Epilogue
by Jeff Bigler
Pemberley, Derbyshire
It is a truth universally acknowledged that couples who bring out the best in each other are very likely to enjoy a happy marriage.
This was undoubtedly true for Darcy and Elizabeth.
She awoke peacefully in his arms, where nothing could be more certain than the love between them that had grown beyond anything she could ever have imagined.
When their eighteen-year-old daughter Emily came down to breakfast at nearly ten o’clock, she found Darcy and Elizabeth perusing the papers over buttered toast and coffee.
Their other children had already withdrawn to their respective occupations: Edward and James were out riding, and Sarah sat in the music room, diligently improving her skill upon the pianoforte.
Of their daughters, Emily was most like her mother, with auburn curls and a twinkle in her eyes that accompanied her clever wit.
“You are up later than usual,” observed Elizabeth.
“I slept ill last night. I was thinking of what Lord Buttermore said to me at the assembly.”
Darcy turned towards Emily, causing the silver strands of his hair to glisten in the rays of sunlight that streamed through the window.
“Lord Buttermore? Do you mean the Viscount Buttermore, the earl’s son?
I know that he can be clumsy, but do not hold that against him.
I made many graceless statements to your mother before and during our courtship. ”
“Yes,” Elizabeth chimed in with an expression that evoked the similarities between mother and daughter. “And many more since. But I have learnt that though his words may be awkward, his love for me is anything but.” She added with a smile. “I forgive him every time.”
“I am forever grateful that she does not hold them against me,” Darcy added.
“What did Lord Buttermore say to you?” asked Elizabeth.
“That I was not clever enough to hold his attention.”
“He never!”
“Well…he was speaking with his cousin. I promise that I was not eavesdropping—I was standing nearby and could not help overhearing. He also spent most of the evening at the side of the room, staring at me as if to find fault.”
Elizabeth gave Darcy an arch look. He returned it with a sheepish smile, part happy recollection, part apology.
She faced her daughter and said, “I suspect that he is fond of you.”
Emily stared incredulously. “What makes you say that? If that were so, should he not say things that would flatter me?”
Darcy chimed in. “He should. But much as I did at the same age, he needs to learn how. Furthermore, I suspect he does not yet know he admires you. He will realise it in time.”
“Well, I certainly do not admire him!” Emily huffed.
“For someone you do not esteem, you are certainly paying him a lot of mind,” noted Elizabeth. “Perhaps you are attempting to convince yourself that you do not like him?”
“You will never understand! I am sure your own courtship was perfect, and you never had to endure such a comment!”
Elizabeth laughed. “Our courtship was many things, and I am grateful for each of them because they brought me together with the best man of my acquaintance, but it was far from perfect.”
“Indeed,” said Darcy, “the actions by Lord Buttermore that you are decrying this morning are very much like mistakes that I made when your mother and I first met. If she had been any less stubborn, she would have given up on me long before she was ready to accept my proposal.”
“Sometimes during our courtship, when either of us was especially vexed by the other, we would find solace in a book. You will find this surprising, but I have found that romantic novels were a particularly effective means of escaping from those thoughts. We have a fairly large collection of those in the library. But do not stay up too late reading. Remember that Aunt Jane and your cousins arrive tomorrow.”
At dinner, the family celebrated the twentieth anniversary of Darcy and Elizabeth’s wedding.
There were fresh daffodils on the table, and the main course included roasted goose, stewed parsnips, and early asparagus from Pemberley’s hothouse.
When Darcy entered the dining room, Elizabeth took up a fencing stance, pointed her outstretched arm at her husband as if it were a foil, and said playfully, “En garde, Mr Darcy.”
Darcy grinned and responded in kind. When Elizabeth scored the first touch, he drew her into his arms and kissed her.
“After all these years, you are still lovely in that yellow sprigged muslin.” He kissed her again on her forehead and added, “I do hope Emily can see past Lord Buttermore’s awkwardness. ”
“Yes, he is much like you at that age. And you turned out to be the best of men hiding behind the worst of exteriors. We shall have to see whether Lord Buttermore is able to live up to your example.”
After dinner, they retired to the library.
“Dearest, loveliest Elizabeth, every day I count myself more fortunate that you saw past that exterior. Being your husband is the greatest privilege that this Earth has to offer. I cannot even begin to name all of the ways in which my life has been enhanced by having you in it.”
“My darling Fitzwilliam, you are not the only privileged one in our marriage. I, too, could never have imagined that it was possible to be so happy for so long. I am beyond grateful that we persevered through the trials that were thrust upon us all those years ago.”
“There were times when I was certain that I was mad,” replied he. “But I am glad to have been mad alongside you. I have cherished our moments of shared madness.”
Elizabeth sang:
“To see my Tom of Bedlam,
Ten thousand years I’ll travel.
Mad Maudlin goes on dirty toes
To save her shoes from gravel.”
Darcy joined in the chorus:
“Still I sing, bonny boys, bonny mad boys
Bedlam boys are bonny
For they all go bare and they live by the air
And they want no drink or money.”
The song had a dozen more verses, but Darcy found something much better to occupy Elizabeth’s lips.
When they finally broke apart, he asked, “All of that is safely locked in the past. Shall we enjoy the present with my reading aloud to you?”
“That would be wonderful, Fitzwilliam. Do you have something in mind?”
“I have found a novel that I believe we shall both enjoy. It is called Northanger Abbey.” He began:
“No one who had ever seen Catherine Morland in her infancy would have supposed her born to be an heroine.”