Epilogue #2
Mrs. Bennet, once established beneath Netherfield’s roof, found it impossible not to take control of the household.
She rearranged rooms, countermanded servants, protested nursery hours, wept over menus, objected to draughts, and declared that if Jane meant to be mistress of a great house, she must learn to be much more decisive while simultaneously not contradicting her mother.
Bingley bore it with heroic cheerfulness until Jane, who could endure much for the sake of peace, confessed one evening that she had begun dreaming of hiding in the dairy.
The next month, Bingley purchased a small but lovely estate in Derbyshire, not twenty miles from Pemberley.
Mrs. Bennet declared herself abandoned for three weeks, then discovered that being mistress of Netherfield suited her better than she had imagined.
Kitty remained with her until her engagement to Samuel Lucas, and the Gardiner children—Edward, Sophie, and Thomas—were raised under Elizabeth’s and Darcy’s careful oversight though they lived chiefly at Netherfield.
A proper governess was engaged, accounts were protected, guardianship duties observed, and their inheritance preserved with more wisdom than their poor father could have hoped in his last hour.
They had grown into intelligent, affectionate, well-adjusted young people.
Edward Gardiner was now apprenticed in a mercantile house by his own choice, determined to honor his father’s name in trade rather than flee from it.
Sophie Gardiner read everything she could find and intended, so she said, to marry no one who did not possess a library superior to Pemberley’s, which Darcy told her would narrow the field dangerously.
Thomas, the youngest, had shown a gift for figures that made Mr. Philips beam whenever it was mentioned.
Their inheritance had not spoiled them. If anything, the memory of how it had come to them made them careful.
“And Charlotte?” Jane asked, as though reading Elizabeth’s thoughts as easily as ever. “Will she be traveling for the wedding?”
A few years after Elizabeth’s marriage, Charlotte had accepted an invitation to Pemberley. She had come weary in spirit, sensible as ever, and half resigned to being the useful unmarried daughter at Lucas Lodge for the remainder of her life.
Then she met Mr. Ashton, the curate of Kympton.
He was neither rich nor handsome in any extraordinary way, but he possessed good sense, real kindness, a quiet humor, and a deep respect for Charlotte’s mind.
When the old rector died and Mr. Ashton received the living, he proposed with very little drama and a great deal of sincerity.
Charlotte accepted him, and Elizabeth had never seen her friend look more at peace than she had on the day she became Mrs. Ashton of Kympton.
“Yes, and they are taking their little girl,” Elizabeth said. “Charlotte tells me that their daughter Maria has begun asking questions about everything and will no doubt require the entire staff at Lucas Lodge to justify their existence.”
Jane laughed. “Charlotte must be delighted.”
“She says she is exhausted. That is nearly the same thing, with a child of spirit.”
A burst of shrieks came from the lawn. Both sisters looked out at once, but the shrieks turned out to be triumphant rather than injured.
Darcy stood in the meadow holding a rescued bonnet high out of reach while Bennet Darcy attempted to explain, with great dignity, why the bonnet had been necessary to their expedition.
Bingley was laughing so hard he had to sit upon the low wall.
Jane’s expression softened as she watched her husband. “I am glad we came to Derbyshire.”
“So am I.”
Jane had four children now and another expected before winter.
Bingley adored them all with exactly the same openhearted delight he had once brought to every new acquaintance.
He remained perhaps too easily persuaded by enthusiasm, but Jane had grown steadier in expressing her wishes, and together they were as happy as Elizabeth had ever hoped they might be.
Their estate, though smaller than Pemberley, was cheerful, well-managed, and frequently invaded by cousins.
Georgiana lived only a few miles away, having married a neighboring landowner after several years of gaining confidence, refusing two unsuitable offers, and discovering that shyness did not prevent discernment.
She had three children, a peaceful home, and a pianoforte in every house she visited if Darcy had anything to say about it.
Her laugh came more readily now. She still had quiet days, but fear no longer governed them.
Richard had married a witty widow with two sons and enough spirit to manage him beautifully. He called often, complained that peaceful country life was ruining his reputation, and spent half his visits teaching the children improper marching songs until Elizabeth banished him from the nursery.
Lady Catherine had never become easy, exactly, but she had softened where Anne was concerned.
Anne, freed at last from being preserved like a fragile relic, visited Pemberley often with Georgiana and eventually found quiet happiness in remaining unmarried by choice, dividing her time between Rosings, charitable work, and the occasional astonishingly sharp letter to Darcy about improvements he ought to consider.
Lady Catherine objected to most things on principle, then permitted them in practice.
As for Wickham, there was little to say.
He had died in prison three years after his arrest. Between the forgery, his debts, and the many complaints that surfaced once he no longer appeared protected by charm and connection, there had never been any true prospect of release.
Elizabeth had pitied the wasted life in an abstract Christian way, but she had not mourned him.
Some men were not tragic because they lacked opportunity.
Some men were tragic because they were given every opportunity and chose ruin each time.
Darcy never spoke of him unless necessary.
Georgiana spoke of him not at all.
That was best.
A knock came at the breakfast room door, and Mrs. Thompson entered with a fresh pot of tea.
She had come to Pemberley with Elizabeth as her lady’s maid and, when Mrs. Reynolds at last retired to a comfortable cottage near Lambton, Mrs. Thompson had taken her aunt’s place as housekeeper.
No one could have done it better. She was firm, warm, efficient, and so devoted to Pemberley that Darcy once said she guarded the linen cupboards with more vigilance than some men guarded the Treasury.
“Thank you, Mrs. Thompson,” Elizabeth said.
Mrs. Thompson’s smile remained affectionate despite the dignity of her office. “Mr. Darcy asked me to say the children have discovered a frog, ma’am, and he believes Master Bennet means to adopt it.”
Jane covered her mouth.
Elizabeth sighed. “Of course he does.”
“Mr. Darcy says he has explained that frogs do not care for nurseries.”
“Has the frog accepted the reasoning?”
“I believe the frog escaped before the matter was settled.”
“Wise creature.”
Mrs. Thompson’s smile deepened before she withdrew.
Elizabeth looked again out the window. Darcy was returning now with one daughter on his back, one son at his side, and three Bingley children trailing behind him like a victorious army.
Bennet Darcy walked a little ahead, his expression solemn.
He had lost the frog but gained a story, and that, Elizabeth suspected, was almost as good.
Jane reached across the table and touched Elizabeth’s hand.
“Are you happy, Lizzy?”
Elizabeth turned from the window.
The question might once have required thought.
Happiness, in girlhood, had seemed a bright and distant thing—dependent upon chance, fortune, affection, and perhaps a little rebellion.
She had not imagined this precise life. She could never have foreseen Roman gold beneath a flooded London cellar, a wounded estate in Derbyshire, a shy sister who needed love, a proud man who learned to speak his heart, or a future built from both duty and delight.
Yet here she was.
Pemberley restored and alive around her.
Jane near enough for morning visits. Georgiana safe and beloved.
Her sisters settled in their various ways.
The Gardiner children grown with sense and affection.
Her mother still impossible but comfortable.
Her father remembered with tenderness rather than only regret.
Her husband outside, laughing now as their daughter stole his hat.
Elizabeth smiled.
“Yes,” she said. “Entirely.”
Jane’s eyes filled, for Jane was still Jane.
Elizabeth squeezed her hand, then rose as the noise in the hall grew louder.
A moment later, the door burst open and the children poured in, all talking at once.
Darcy followed last, his hair wind-tossed, his coat marked with evidence of outdoor adventure, and his eyes seeking hers before anything else.
“Elizabeth,” he said, with the helpless dignity of a man outnumbered by children. “I regret to inform you that our son wishes to name a frog after my grandfather.”
“Rubert?” she asked.
Darcy’s mouth twitched.
Bennet looked up earnestly. “It is a very fine name for a frog, Mama.”
Elizabeth met Darcy’s eyes across the happy chaos of children, sisters, tea, mud, laughter, and sunlight.
“A very fine name indeed,” she said.
Darcy laughed then, warmly and freely, and Elizabeth thought—as she had thought a thousand times in ten years—that Pemberley had become everything she had hoped, and more than she had known to ask for.