Page 55 of Colour My World (The Bennet Sister Variations #3)
Epilogue
The morning sun filtered through the stained-glass windows, casting dappled light over the assembled guests. The scent of roses and honeysuckle lingered in the air, mingling with the hum of conversation and the faint rustle of silk and soft-spun wool.
Elizabeth stepped into the chapel, her hands steady, her heart less so. She had never envisioned this moment, not like this.
Yet, there he was, waiting at the altar, standing tall and impossibly perfect in his tailored morning wear. Fitzwilliam Darcy. Her husband-to-be. Her husband.
A hush fell as her father placed her hand in Darcy’s. The cool weight of the Darcy rubies graced her throat, but it was his touch that anchored her.
She squeezed once. He squeezed back. The ceremony commenced.
Elizabeth barely heard the words, though she repeated the vows with clarity and conviction. Beside her, Jane stood serenely, a bouquet of white roses in hand.
At Darcy’s side, Colonel Fitzwilliam held his post with a soldier’s composure, though a faint twitch at his jaw betrayed him. He was not as tranquil as he appeared.
Nor was Anne de Bourgh, who sat in the front pew, her gloved hands perfectly still, her gaze fixed. Their aires danced around each other, a waltz in two colours.
A quiet thrill curled in Elizabeth’s stomach. They would be interesting to watch.
Lady Catherine sat beside Mrs Ecclestone, the two of them silent, their aires intertwined like girls in the schoolroom sharing secrets. How lovely that they have reconciled their differences.
Behind them, the Hursts sat further down the row, elegant, composed. Louisa Hurst inclined her head towards Elizabeth with the easy poise of a confidante.
Mr Bingley entered alone, his coat immaculate, his expression unreadable until Jane turned slightly at the altar, and the sunlight touched her cheek. He stared and did not look away. His aire noticeably deepened. Throughout the ceremony, he sat like a man suspended between memory and hope.
Kitty beamed from the Bennet pew. Lydia attempted solemnity but failed—twice. Charlotte wore a smile like soft armour. Mr and Mrs Gardiner held hands, quietly radiant.
And Mr Bennet stood taller than she had ever seen him.
When the vows were said and the world shifted forever, Darcy lifted her hand to his lips. “My wife,” he murmured, just for her.
Elizabeth grinned. “I thought I was to be addressed as Mrs Darcy.”
He looked as though he had forgotten how to breathe. Then, slowly, the corner of his mouth lifted. She would never grow tired of that expression.
* * *
The quiet of the vestry proved a welcome reprieve from the well-wishers. The vicar, Mr Hargrove, separated them from the exuberant crowd, allowing them to sign the official register. Darcy dipped his quill with precision, his penmanship even and immaculate.
Elizabeth peered over. “Your letters are so perfectly straight, sir.”
He rolled his eyes. “Do not make a study of it.”
“I cannot help but admire the steadiness of your hand,” she teased.
“Elizabeth.”
She smiled as she signed her Bennet name for the last time. And then, from behind them—
“A word, Mr Darcy,” the vicar interposed.
Darcy turned. “Yes?”
“I was given a note for you, sir, upon a matter of family business.” Darcy frowned as the missive was placed in his hands.
Elizabeth leant near, curious. “Family business?”
He broke the seal and unfolded the note.
A wedding gift to my newest niece. I shall expect to see you every Easter for a six-week. Darcy may escort you—and should he behave, he may even remain.
Your affectionate aunt,
Lady Catherine de Bourgh
Elizabeth’s hand did little to stifle her delight at the imperious humour of that great lady.
Darcy rubbed his forehead. “Well. That seems settled.”
She took the paper from his hands, grinning. “You must admit, this is a victory.”
Darcy sighed. “For whom?”
Elizabeth laughed.
The vicar cleared his throat. “There was another note attached.”
Darcy’s scowl deepened as he unfolded the second slip of paper.
Your new cousin has been assigned a mission.
He is to be sent to India to convert the heathens.
I advised him myself.
Elizabeth caught back a laugh. “She has sent Mr Collins abroad?”
Darcy, long used to his aunt’s machinations, merely folded the paper. “Yes. It seems so.”
Darcy shook his head, slipping the missives into his coat.
“Come, Mrs Darcy—before my aunt plans our entire future.”
Elizabeth laced her fingers through his. “It still astonishes me.”
“What does?”
“That you were falling in love with me while memorising the vine pattern on a cracked Staffordshire plate.”
He smiled. “I would have preferred you not be seated beside Mrs Ecclestone. Desperation makes a man focus.”
“I suppose I ought to be grateful you did not fall for the crockery instead.”
“On the contrary,” he said softly, “I remember every detail of the plate. But I only recall one face from that table.”
“Flatterer.”
“Historian,” he replied, kissing her hand.
She sighed. “It was a most elegant plate.”
* * *
Darcy House, May 1813
A year of bliss. Nearly.
Each morning, he rose to find one eye the hue of rich earth, the other green as spring’s first leaf—different from one another, as his mother had foretold.
If only she had lived to meet Elizabeth.
Darcy leant back in his chair, and fingers steepled, eyes fixed on nothing. How best to mark the date? To honour her. To prove his devotion, his gratitude.
Jewellery? No. Elizabeth had the Darcy jewels.
Flowers? The greenhouse and orangery overflowed with her talents.
Clothing? Accoutrements? Too blasé.
A chess set, perhaps? Carved from lapis and ivory?
He grimaced. She would never let him forget the three consecutive matches—and his hasty declaration that she could read his strategy before he even touched a piece.
He drummed his fingers against the armrest. What, then?
A portrait!
But not today. Not after Rosings Park.
“I will sit for an artist of your choice to stare at me until I wither in boredom once, and only once, when we have blessed Pemberley with an heir.”
He had opened his mouth to argue, but a beringed talon sliced the air before his face.
“Elizabeth has the right of it.” Lady Catherine’s gimlet gaze turned upon him. He shrank back, a nine-year-old boy once again seeking a quick escape. “One must preserve the structure of rank and propriety.”
To Elizabeth and Georgiana, she said, “I am pleased that Darcy women understand this maxim.”
Georgiana pressed her lips together, her shoulders aquiver.
Darcy gritted his teeth.
He had conceded the point. But what of a miniature? Small, private, easily kept close. Yes. A miniature.
He strode to the bellpull and gave it a sharp tug.
Barty would come despite his injury. The poor devil had split open his palm on a cracked decanter two days prior—Georgiana had been appalled.
“Barty, what happened to your hand?”
“A mishap with the glass in the cellar, miss. The decanter slipped its neck and bit mine in kind.”
Georgiana winced. “And yet you insist on working?”
“I should hardly let a little crystal dictate my affairs.”
“Brother, you must see to your man’s well-being.”
Darcy chuckled. “I shall, as he can hardly see to mine.”
Barty registered the insult as he always did. He sniffed.
Moments later, Barty appeared, his usual composure intact despite his bandaged right hand.
“You rang, sir?”
“I have need of you. There is an errand of some delicacy.”
Barty inclined his head. “Shall I ready the carriage?”
“No. You must retrieve something for me—unobserved.” Darcy paused. “Elizabeth must not inquire as to my absence.”
Barty nodded. “A note, then, sir? To forestall questions and hasten the matter?”
Darcy looked at his injured hand.
Barty picked up a quill with his left hand and held it aloft expectantly.
Darcy’s brows lifted.
Barty’s smile widened. He said nothing.
Both men regarded each other in silence.
At length, Darcy turned away. He glanced back at Barty’s bandaged hand. He closed his eyes.
The slant of the letters. That quiet certainty. Ink drying, as always, in silence.
It could not have been Barty. Could it?
He turned back. But his man was gone.
On the desktop, in a hand he had seen before, lay a beloved quote.
The art of magic, perhaps, is to amuse nature while wonder takes root.
* * *
Pemberley, Five Years Later
The nursery was in chaos.
Bennet Darcy, three years old and as wild as the wind, wove between chairs, his laughter bright and unrestrained. Mary reached for him, her exasperation evident, but the boy twisted away at the last moment. His lovely laughter was musical and mocking.
Six months pregnant and resigned to her fate, Elizabeth rested a hand against the curve of her belly, feeling movement beneath her palm.
A daughter. She needed no confirmation beyond instinct, though the village midwife and her mother’s thorough—and entirely mortifying—examinations insisted the same.
And, of course, the fortune-teller in the village. Not that she would ever confess to visiting such a woman. Ever.
Bennet shrieked with glee and darted behind the settee, a blur of curls and stockings. He darted out the door. Elizabeth watched him with affection and a trace of apprehension. He bore no visible aire yet.
She both longed for it and dreaded it. Would the day it came to mean the end of his guileless, perfect boyhood?
She stepped into the hall as Bennet dashed out of her sitting room, a book held high above his head. He stopped and threw it down as Mary swooped him into her arms.
“The sins of our mother,” she said, “are visited upon the child.”
“Why not our father?”
“Papa?” Mary sniffed. “Too many to count.”
Elizabeth smiled. “By your leave, our mother has a more manageable ledger.”
Mary laughed. “Indeed. Easier to tally—and quicker to forgive.”
“I count the days until he becomes Darcy’s charge.”
“Riding lessons?” Mary was well-familiar with everything Pemberley.
“At the very least.”
She bent to retrieve the fallen book and groaned from the effort. The spine had cracked. The cover was blank. It was The Book.
She stilled. The heirloom had survived decades, until now.
Reverently, she ran her fingers along its worn leather cover, smoothing the damage. Something shifted beneath the binding. She lifted it to see more clearly. A slip of paper lay hidden within.
She crossed to her desk with care. Using the letter opener, she fished out the slip and unfolded it. It was a letter.
My dear future Mrs Darcy,
If you are reading this, Fitzwilliam has done what I had hoped.
He has found you. You are his match—not merely in standing but in spirit, wit, and heart. You must challenge, confound, and love him as he deserves. And you will have his heart in return.
I am sorry not to meet you in this life, but know this—I have watched over him, and now I will watch over you.
This boy, soon to be a man, will love you fiercely. And I? I already adore you.
I will only add, God bless you.
Lady Anne Fitzwilliam Darcy
But you may call me,
Mother
She rested her hand against the curve of her belly. The next Miss Darcy would never know Lady Anne, and the thought ached. Yet, she will bear her name.
Her unborn daughter, Anne Elizabeth Darcy, pushed back against her palm. Darcy’s mother had written to the one who would one day read her words. And they had found their way.
Her gaze drifted to the easel in the far corner, where the half- covered canvas waited for the framer’s return.
After years of protest, she had finally sat for the portrait the Pemberley Gallery demanded.
Lady Catherine–Auntie–had scoffed at it, of course.
Darcy had never pressed her for it. He had waited.
Waited with patience and unshaken devotion.
Elizabeth carefully refolded the letter and placed it back inside the spine—where it belonged. Where it would wait, one day, for a future Mrs Darcy.
A sound at the door, and she turned. Darcy stood in the doorway, windblown from the stables. Elizabeth inhaled the scent of leather and hay. His rose aire–his love for her–surrounded him. He looked at her hand pressed against her belly, at her, and at the journal.
“I received a letter from a lady dear to you.”
Darcy stepped forward, his smile everything beautiful. “Georgiana?”
She reached for his hand.
“Your mother.”