Epilogue
EPILOGUE
August 1817
“ T hey will arrive when they arrive,” Elizabeth said to her almost-five-year-old son, Hugh. “I cannot tell exactly when, because I do not know what time your cousins—and their parents—set out from Romsley Hall.”
Lord and Lady Bramwell and their three children were expected that day, as were Mr and Mrs Bingley and their two daughters. The three families intended to spend the next several weeks together, with yet more family joining them in the days to come. It had become a yearly tradition that as many of them as possible would meet either at Romsley Hall in Warwickshire, at Pemberley, or at Birch Park, the property Bingley had purchased four years ago, in part because it was less than twenty miles from Pemberley. Hugh, the elder of Elizabeth and Darcy’s two—soon to be three—children, enjoyed playing with his cousins, especially Bramwell and Rebecca’s son, Philip .
“Shall I take him to the nursery?” Georgiana asked. “Would you like that, Hugh? We could read a book or play a game. Your sister might be awake.”
Hugh jumped up and down to demonstrate his enthusiasm for this plan.
Elizabeth nodded, said, “Thank you,” and watched the pair leave the room, Hugh hopping like the rabbit they had seen during a walk earlier that day.
She chuckled, and sat on a chaise longue, stretching her legs in front of her, and rubbing her expanding belly. The new baby would be born in about two months, and she was particularly tired with this pregnancy, possibly because she had two little children who wanted and deserved their mother’s attention. Closing her eyes, she dreamt of the child growing inside of her, softly humming a tune, and feeling him or her squirm about. A short while later, she heard the door open. Without looking, she knew who it was: her beloved husband.
“Finished reviewing your correspondence?” she asked.
“I am.”
There was something in his tone, a certain sombreness, that made Elizabeth open her eyes. Observing him, she waited for him to continue. Darcy was still as handsome as the day they had met—more so, she thought—and her love for him had continued to deepen. It seemed that the more their lives became entwined—in part due to their children, but also because they knew each other so intimately—the stronger the bond between them had become. That was why she knew at once that something had disturbed him, but also that it was not necessarily bad news.
She patted the place next to her, silently inviting him to sit. There was hardly space for the two of them, but they managed. Darcy laid one arm across her shoulders, and his other hand rested near hers where he could feel their baby moving.
“What is it?” she asked.
He made a dismissive noise. “Where are Georgiana and the children?”
“She is with Hugh, and they were going to the nursery to see if Jenny is awake. Your sister will keep them occupied. What is it?” she repeated.
“One of my letters was from an old friend of mine, Richard Dawson. He is in Antigua, attempting to rid himself of some property he recently inherited. He saw Wickham.”
She covered his hand with hers and gave him an anxious look. “What did he say?”
Darcy shrugged. “Apparently, he is involved in some sort of business. Dawson did not explain what, exactly, but he implied it was nothing I would find objectionable.”
Meaning nothing that supported slavery, Elizabeth assumed.
“They spoke at length one evening. Dawson wrote that he mentioned me and Georgiana, perhaps wondering if Wickham intended to return to his wife, and that Wickham said it was better for her that he live abroad.”
“We can all agree on that,” Elizabeth muttered, old vexation adding harshness to her voice.
They had had little news of Mr Wickham since his departure from Netherfield in November 1811. As they had long assumed, people in their social circle, both in town and in the country, had learnt of Georgiana’s marriage, but although there were some whispers about improper behaviour and an elopement, they were faint. Perhaps because no one ever saw the couple together, it was easy to push the matter aside. None of the Darcys or their relations ever spoke of Mr Wickham, and, as much as possible, Elizabeth did not refer to Georgiana as ‘Mrs Wickham’; it could be awkward, however, since she could not rightly speak of her as Miss Darcy.
By the spring of 1812, Georgiana had substantially recovered, and she had removed from Romsley Hall to Pemberley, where she continued to live. She was a devoted aunt to her nephew and niece, and an excellent sister. Whatever she could do to help Elizabeth and Darcy, she did.
“Do I tell her?” he said. “Advise me, darling wife, as you so often do. You know I rely on your good sense. Especially when it comes to him, since my reason fails, and all I can think is how much I loathe him.”
Elizabeth was not sure that was entirely true. To be sure, Darcy’s sentiments towards his childhood friend were not positive, on the whole, but she did not believe he hated Mr Wickham; rather, he hated Mr Wickham’s actions.
She said, “I do not know that it would serve any purpose to tell her. If the picture your friend paints of Mr Wickham is accurate, then I am glad. If he has found success through honest labour, so much the better, so long as it is business that will keep him from returning to England.” She snuggled into Darcy’s arms, both of which he wrapped about her. “Georgiana is doing well. She has been for years. I have not heard her bemoan how her youthful error affects her choices in months, not since last year, and even then, she mentioned it once.”
There were undoubtedly moments of discomfort for Georgiana, the occasional party where people seemed to be gossiping about her more than was usual. Most people believed that Mr Wickham had soon regretted his impetuous marriage to a much younger wife, and he had left the country rather than continue in a situation that made him unhappy. In the spring of 1816, she had become infatuated with a young man, and it had led to some sorrow knowing she dared not risk even being his friend. If he returned her feelings—as Elizabeth believed he had—it would only result in heartbreak for both of them. Georgiana knew that she was free to enjoy society, and she laughed and danced as much as she liked, but she would always be a married lady. What caused her the greatest sadness was that she would never have children of her own—unless Mr Wickham died while she remained young enough. As much as he had injured her, she could not wish him dead.
On the other hand, Elizabeth often did. She felt terrible for it, but she would love for Georgiana to be free.
“I do not know if I can believe that Wickham is engaged in honest work, some career that is not self-serving,” Darcy said. “Or is it that he has earned my mistrust and no matter how much he might be attempting to be a better man, I will never accept it?”
“No one familiar with the particulars would blame you.”
Elizabeth sat up, patted his leg, and stood. After ringing the bell for refreshments, she and Darcy stood by the window and took in the view of the park.
“You were right when you claimed the good person he had been as a child was still inside him. It is the only explanation for his never even writing to ask for money. Just now, I recall racing him and Fitzwilliam along that path.” He pointed to indicate which he meant. “I am grateful that you were and that, as wicked as he was, as unconscionable as was his treatment of Georgiana, he did not…” He would not complete the statement, and she did not need him to. “I shall never forgive him for allowing his jealousy to turn to hatred, for adopting dissolute habits that left him desperate for money, but…it ease s some of my harsher feelings to believe he is trying to live a respectable life. It might do the same for my sister.”
Elizabeth caressed his cheek. “If you like, I shall tell her. But only if you promise to forget about Mr Dawson’s letter. In just hours, the house will be full of visitors, and you and I shall have little time together, especially with this one due to make an appearance in October.” She patted her rounded stomach.
“Is that your way of telling me you want me to kiss you, Mrs Darcy?” A slow smile took over his features.
She laughed. “It is, Mr Darcy. If your arms are long enough, hold me, kiss me, tell me how dearly you love me.”
He did exactly as she asked—and more.
April 1822
Darcy stood on the terrace that overlooked the Pemberley park, heedless of the cold spring wind. He stared at the paper in his hands. It contained news from a government official in Antigua of Wickham’s death. Apparently, his old friend had informed people that Darcy should be contacted if there were ever an emergency. Wickham had died honourably after suffering injuries at a plantation fire. He had rushed to assist when the alarm was raised, repeatedly running into buildings to rescue innocent women and children who were trapped by the flames and smoke.
His eyes closed, and his grip on the paper loosened, causing it to drift to the ground. He should not be affected by this news, certainly not feel sorrow. A sense of relief that Georgiana was free to go on with her life, to marry a worthy man and have a family of her own if that was what she wanted, that would be understandable, but not a wish—faint though it was—that he might have seen Wickham one more time, looked into his eyes and known the boy he had loved still existed.
A gentle hand rubbed his back, and he heard his beloved wife’s sweet voice. “Darcy, my darling, what has happened?”
Running a hand roughly over his eyes, he watched as Elizabeth retrieved then read the missive he had dropped. Her complexion became pale. Thrusting the paper into the pocket of her gown, she slipped her arms about him, holding him close, and rested her head against his chest.
“I am sorry,” she whispered.
He sniffed and shook his head. “This is stupid of me. He ceased being the person I valued long ago, and I have never, could never forgive him.”
Without releasing her hold on him, Elizabeth looked at him, her brow gently furrowed with sympathy. “I do not know that resenting him, not wanting him as part of your life, even being glad that he was so far away, means you cannot grieve him. Especially when it appears that he chose to live the last years of his life?—”
“As the person I always expected him to be,” Darcy interjected.
Her gentle fingertips brushed his cheeks, stopping the few tears that had escaped his eyes. “I do not know that I believe love ever dies. Mr Wickham taught me that. To be sure, it can be severely damaged, until it is buried under other feelings, perhaps making it all but impossible to revive. In the end, what are we left to conclude about him? I think a part of him still loved you and Georgiana. It was why, despite how he used her and sought to make you miserable, he failed, and it motivated him to return to that person you wanted him to be. You are permitted to love the memory of the boy he was and mourn him while also being relieved he is gone from our lives forever, especially our sister’s.”
“I prefer to think of my love for you ,” Darcy insisted. As had been the case since the day he met Elizabeth, he felt better, stronger, just being near her. “I do not know what I did to deserve you, and I do not know that I can ever explain how much I love you, not even after all the years we have been together, but I do love you.”
“I love you just as much,” she said. “There is nothing I would not do for you. Whatever you need from me now, however I can help you through this, I shall do it.”
He nodded, knowing she spoke the truth. She had demonstrated it often enough over the almost eleven years since they met. She lived her love, used it as a source of power to do whatever necessary to help those she considered her own, as she had demonstrated in the autumn of 1811. Once again, he kissed her, pouring every drop of appreciation and devotion he felt into it, and allowed her love to heal him yet again.