Epilogue
“Master John, what do you think you are doing with that giant branch?”
“I am getting ready for the bonfire tonight, Miss Worsley. Papa says we need all sizes of logs.”
“But surely there is not to be a bonfire in the house!”
“‘Course not, Miss Worsley. I am taking it to the gravel drive, where it is safe to build a bonfire.” The boy, having just turned nine, had recently realised that he knew more than most adults, and certainly more than his nursery governess.
He laughed at her ridiculous suggestion of a bonfire in the house.
“No, you do not go to the gravel drive by way of the house!” Miss Worsley took a hold of the boy’s shoulders, turned him sharply around and steered him around the kitchen garden and to the gravel drive without dragging bark and leaves across the elegant tiles that made up the flooring of Pemberley’s entrance hall.
Two other Darcys, Anne and James, followed behind with their much smaller sticks and branches. Everyone put their contribution on the growing mountain of fuel.
“Let’s find some more!” Anne said, running through the kitchen garden and into a copse of trees.
A maid appeared. “Miss Worsley, Mrs Darcy asked that I attend to you because she does not want the children to run you ragged. Should I stay here and supervise the wood collection while you go back to supervising the bonfire pile?
“Yes, thank you.” Miss Worsley caught the mistress’s eyes, where she stood on a balcony watching over the scene. “Thank you,” she mouthed, and she smiled to see the mistress nod and smile.
And then the master joined her on the balcony, and Miss Worsley instantly dropped her eyes. Because when the master and the mistress were even close to being near one another…well, all the servants were very adept at dropping their gazes at a moment’s notice.
Upstairs, Elizabeth retreated from the balcony and closed the filmy drapes, giving her and her beloved husband privacy without cutting the light. “The children are preparing for tonight’s bonfire,” she said.
“I rather think I will practice my bonfire-lighting skills now, so as to be ready tonight,” Fitzwilliam said.
“Believe me, dearest,” Elizabeth protested, “you have been lighting things up nonstop for two days. I believe you are quite adept.”
He sighed and sank onto the bed. “I still cannot believe I had to leave you and the children for six nights. Shall that scoundrel ever cease to be a thorn in my side?”
“I am sorry, Will. I should not tease you so, not when last week was so terrible for you.”
“I had to see to things myself; you understand, do you not?”
“I certainly understand,” Elizabeth said, and she hugged him hard, peppering his back with little kisses.
Her husband had had to ride to London to protest the decision to allow prisoner George Wickham the right to leave Marshalsea one night per week so he could—he said—attend to his dying mother.
Darcy took documents to prove to the court that Wickham’s mother was long dead, and he investigated for only six hours before he turned up a report that Wickham had seduced a 15-year-old girl during his first night out of gaol.
Thanks to his swift actions, and his cutting the payments he had been making to ensure a more comfortable cell for his old enemy, George Wickham was now on high alert.
On paper, there was a supposed guarantee that he would never be released again, for any reason.
And Wickham looked suitably miserable about his new, disgusting cell.
“You checked the visiting logs, as usual?” Elizabeth checked.
“I did. No Gouldings or Bennets have ever visited.”
They looked at one another briefly, each thinking about the fact that the beautiful blond Master Goulding looked more like Mr Wickham every year.
Of course, he looked a bit like Mr Bingley, too—his hair did have a reddish cast to it, unlike the pure gold that Wickham used to sport.
And the boy’s expressions and manner of speaking made him look just like his father of record, Mr Goulding.
“I had a letter from Jane today,” Elizabeth said.
“How is she, and her family?”
“She is very relieved that she is not expecting again.” Jane had six children—all boys—in nine and a half years of marriage. “All her news sounded perfect.”
“Sounded,” Fitzwilliam repeated. Speaking glances flashed between them. They always hoped that the glowing reports from the Gouldings were completely accurate, but they never quite managed to believe them.
“I popped in on Bingley one night I was in Town, as I hoped to,” Darcy said. “His wife is quite happy with motherhood; he, of course, is utterly besotted with his little girl.”
“I am glad to hear it. How are his sisters?”
“Caroline complains without pause, according to him. But she has some right to complain; her husband gambles far too much and pays her very little attention. According to Bingley, at least.”
“Well….” Elizabeth was never sure how to respond to news about Caroline. It was never good news. “How about Mr and Mrs Hurst?”
“They are moved into the manor house now and are excited that their son and daughter will have childhoods largely spent in the country.”
“That is nice to hear. I had a letter from Mary while you were gone. Catherine is nearing her confinement, and Mary is very satisfied with the community garden she started at the parsonage.”
“Very good.”
Elizabeth Darcy took a moment to admire her husband’s back. He still had all the muscles of a dedicated rider and swordsman, and she began to rub and squeeze his neck muscles where tension always seemed to reside.
As she rubbed her husband’s back, Elizabeth was thinking about her family with fondness.
Catherine had married a barrister; Mary, a vicar.
Both marriages seemed steady and drama-free.
Catherine would soon have her first child; Mary already had two, both daughters, after only three years of marriage.
Lydia was widowed. She had married a militia officer, and he had died only three months later.
She was now living in London with a friend of Georgiana’s; Lydia was too popular and active to be considered a poor relation, but she had little money of her own.
Every once in a while Elizabeth wondered if Lydia would ever remarry.
Her parents continued on the course they had set so long ago: her father enjoying his many books and her mother bragging incessantly about her daughters’ marriages.
“All five married,” she said with so much frequency, people had given up pointing out that, not only was Lydia a widow, she was in reality, if not in name, a paid companion of a rich widow.
Georgiana had finally married a year ago, choosing a young baron who adored music as much as she did. They seemed entirely blissful.
Elizabeth’s thoughts of family were overset when her husband suddenly turned and slipped his arms around her, cradling her as he pressed her into the bedding. “That backrub felt very, very good, Mrs Darcy. Now I should like to return the favour….”
Rubbing did occur. Many, many things occurred. Elizabeth and her Fitzwilliam would practice lighting a bonfire before nightfall, after all.