Epilogue
The chapel at Longbourn had never been so full.
Elizabeth stood on the porch with her father, listening to the low murmur of people settling into pews, the occasional laugh, their rustling settling into a quiet that meant everyone had arrived and was waiting.
She had expected to be nervous. She had been nervous about considerably less significant occasions, and this was the most significant occasion of her life, yet what she felt, wearing her mother's pearl earrings and her sister Mary's carefully pressed ribbon, was pure, undiminished joy and anticipation.
She had taken her time. She had balanced the Longbourn accounts twice through winter and once through spring, had taught Lydia the rudiments of household economy and Kitty the basics of estate correspondence, had spent long evenings with her mother discussing the kitchen garden and longer evenings with her father watching him become, gradually and with occasional setbacks, a man who came out of his study for dinner.
She had called on Charlotte every week and received reciprocating calls that were increasingly brightened by mentions of a certain colonel whose visits to Lucas Lodge had become, Charlotte maintained, entirely incidental.
The hay was in, and the wheat stood tall and gold across the home fields—a harvest richer than any Longbourn had seen in years, and only weeks from the scythe.
It would be enough, this time, to clear the loan from Uncle Gardiner and carry them through the winter besides.
Longbourn was not precisely flourishing yet, but it was on its way.
More importantly, Elizabeth had let Fitzwilliam Darcy court her. It was the best decision she had made.
She thought about the girl who had written letters that were never sent, first curious, then furious.
She thought about the young woman who had managed an estate on her own and refused a man she did not love and knocked on a door at the top of a staircase because she needed to know the truth.
She thought about all the versions of herself that had existed between those two points, and she felt an unexpected tenderness toward all of them, including the ones who had been wrong about things.
She had been right about Robbie.
Her father extended his arm to her. “Ready, Lizzy?”
“Quite,” she said.
They crossed the threshold together, her father looking hale and considerably less sardonic than Elizabeth had ever seen him—the result of eight months under Mama’s management.
She smiled at the family and friends who filled the pews—Charlotte and the Lucases, the Philipses, the Gardiners, and her Hertfordshire neighbors.
The chapel was full of everyone she loved and some people she was still deciding about.
Mr. Bingley, ever cheerful and amiable, sat with the Grays.
Beside him was Miss Bingley. Elizabeth did not look at her for long, but it was enough to observe Miss Bingley's misery behind the composure she worked to maintain.
The woman who had treated a secretary with derision was now watching that same man marry as Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley, one of the most prominent gentlemen in Derbyshire, while she sat in the fifth pew with the knowledge that she would never boast an intimate friendship with him or his bride.
Elizabeth found this justice extremely satisfying.
In the third row sat Mr. Schweitzer and Anne, who had made the journey from their estate.
Elizabeth knew their presence gave Robbie more pleasure than he would easily express.
She caught Anne's eye as she passed and smiled warmly.
Mrs. Reynolds, too, was present. She sat with the Schweitzers and her son and dabbed her eyes freely, though more discreetly than the mother of the bride.
Mama sat in the front pew, already weeping. Jane sat beside her, with the rest of their family, her posture very correct. Her smile required some effort, but it was more genuine than it had been in November. Elizabeth hoped it would continue to improve.
Noticeably absent was Mr. Wickham. Of him she thought only briefly—Fleet Prison had received him with the efficiency of an institution that has dealt with many similar cases. It was impervious to his charm, deaf to his promises. She did not think of him again.
Colonel Fitzwilliam stood at the altar beside Robbie.
He had been the obvious choice, the only choice, and had benefited from the proximity of Meryton to Purvis Lodge, spending every moment on leave in Hertfordshire.
Robbie had considered purchasing the property for him, but the generous sum the late Mr. Darcy had settled on his favorite nephew, knowing well how the good colonel would put his cousin’s happiness before his own gain, would allow Richard to settle anywhere he—and Charlotte—chose.
And then her groom. He stood at the altar rail, watching her.
She saw his composure give way under the swell of feeling visible on his face.
She had learned to read his expressions and suspected she would spend the rest of her life learning to read him ever more accurately, a skill she looked forward to acquiring.
Eyes fixed on Robbie, she spoke her vows clearly, meaning every word.
Afterward, they streamed into the churchyard under the warm July sun to Longbourn, where Mrs. Hill would have the wedding breakfast ready.
Longbourn roses bloomed along the south wall, the fields beyond them heavy and golden with the summer's work.
Elizabeth leaned close to her husband. “I have been thinking.”
“A dangerous activity,” he said, earning a smile at his use of her father's joke.
“Everyone will call you Darcy now,” she said, looking up at him. “They will wonder why I call you Robbie.”
His lips twitched. “Let them wonder. We will know.”
She tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. Her husband looked at her with the slow smile that reminded her how much he cherished her. He would have given up Pemberley for her, which was precisely why she could not allow it. She loved him too much to make him choose.
“Robbie,” she said, quietly, just to see his reaction.
And Fitzwilliam Darcy, who was also Daniel Robinson, took her in his arms and kissed her as though he had finally found his home. And Elizabeth, who had spent her whole life wishing she had a choice, kissed him back with a whole heart that chose him.