-facing beds. He maintains that the soil composition is adequate. I believe there is a drainage issue."
"You may be right," Mr Darcy replied. "The east-facing beds are especially susceptible in London."
"That is exactly —" Louis began, and the two of them went on to become absorbed in a conversation about London soil.
Mary was grateful for herself and her sisters. She was happy with Louis. Elizabeth and Jane were the same way with Mr Darcy and Mr Bingley. Even Lydia and Kitty were at present being courted by suitable gentlemen.
Her family was stronger than ever. Mary thought back to her younger self who often pondered if everything would ever turn out pleasantly for her.
She could answer that question now.
She reached across and placed her hand over Louis's. He covered it with his own without hesitation. Elizabeth threw her head back at a joke Mr Darcy made, then turned to Mary to say something humorous, and all was at peace.
THE END
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