Epilogue
Derbyshire
Darcy halted at the threshold of his bedchamber, surprised to see his wife seated by the fireplace with a tray set before her on the low table. “Elizabeth, why are you not abed?”
Smiling at him over the rim of her teacup, she took a sip before answering. “Because it is nearly ten o’clock and it is not in my constitution to sleep past eight.”
“But you were up all night,” he protested, once more in motion. He crossed the room in quick strides and knelt beside his wife’s chair. “Really, you ought to lay down. Think of your condition.”
“I am perfectly well, Fitzwilliam, only a little tired. The babe will not suffer.” So saying, Elizabeth pressed her free hand to her abdomen where the slightest protrusion was evident beneath her palm. With her skirts covering it, the evidence of their growing child remained otherwise invisible.
“Better safe than sorry.”
“You fret too much. Truly, I am hale and hearty as ever. Besides,” she added when he made to issue another protest, “I cannot sleep, ‘tis too bright.” Waving carelessly at the tall windows which allowed them a spectacular view of Pemberley’s lake and the peaks beyond, she concluded, “If it will assuage your worry, I shall retire early tonight. You may even join me to make sure that I obey.”
Darcy chuckled and rose up to kiss the saucy smirk from her lips. When he withdrew, he conceded, “Very well, but you must promise me to take a rest if you need it. Do not run yourself ragged tending your sister and the baby.”
The Stones had been in residence at Pemberley for the past two months awaiting Lydia’s confinement.
Their brother Stone had grown increasingly concerned as his wife’s pregnancy advanced that the vapours, stench, and overwhelming heat of London would harm Lydia and the child if they remained in town, prompting the Darcys to invite them to Pemberley, where she could give birth in a more pastoral setting.
Though Stone had business interests to tend to, he had accepted their generosity with alacrity, leaving his shipping concern in Mr Gardiner’s capable hands.
The two were now partners as well as family, so it was a natural choice.
Darcy had, at first, not been terribly enthusiastic about having the former Lydia Bennet join his household, but since her arrival at Pemberley in June, he had been pleasantly surprised by the revolution in her character.
Lydia was Lydia still—bold, impudent, noisy, and fearless—yet there was also a softness about her that she had not had before her marriage.
Darcy thought it might stem from the fervent affection she apparently felt towards her husband, or possibly her impending motherhood, but either way, it suited her well.
More surprising was how well the Stones got on with one another.
After meeting the trembling Mr Stone for the first time, Darcy had feared that Lydia would run roughshod over him and make him entirely miserable.
Either that, or Lydia would find herself as neglected and laughed at as her mother.
Instead, Stone had taken it upon himself to treat his young wife with kindness, consideration, and understanding, steadily expanding her sphere of knowledge over time.
He insisted that Lydia was clever enough and merely required encouragement and patience to learn, which Darcy supposed must be correct, given her incredible improvement over the past year.
He quite liked her, actually, even if she would never outshine his Elizabeth.
He had grown so fond of Lydia that he had jumped to his feet immediately after Stone last evening, when she curled in on herself and emitted a pained moan.
Fortunately, Elizabeth and Mrs Bennet had everything well in hand, preventing the males of their party from descending into panicked anarchy.
Some twelve hours later, Lydia had delivered a healthy baby boy with a mop of red curls, a robust lad they had named for his father.
Darcy only hoped that Elizabeth’s childbed experience went so smoothly.
The only fly in their jelly was Mr Bennet.
He had adamantly refused to allow Lydia to come to Longbourn to attend Darcy and Elizabeth’s wedding, creating an uproar in the family.
Elizabeth, joined with her mother and elder sister, had pleaded, cajoled, and begged for him to change his mind, to no avail.
Only the threat of conducting the ceremony in London—which Mrs Bennet refused to allow under any circumstances—had forced him to fold, but even then his reception of his youngest daughter and son-in-law had been lukewarm, at best. He had arrived at Pemberley with Mrs Bennet for the birth, yet still showed little sign of thawing.
“Do you think your father will visit his grandson today?” Darcy asked, standing to take the seat across from his wife.
Elizabeth smirked at him. “Papa is already more besotted with Harry than any of his daughters. I daresay it is good I did not have a brother, else he would never have glanced my direction.”
“Already?” Darcy was flabbergasted. Mr Bennet had held onto his resentment for more than a year only for it to be done away with—literally—overnight?
“Oh, yes. Mama woke him up as soon as Harry arrived and insisted that Papa come and see him. He was reluctant, as you likely guessed, but the moment the baby was in his arms, all his animosity melted away. He even congratulated Lydia—I do not think I have ever seen her quite so stunned—and I believe this will be a new beginning for them.”
“Has she forgiven him so readily, then?”
Elizabeth sighed. “No, not quite, but then there is much anger on her side, too. I think they will eventually come to terms with one another, but it will not be immediately, or even soon. No doubt little Harry will facilitate the reconciliation over time.”
“I suppose that is the best anyone can ask for.”
“Mm.”
Darcy then changed the subject to their own forthcoming bundle of joy, who was expected to make an appearance come winter, and speculated on what names they should consider.
He suggested that they might name a boy Bennet, but Elizabeth did not like that notion; she would prefer to name a son for his father, as Lydia had.
Darcy was adamantly against saddling another child with the moniker of Fitzwilliam, and proposed a Shakespearean appellation instead—perhaps Horatio, or Hermione.
Elizabeth merely laughed at him, and the debate continued.