Epilogue
Lord and Lady Matlock sent their congratulations, together with those of Lord and Lady Milton.
Marianne and Harry had found that they suited each other very well—very well indeed.
Richard, safely at Horse Guards, away from any turbulence on the continent, had yet to find his lady of fifty thousand a year.
I had noticed, though, that he and Lady Whats-her-name, the daughter of the duke who invested in the Derbyshire-Sheffield Canal Company, seemed entirely too much at ease with each other when she accompanied him to dinner at Darcy House.
Certainly, I would never poke out my tongue at the son of an earl—likely, duke’s daughters are not subject to the same rules of propriety.
Lady Catherine was extremely indignant at our marriage, and would surely have applied to have it annulled were it not for Fitzwilliam and me marrying before our parents.
Her reply to Mr. Darcy’s letter, which announced our nuptials, sent him language so very abusive that for some time all intercourse was at an end.
But even she found that her daughter Anne was becoming increasingly tiresome, with her demands and petulance.
Both were invited to Pemberley, but only Lady Catherine accepted, glad to leave her daughter at Rosings.
Mr. Collins never accepted that he could change his name from Collins to Bennet by petitioning the College of Arms. He had been advised that he should take the name of his wife, and became fixated on marrying either myself or Mrs. Bennet.
Naturally, that avenue was closed to him when Mama and I became Darcys.
Thus, a year and a day after he took up his inheritance under the entail, Longbourn was lost to the Crown—it could only pass to a Bennet of the blood; he was, due to the mesalliance of a forebear, not a Bennet.
He remained at Hunsford, totally under the thumb of Anne de Bourgh, for it was she who now paid the tithes for the Hunsford living.
Daily, he could be seen scurrying between the parsonage and the great house, to take tea or, more often than propriety would warrant, dinner with Miss de Bourgh.
They had found in each other a willing ear for the misfortunes that I, Mrs. Elizabeth Darcy, had inflicted upon them: had I married Mr. Collins, then certainly Longbourn would have been his; and, in her delusion, she would have married her cousin, Fitzwilliam.
* * *
With the Philipses, we were always on the most intimate terms. Fitzwilliam, as well as I, really loved them.
It was Uncle Philips who had suggested that Mama and me make a journey to the Lakes; and it was he who had discovered our path to happiness—that we could legally marry, if only fifteen minutes before Mr. Darcy and Mrs. Bennet.
* * *
Fanny Gardiner—now Mrs. Darcy—took her tour to the Continent, together with her daughters, her son, her grandchildren, and assorted husbands, nurses, maids, and valets—enough to charter a small armed brig to sail through the Pillars of Hercules into the Mediterranean.
After visiting all the principal places, stopping at Gibraltar, Malta, Sicily, and Constantinople, we forwent the Levant and made our way to Greece.
The weather was exceedingly warm, and after an early morning tour of the Acropolis in Athens, we made our way back to our rooms, intending to relax until the heat of the day gave way to the cool of evening.
“Lizzy, will you walk with me?” Fitzwilliam took my hand and led me towards the wharves. His lips held his secret smile. There was no point in asking, for it was his surprise, as he had so often diverted me over the past ten years of our marriage.
We clambered into a small skiff; he took the helm.
I laughed. “Whatever are you about?”
He merely smiled; we cast off and headed along the shore, past a small fleet of fishing boats, until we had left behind any trace of civilisation.
After half an hour, he turned the small boat into a sandy inlet, running it up onto the beach, then leaping ashore and hauling it further above the rippling waves.
“Come, Elizabeth, jump into my arms.” With a giggle, I fell rather than jumped; he caught me around the waist. Memories of the Lakes and Derbyshire swirled around me: Darcy holding me on Lingmell Col; lifting me into the landau; carrying me up the stairs at Pemberley—all five and twenty steps.
“Do you recall the statue of Diana in the folly?”
“Oh dear.” I flushed. “My darling, I was ten years younger. Surely, after four children, my breasts have sagged—and my waist. See, the striae gravidarum from when I carried Amelia, so large—ten pounds—but so beautiful!”
He carried me above the waterline onto the grassy bank beyond the beach, gently pulling my muslin shift over my head, then removing his shirt and trousers.
“Did I not say, Elizabeth, that we would journey to Greece, and in the warmer months, I would accompany you to ensure your safety? Methinks, here, we are in a very perilous place.”
When did my petticoat slip around my ankles?
Those dark, intense eyes searched my own. “To me, Diana’s beauty will always be overrated—for she cannot compare to the most remarkable woman of my acquaintance.”
Did I lean into Fitzwilliam’s embrace—the warmth of the Greek sun across my back, my lips upon his? So much sweeter than wine. My nakedness as unrepentant as that of Diana.
Now, Dian, from thy altar do I fly,
And to imperial Love, that god most high,
Do my sighs stream.
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* THE END *