Epilogue #2
“Happy that I did not have to wait any longer to be his wife.”
Jane laughed, and the sound made the years fold in upon themselves. Elizabeth saw her again at Longbourn, so young and frightened, and then here, older and safe, with daughters of her own and Bingley still looking at her as though he could not bear to look away.
A burst of laughter rose from the hall, followed by Lydia’s voice declaring that she had been made to wait long enough and that no one could expect an aunt of her importance to behave with restraint forever.
Jane squeezed Elizabeth’s hand. “It is nearly time.”
“So I gather.”
“Are you ready?”
Elizabeth smiled. “I have been ready since dawn, which is why everyone has wisely kept me away from the door.”
“That was Darcy’s idea.”
“Of course it was.”
Jane tilted her head. “He is as bad as you are.”
“Worse. He conceals it better.”
They went down together.
The great drawing room had been prepared with more flowers than Elizabeth had requested and exactly as many as Georgiana and Anne had quietly arranged.
Sunlight came through the tall windows, laying gold across the carpet and catching in the glass bowls of roses set on every table.
The room was already crowded, though in the family’s usual fashion no one seemed to believe crowding should prevent further movement.
Children slipped between adults. Bingley was attempting to hush one of his grandsons and failing because he was laughing.
Mary stood near the hearth, looking severe enough to restore order if necessary and pleased enough not to try yet.
Kitty was adjusting the shawl of a young niece who did not want it adjusted.
Lydia was insisting she should have been told first, whatever first meant in this context.
Darcy stood near the window with Thomas.
When Elizabeth entered, Darcy looked across the room at her, and the room changed, as rooms still did when he looked at her in that way.
Thirty years had not altered that. It had altered many things.
They had disagreed, grieved, raised children, buried parents, managed estates, endured illnesses, hosted wedding breakfasts, written letters, and sat through more family noise than the young Fitzwilliam Darcy would have believed survivable.
But when his eyes found hers, she still felt the quiet certainty that had once made her stand beside him before God and man with no hesitation.
He crossed to her and offered his arm. “Mrs Darcy,” he said.
“Mr Darcy.”
“You are pleased with yourself.”
“I often am.”
“Today, especially.”
“Today I have reason.”
His mouth curved. “So you do.”
He led her toward the chair near the window, where Clara sat pale, smiling, and tired, with the radiance of a woman who had been praised, fussed over, advised, and admired past endurance. Thomas stood beside her, trying to look composed and failing badly.
Elizabeth’s heart began to beat faster. For all the fuss and bustle of the arrangements, the truth of the day suddenly became very simple. Their son had become a father. Darcy and Elizabeth had become grandparents. A new child had entered the world, and everyone they loved had come to see him.
Thomas looked at his mother first, then his father.
For a moment, he was not nine-and-twenty, not married, not heir to Pemberley, not a man grown into duty and authority.
He was the boy who had once run across the lawn with muddy knees and a solemn confession that he had not meant for the frog to be in the breakfast room.
“Mother,” he said. “Father.”
He bent and lifted the baby from Clara’s arms with a care so tender Elizabeth felt her throat tighten before she even saw the child’s face.
Then he placed his son in Elizabeth’s arms. The baby was warm, small, and heavier than she expected.
New life always was. He wore white, of course, because babies were still subjected to tradition before they were old enough to object to it.
His cap had slipped slightly, revealing a dark softness of hair, and his tiny mouth moved in sleep as if he were considering whether to be displeased with the world and had decided to wait.
Elizabeth looked down at him and forgot, for a moment, every clever thing she had ever said. “Oh,” she whispered.
Darcy stood close beside her, his hand resting lightly at her back. She felt him draw in a breath. When she looked up, she saw tears in his eyes. That undid her more than the child had. “Fitzwilliam,” she said softly.
He did not look away from the baby. “He is very small.”
“They often are at this age.”
“I had forgotten.”
“No,” Elizabeth said, smiling through her own tears. “You had chosen not to remember how frightening they are.”
At that, Darcy gave a quiet laugh. “That may be true.”
The family had drawn closer around them.
Jane was crying openly now, and Bingley had given up pretending he was not.
Mary observed that the child had a thoughtful brow, which Lydia declared nonsense before immediately claiming he had the Darcy nose.
Kitty worried he was too near the window.
Georgiana smiled with both hands pressed together.
Anne leaned against her husband, William stood unusually silent, and Margaret peered over Elizabeth’s arm with unrestrained fascination.
“What is his name?” Margaret asked.