Epilogue
ST MARY’S CHURCH IN Meryton had never witnessed such an astonishing botanical invasion.
The July heat pressed against the ancient stained-glass windows, but the interior of the stone nave was consumed by the scent of dozens of roses that garlanded the pews, wrapped around the stone pillars, and cascaded around the chancel in a breathtaking waterfall of vibrant red.
It was a lavish display, and Fitzwilliam Darcy did not care in the slightest. He had vowed to offer Elizabeth a lifetime of roses, and he intended to begin on their wedding day.
He stood in the chancel, his hands clasped behind his back. He wore a masterfully tailored dark blue coat and a silver-threaded waistcoat, his posture immaculate. He was surrounded by the provincial society he had once scorned, trapped in a village he had once deemed unworthy of his attention.
He had never been happier in his entire life.
Darcy kept his gaze fixed on the doors at the end of the aisle, the hum of the congregation washing over him.
Lady Lucas was loudly whispering to Mrs Goulding about the cost of the floral arrangements.
Mr Collins, who had miraculously secured an invitation purely so Anne could glare at him, was lecturing a choirboy on the moral perils of fidgeting.
“If Mrs Bennet keeps on weeping, I fear the vicar will require an umbrella.” Robert stood to Darcy’s right, resplendent in a dark coat, his cravat tied in the Waterfall knot.
He glanced at the floral arrangements, a wry smile pulling at his lips.
“I must concede, Darcy, you have outdone me. This siege of roses is aggressively romantic.”
“Stand firm, Darcy.” Richard was on his left, checking his pocket watch. “I faced the French artillery at Talavera. The noise level was comparable, but we have the high ground here near the pulpit. And the flowers provide excellent cover.”
Darcy offered a low, breathless chuckle.
“I am perfectly well.” He smoothed the edge of his cuff, his voice thick with emotion. “I merely wish the organist would start playing.”
“Patience, Cousin.” Robert adjusted his own cuffs, his eyes also fixed at the back of the church. “Perfection cannot be rushed. Besides, I need a moment to fortify my own nerves. I intend to ask Miss Bennet for the first two dances at the assembly next week, and I need my courage intact.”
The grand pipe organ finally let out a resounding chord, and the congregation scrambled to their feet. The rustling of silk and muslin was deafening, followed by a collective hush.
Then, the world narrowed to a single point of focus.
Elizabeth stepped into the aisle, her hand resting on her father’s arm.
She wore an ivory gown of flowing muslin, overlaid with delicate, spiderweb-fine lace. Her dark curls were arranged beneath a simple, sheer veil, but her eyes, those impossibly bright, intelligent eyes, were uncovered and fixed upon him.
Darcy forgot how to breathe. He forgot the heat, the crowd, the twenty-eight years of pride and duty that had defined his existence before she laughed at him at an assembly ball.
This incredible woman who challenged his mind and warmed his soul was walking towards him. She offered a smile that held a thousand private jokes, a tender curve of her lips that made his chest ache with the magnitude of his love.
Jane and Georgiana followed close behind. Jane wore pale blue silk, her golden hair swept into an elegant knot, while Georgiana walked with her head held high and a confident, beautiful smile upon her lips.
Robert inhaled sharply.
Darcy spared a brief glance at his cousin. The great Viscount Keathley stood rigid, staring at Jane with such unguarded devotion that Richard had to nudge him with an elbow to remind him to breathe.
Darcy felt a surge of pride as he regarded Georgiana, a sting of moisture prickling his eyes. His sister was no longer the timid, broken girl of Ramsgate; she was a vibrant young woman walking towards a future filled with light.
Mr Bennet brought Elizabeth to the communion rail, where she took her place beside Darcy before the vicar.
Her nearness grounded him instantly. She brought with her the scent of jasmine and the intoxicating warmth of her presence.
“You are clenching your jaw, Mr Darcy.” Elizabeth pitched her voice for his ears alone.
“I am entirely overcome, Miss Bennet.” His voice dropped to a rough, reverent whisper. “You are the most beautiful sight I have ever beheld.”
The ceremony began in a blur of ancient words and resonant echoes. When the vicar called upon the person who gave Elizabeth in marriage, Mr Bennet stepped forward. His cynical mask slipped, revealing a deep fatherly affection as he placed his daughter’s hand into Darcy’s.
“Make my girl happy, Darcy,” he murmured, his voice tight with emotion. “She deserves the world.”
“I shall give her that and more, sir.”
Darcy’s long fingers closed securely around Elizabeth’s.
He spoke his vows in a clear, unwavering baritone that carried to the very back of the nave, silencing even Mrs Bennet’s joyful weeping. He meant every syllable, engraving each one upon his soul, and when it was Elizabeth’s turn, her voice rang out with certainty.
Darcy retrieved the gold band from his waistcoat pocket and gave it to the vicar. His hands trembled only slightly when it was returned to him and he slid it onto Elizabeth’s finger.
The vicar joined their right hands and declared them man and wife.
Darcy bent his head, framed her face with his hands, and kissed her.
It was a tender, sweet kiss that drew scandalised gasps from the congregation. It tasted of devotion and melted away every misunderstanding and every barrier that had ever stood between them.
When they broke apart, Elizabeth was laughing, and Darcy intended to spend the rest of his life listening to that sound.
“Mrs Darcy,” he whispered against her temple, the title forming a crown upon his lips.
“Mr Darcy,” she replied, her smile radiant enough to rival the sun. “Shall we escape this crowd and inspect your cousin’s catering?”
NETHERFIELD PARK HAD been transformed into a fairy tale.
The gilded décor of Bingley’s tenure had been exorcised.
The dark curtains were gone, replaced by airy silks that fluttered in the summer breeze flowing through the open French windows.
The great hall was filled with hundreds more red roses, and the melodic strains of a string quartet drifted from the long gallery.
Anne de Bourgh surveyed the wedding breakfast, wearing a vibrant amethyst gown that defied every rule of subdued morning dress.
“The pastries are holding their shape.” Anne nodded approvingly as a footman passed with a silver tray. “I informed Cook that if the spun-sugar swans collapsed before the toasts, he would be exiled to Kent to cook for my mother. Fear is a spectacular motivator in the culinary arts.”
“You are a scary woman, Anne.” Richard grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing tray, raising it in a salute. “The Prince Regent ought to hire you to manage his creditors. They would forgive his debts immediately.”
Anne waved a hand and turned her attention to the far corner of the room. “Look at Robert. He is about to eat a treat out of Miss Bennet’s hand.”
Darcy followed her gaze. Robert was standing near the open terrace doors, monopolising Jane. He held a crystal glass of lemonade, offering it to her as though it were the Holy Grail. Jane was smiling, a soft blush colouring her cheeks, captivated by the viscount’s regard.
“He is exactly where he belongs,” Darcy observed with deep satisfaction.
“He is prepared for a long siege.” Anne turned to Darcy with a smile. “You look well, Fitzwilliam. I wagered Richard ten pounds you would weep.”
“You lost your money, Anne.” Darcy raised his glass to her, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
“I consider it a small price to pay to see you behave like a human being rather than a marble bust,” Anne said, tapping his arm lightly with her folded fan.
“Go find your wife. My mother sent a wedding gift. It is an ornate silver tea service and you must go and stare at it, as it represents her acceptance.”
Darcy navigated the crowded room, dodging the exuberant embraces of his new relations.
Mrs Bennet was holding court near the fireplace, informing Lady Lucas about the exact acreage of Pemberley, pausing only to fan herself with a lace handkerchief and demand more cake.
Mr Bennet was sequestered in a quiet corner with a glass of port, surveying the room and speaking with Sir William in hushed tones.
Elizabeth was standing by the open French windows, gazing out over the rolling green lawns of the estate. The sunlight caught the delicate lace of her veil, turning her into a vision of ethereal grace.
Darcy stepped up beside her, offering his arm with a conspiratorial smile. He guided her through the doors and around the corner of the stone terrace, safely out of sight from the crowded hall.
Once they were sequestered behind a thick trellis of climbing roses, he slipped his arms around her waist and pulled her back against his chest.
“You survived the collective attentions of Meryton, Mr Darcy.” Elizabeth leaned back into his embrace, her hands resting over his, her head dropping back against his shoulder.
“I thrived, Mrs Darcy.” He dared press a quick kiss to the side of her neck, inhaling the sweet scent of her skin. “Though I admit, I am ready to steal you away. The carriage is prepared, and I believe we have a journey to Derbyshire to begin.”
Elizabeth turned in his arms, her eyes searching his face.
“Pemberley.” She rested her hands flat against his waistcoat, right over his racing heart. “It was a lifetime ago when I told you that you were the last man in the world I could ever be prevailed upon to marry, was it not?”
Darcy grimaced, resting his forehead against hers. “I deserved every harsh word you delivered that day. I was arrogant, blind, and convinced of my own superiority.”
“You were foolish,” she corrected gently, her fingers tracing the silver thread of his lapel. “But you were also the man who gave me a red rose, and who looks at me as though I am the only creature on this earth.”
“You are,” Darcy murmured, his arms tightening around her. “You are my entire world, Elizabeth.”
THE FAREWELLS WERE as loud and tearful as Darcy had anticipated.
Mrs Bennet threw her arms around Darcy’s neck, weeping so loudly into his cravat that he feared he might sustain permanent hearing loss.
Mr Bennet shook his hand, his eyes shining as he entrusted his favourite daughter to Darcy’s care.
Jane and Elizabeth clung to one another, promising to write every single day, while Robert discreetly offered Jane a single red rose from the grand arrangements.
Finally, the footman opened the door to the luxurious travelling carriage, the Darcy coat of arms gleaming on its panel.
Darcy handed Elizabeth into the carriage, climbed in after her, and shut the door, muting the joyous cheers of the crowd gathered on the Netherfield steps as they began the long journey north.
Darcy let out a sigh of pure relief. He took off his top hat, tossing it onto the opposite seat, and reached for Elizabeth.
He pulled her near, settling her securely against his side. She went willingly, kicking off her silk slippers and curling her feet up on the plush cushions, resting her head against his chest.
“We escaped,” Darcy whispered, wrapping both arms around her, burying his face in her dark curls. “We are entirely alone.”
“I love my family dearly,” Elizabeth sighed, her hand resting comfortably over his heart, “but I believe I have heard enough of my mother’s exclamations to last me a decade. The silence is heavenly.”
Darcy pressed a kiss to the top of her head.
Elizabeth shifted slightly against him and reached into her reticule, her fingers retrieving a folded piece of paper.
Darcy looked down as she smoothed it out upon her lap.
His heart gave a strange, complicated lurch on seeing his own handwriting.
The edges of the paper were worn soft from being handled countless times, the creases deep and fragile.
Several erratic ink splatters stained the page—the evidence of a man whose hands had been shaking with desperation and heartbreak.
Darcy stared at the carnage for a long while. “Elizabeth. You kept it.”
“I kept it,” she murmured, her fingers tracing the dried ink. “I have read it so often that I have memorised every word.”
Darcy covered her hand with his own. “It is a record of my worst self, filled with desperation. We are married now, my love, and the past is behind us. We can destroy it. We can throw it into the first fire we encounter at the inn tonight.”
Elizabeth turned her head, looking up at him.
“Never,” she said, her voice soft but resolute.
She lifted the worn letter, pressing it gently against his chest.
“I love this letter, Fitzwilliam,” she whispered, her gaze locking with his, holding him captive.
“I love it as much as I love you. This letter did not show me your worst self. This letter showed me a man who was hurting, an honourable man, who was brave enough to tell the truth even when it cost him his pride. This letter showed me who you really are,” Elizabeth continued, a tear slipping free to trace a path down her cheek.
She reached up, her hand cupping his jaw, her thumb brushing against his cheekbone.
“And I love this man with all my heart. I will never destroy the very thing that taught me how to love you.”
Darcy turned his face into her palm, pressing a kiss to her skin, breathing in the scent of her.
“I am yours, Elizabeth,” Darcy vowed, his voice rough, his arms wrapped around her tightly. “Completely, irrevocably yours, for all the days of my life. You are the warden of my soul.”
Elizabeth smiled, leaning up to capture his lips with her own.
“I decided I like that!” she teased him between kisses.
The End