One year later…
E lizabeth sat in the small, sunlit parlor of their London townhouse, her needle tracing a delicate rosebud onto the hem of a tiny christening gown. Her work lay in her lap, and she paused for a moment to rest her hand atop the gentle swell of her stomach. A smile curved her lips as she thought of the latest letter from her Aunt Gardiner.
My Dear Mrs. Darcy
I cannot stop myself from addressing you that way, my dear Lizzy. Now that you have seen Pemberley for yourself, I imagine you can understand why.
Things are going well here in Hertfordshire. Your mother is adjusting better than we dared hope to life at the dower house, though she is not without her fits of temper. She sometimes forgets herself and issues commands to my housekeeper, which causes no little amusement to the children. Your father bears it with his usual dry humour and spends many a happy hour in the library, pretending not to hear her scolding.
Mary continues to grow into a young woman of sense and feeling. Her courtship with Mr. Welles, the new curate, is progressing with great solemnity; they read Fordyce’s Sermons to each other during their walks, which I find both tedious and oddly touching. She has grown gentler with the children, and Benjamin adores her most particularly.
Speaking of Benjamin—he is a handful! He has discovered a passion for climbing, and no table, chair, or unattended footman is safe. But he has the sweetest nature, running to embrace whomever he fancies with sticky fingers and a shining smile. You will scarcely recognize him for the stout, laughing boy he has become.
Jane and Charles are blissfully happy at Netherfield. Charles has at last learned to stand firm against Caroline’s interference, and your mother’s visits have become far less frequent, which is a blessing to all parties.
As for Kitty and Lydia, the school you and Mr. Darcy chose for them has wrought near-miracles. Their letters home are neatly written and full of sensible observations, though I cannot promise it will last once they return for the holidays! Still, hope springs eternal.
We miss you dearly, Lizzy. Christmas will not be complete without seeing you, though we rejoice in the happiness you have found. Give Mr. Darcy our warmest regards—and I trust you will give him a great many of your own as well.
With all my love,
Your affectionate aunt,
Madeline Gardiner
Elizabeth smiled as she folded the letter carefully and set it aside. It warmed her heart to think of Stoke bustling with life and laughter again, even if she sometimes missed the crumbling, creaking halls of Longbourn.
Her reverie was interrupted by the sudden thunder of boots down the hallway. She looked up just as Darcy, Wickham, and Colonel Fitzwilliam came flying into the room, all of them slightly disheveled, their faces unusually intense.
Elizabeth raised an eyebrow in mock alarm. “Well,” she said archly, “should I be glad that you gentlemen left your childhoods behind at last?”
Darcy, coughing a little from exertion, crossed the room in three long strides and grasped her hand. “Dearest,” he said, his voice low and urgent, “I need you to be sitting down for this news.”
She blinked in confusion. “I am sitting,” she pointed out dryly.
His lips did not even twitch at her jest, causing her to become genuinely concerned. She looked at his two companions to see if they would appreciate the situation, but Wickham and Fitzwilliam hovered just behind him, pale and tense.
Elizabeth’s stomach tightened in sudden fear.
“Darcy, what has happened?” she asked anxiously.
He squeezed her hand. “It is all right—nothing is wrong. At least, not precisely. But we have been summoned.” He drew a breath. “By the Prince Regent.”
Her mouth fell open. “The Prince?” she gasped.
He nodded grimly. “A carriage is waiting. We are to go at once.”
“But—but I cannot! I must change—I must—” She looked down helplessly at her simple blue gown, her hair only half-pinned for comfort.
“You look perfect,” he said firmly. “There is no time.”
The colonel muttered under his breath, “Probably for the best. If you looked any more beautiful, Darcy would end up fighting a duel with his Royal Highness, and I would hate to have to be his second… being tried for treason was not in my plans after catching Le Corbeau.”
The absurdity of it made her laugh—a high, nervous sound—but it did help steady her nerves. They hurried out together to the waiting carriage, Elizabeth clenching Darcy’s hand tightly as they rattled through the London streets.
They waited for what seemed an eternity in a grand antechamber at Carlton House, until at last, a liveried servant bowed them into a formal audience room. Elizabeth’s heart hammered painfully as she sank into a low curtsy before the Prince Regent.
The corpulent, richly dressed prince regarded them with an expression of bored indulgence. “We have read the full account of your…adventures,” he said, waving a jeweled hand languidly. “It appears England owes you a debt.”
One by one, the Prince dispensed rewards with the carelessness of a man tossing coins into a crowd: Darcy was granted a knighthood. Colonel Fitzwilliam received twenty thousand pounds for his service. Wickham, who looked ready to swoon with disbelief, was awarded a modest estate in Derbyshire.
When he turned his gaze to Elizabeth, it was with a leer that made her skin crawl—until his eyes caught the slight swell of her belly. He grimaced as if he had bitten into a sour lemon.
“We understand,” he said in a pained voice, “that your family’s estate at Longbourn has been lost. Such tragedy must not go unrewarded. Therefore, we shall see the house rebuilt.”
He looked her up and down, then added, “And as you, as a woman, are not capable of managing the estate, we will grant it to your father to be held free and clear. After his death, he may leave it to whomever he wishes.”
Elizabeth curtsied again, biting her tongue at his dismissive mention of women’s inability to manage property. It was a struggle not to retort, but she reminded herself of where she was—and that there were greater victories to savor today.
Before any of them could even open their mouths to express their gratitude, the Prince lifted his hand once again, waving it with an air of lazy dismissal.
“You are excused,” he said.
Bowing and curtsying backward, careful never to turn their backs, they withdrew from the room in silence.
Did that just really happen? Elizabeth asked herself in amazement.
Only once they were safe in the entrance hall did Wickham exhale sharply and mutter, “Well. That was...unexpected.”
“No one would believe it if we told them,” the colonel added, his voice still faint with disbelief. “Somebody should pinch me.”
Wickham reached over, causing the colonel to swat his hand away. “None of that, now. I will thank you to save your fingers for wooing ladies.”
Darcy said nothing. He only reached for Elizabeth’s hand once more and pressed it tightly to his heart. As they rode home in the carriage, silently processing everything that had just occurred, Elizabeth stared out the window. She took in all of the signs of rebuilding—the repaired streets, the rising scaffolds, the city stirring itself back to life.
So it is with us. With change comes growth. Fire brings devastation, but also renewal. And in the ashes, we find understanding.
She leaned against her husband with a sigh, feeling the steady beat of his heart against her ear. The chill air slipped through the carriage windows, but Elizabeth felt only warmth. The world beyond the carriage was still uncertain, still imperfect.
But she knew that in the end, they had found what mattered most: a love that burned brighter than any flame ever could.
And that was a reward worth more than anything the Prince could give them.
THE END