Chapter Thirty-Nine
The Lives Between
Years passed again.
Different years.
They did not unfold according to memory, and eventually that became a comfort rather than a loss.
Clara grew into a thoughtful girl who loved horses but disliked crowds. At eight she informed Darcy that she intended to manage Pemberley one day and appeared personally offended when told inheritance customs might complicate the plan.
Elizabeth, overhearing, said, "Your father enjoys complications. Ask him."
Darcy gave his wife a look.
Clara put both hands on his desk. "Can I learn anyway?"
Darcy looked at his daughter and remembered Georgiana asking, decades ago and another lifetime away, whether a girl ought to understand estate accounts.
He had once laughed gently and told her she need not trouble herself.
This time he pulled out a chair. "Yes. Sit."
Clara learned.
Two years after Clara came Matthew, a solemn boy with Elizabeth's eyes and Darcy's tendency to distrust strangers.
He adored Bingley and followed him around Netherfield with a wooden fishing rod.
Bingley, delighted by this devotion, taught the child several techniques Darcy considered irresponsible.
"He is four," Darcy said after discovering Matthew standing knee-deep in a stream.
Bingley looked offended. "He is nearly five."
Elizabeth laughed so hard she had to sit down.
Eleanor arrived three years later and seemed born in motion. By six she had escaped a nursery, climbed a low roof, hidden in a linen cupboard during a visit from Lady Catherine, and convinced Lydia to teach her a dance Mrs. Reynolds described as unsuitable for any child possessing ankles.
Darcy privately believed Eleanor might be punishment for every worry he had ever caused his own parents.
Elizabeth considered this justice.
Their first children did not return.
They did not speak of that every day.
But they remembered birthdays.
On Anne's birthday, Elizabeth placed flowers in the chapel at Pemberley.
On Thomas's, Darcy rode alone for an hour and returned to find Elizabeth waiting on the terrace.
Henry's birthday always made them laugh before it made them sad because Henry had once attempted to build a boat in the ornamental lake and sunk it before launch.
Margaret's belonged to music. Georgiana would play without knowing why Elizabeth sometimes cried.
The new children were never asked to resemble ghosts.
That was perhaps the hardest and best thing Darcy and Elizabeth accomplished.
Georgiana married later than she had in their first life.
This time there was no pressure.
Darcy introduced gentlemen. Elizabeth teased. Georgiana refused three possibilities without apology.
At twenty-six she married Lord Andrew Beresford, the younger son of a duke, after a friendship that began over music and remained a friendship long enough for Georgiana to trust herself.
Before accepting him she came to Darcy.
"I love him," she said.
Darcy smiled. "Then why do you look terrified?"
"Because I once thought I loved someone else."
Darcy's expression softened. "You were fifteen."
"I know."
"And now?"
Georgiana looked toward the window where Andrew was walking with Elizabeth. "Now I know him when he is cross, tired, embarrassed, and wrong."
Darcy almost laughed. "An excellent beginning."
Georgiana smiled. "Elizabeth said being known is inconvenient."
"Elizabeth says many things."
"She is often right."
Darcy sighed. "Unfortunately."
Georgiana married Andrew in a quiet ceremony and later had two daughters and a son.
Charlotte's stepdaughter Lucy grew up calling her Mama without anyone instructing her to do so.
Kitty became known locally for portraits that captured expressions rather than flattering features. Mrs. Bennet initially objected that a gentleman's nose ought to be improved if one had the skill, but Kitty refused.
Mary taught music to several girls whose families could not afford London masters and discovered she possessed patience she had never had with her sisters.
Lydia and Howard had three children, all noisy.
Jane and Bingley remained at Netherfield for many years before purchasing an estate fifteen miles from Pemberley, close enough that their children moved between houses without ceremony.
Caroline visited both and complained about the informality while participating fully in it.
Mr. Bennet aged.
More slowly than Elizabeth remembered.
Perhaps because he rode more. Perhaps because he laughed less bitterly. Perhaps there was no reason at all.
He remained at Longbourn into his seventies.
Mrs. Bennet continued declaring every mild illness fatal.
He survived them all.
One autumn Elizabeth stayed at Longbourn while Darcy traveled briefly to London. She found her father in the library, spectacles low on his nose, Kitty's original sketch still hanging above the desk.
"You keep it," she said.
Mr. Bennet looked up. "It is my house. Am I not permitted to keep pictures of it?"
Elizabeth smiled and sat across from him.
They spoke of the grandchildren. Mary. Lydia's latest letter. Whether Mrs. Bennet had really required a new drawing-room carpet or merely wanted one.
Then Mr. Bennet grew quiet.
"You always seemed older than the rest."
Elizabeth froze.
Her father smiled weakly. "Not in face."
"Papa."
"In patience. Eventually."
Elizabeth forced a laugh. "That is the first time anyone has accused me of that."
"Liar."
Her heart stopped.
He closed his eyes briefly.
"Whatever happened to you, Lizzy..."
Elizabeth leaned closer.
His voice was faint. "I am glad it did."
She cried for a long time after.
She never told him.
Perhaps she should have.
Perhaps not.
Some mysteries were a kindness.
Mr. Bennet died the following spring with all five daughters near him.
Mrs. Bennet survived him by seven years.
She complained about him nearly every day.
She missed him every hour.
When she died at Longbourn, Elizabeth found one of her father's old books on the bedside table and understood that grief did not always look dignified.
Sometimes it complained until the very end.
The second old age did not feel like repetition. Their bodies aged differently. Darcy's hearing weakened before his eyesight. Elizabeth's hands stiffened earlier than she remembered. He developed a dislike of stairs. She finally admitted winter walks could be undertaken with a coat.
"Victory," Darcy said the first time she willingly accepted a fur-lined cloak.
Elizabeth fastened it. "I am preserving myself to torment you longer."
"An admirable motive."
They visited Longbourn less often after Mrs. Bennet died, but Pemberley remained full. Grandchildren ran through corridors Mrs. Reynolds's successors had long since stopped trying to keep silent. Bingley, older and broader, still entered Darcy's study without knocking.
One afternoon, when both men were well into their seventies, Bingley dropped into a chair and said, "Do you remember the morning before Netherfield when you asked me what year it was?"
Darcy's heart stopped.
He kept his face still. "Vaguely."
Bingley laughed. "You were terrifying. Then you told me not to let you insult Elizabeth."
Darcy looked down at the letter in his hand.
"I thought you had lost your mind," Bingley continued. "For years I meant to ask what that was about."
Darcy met his friend's eyes. "And why didn't you?"
Bingley shrugged. "You married her. It seemed to work out."
Darcy laughed.
Bingley smiled. "Was there an explanation?"
For a moment Darcy considered telling him.
Charles had been his friend in both lives. Perhaps he deserved the truth.
Then Darcy imagined beginning with death, waking young, and coffee cream.
"No explanation you would believe," he said.
Bingley considered. "Fair enough."
He rose and clapped Darcy's shoulder.
At the door he looked back. "Whatever happened that morning, I am glad it did."
Darcy sat alone after Bingley left.
When Elizabeth came in, he told her.
She listened, then smiled. "He knew something was wrong from the first day."
"Apparently."
"Charles notices more than people think."
Darcy looked at her. "Yes."
It was one more apology owed to the young man he had underestimated once.