Page 79 of Mr. Darcy’s Runaway Bride
George Wickham, after accumulating considerable gambling debts in Brighton, had fled to the Continent, where occasional reports suggested he moved between European capitals, perpetually one step ahead of his creditors. Elizabeth often reflected on how differently her life might have unfolded had she confided in her husband about Wickham earlier, the painful misunderstanding at Rosings serving as a crucible that had ultimately strengthened their marriage.
***
As the evening progressed, the children were put to bed, James protesting sleepily that he was perfectly awake, even as his eyelids drooped. Little Anne had surrendered to slumber hours earlier, carried upstairs by her nurse with one tiny handstill clutching the butterfly net she had insisted on bringing to the gathering.
The guests gradually departed—first the Bingleys to their chambers in the east wing, then Colonel Fitzwilliam and his wife to the dower house they occupied during their visits. Georgiana and Lord Linfield retired to their suite, while Mr and Mrs Bennet and the younger Bennet sisters made their way to their respective rooms. Lydia, who remained the only Bennet sister unwed, remained awake in the garden, deep in conversation with Lord Linfield’s cousin.
At last, Elizabeth and Darcy found themselves alone on the terrace, the summer night wrapping around them like a familiar embrace. Darcy stood behind her, his arms encircling her waist as they gazed out over the moonlit grounds.
“Five years,” he murmured, his voice deep and comforting. “It seems both an eternity and an instant.”
Elizabeth leaned back against his chest, savouring the solid strength of him. “I sometimes wonder what would have become of us had we not met that day in the park. Had I married Blackfriars, had you been persuaded to offer for Lady Eleanor…”
“I prefer not to contemplate it,” Darcy replied, his arms tightening slightly. “Though I will confess to occasional disbelief at my own temerity. To propose marriage to a woman I had known less than an hour—it was most unlike me.”
“Indeed,” Elizabeth laughed. “I often wondered, during those early weeks at Pemberley, what madness had possessed you to make such an offer—or me to accept it.”
“Not madness,” Darcy said thoughtfully. “Perhaps intuition. Something in you called to something in me, even then. I looked at you, tearful and determined on that park bench, and recognised a kindred spirit—though I could hardly have articulated it so at the time.”
Elizabeth turned in his arms, resting her hands against his chest. “And now? Do you regret our impulsive beginning?”
“Not for a moment.” His voice held absolute certainty. “When I think of all we might have missed had we proceeded with proper caution—James, Anne, these years together at Pemberley—I cannot regret a single rash decision that led us here.”
Their journey had not been without challenges. The painful misunderstanding after the Netherfield ball, the frosty reception at Rosings, the gradual negotiation of family ties both strained and strengthened—all had tested the foundation of respect and affection that had grown between them.
“Come,” Darcy said, taking her hand. “The hour grows late and tomorrow brings the children’s picnic by the lake.”
As they walked through the quiet house, Elizabeth reflected on the curious path that had brought her to this moment. From a desperate bride fleeing an unwanted marriage to the mistress of Pemberley, from a solitary writer hiding her ambitions to a published authoress with a growing readership—the transformation seemed scarcely credible, even to herself.
They paused at the nursery door, slipping inside to gaze upon their sleeping children. James lay sprawled across his bed, one arm flung outward in characteristic abandon, while Anneslumbered peacefully, her dark lashes resting against flushed cheeks.
“They are our greatest collaboration,” Elizabeth whispered.
Darcy’s fingers tightened around hers. “Greater than your novels or my improvements to the east tenant farms?”
“Infinitely greater,” she replied, smiling up at him. “Though I maintain that my chapter on the mysterious passage inThe Widow’s Secretremains my finest literary achievement.”
“I am partial to the scene in the library,” Darcy said, leading her from the nursery towards their chambers. “Though I may be biased, given my role as amanuensis during its creation.”
Their private apartments remained as they had arranged them early in their marriage—connecting rooms that allowed for both independence and intimacy, the door between them now perpetually open. Elizabeth’s writing desk stood by the window overlooking the rose garden, pages of her latest manuscript neatly stacked beside a silver inkwell that had been Darcy’s gift upon the publication of her first novel.
As they prepared for bed, the familiar rhythm of their evening routine unfolded with comfortable precision. Elizabeth loosened her hair before the mirror while Darcy extinguished candles, leaving only the bedside lamp casting its golden glow across the chamber.
“I never imagined such happiness,” Darcy said quietly as they settled beneath the covers. “That day in the park, when I offered you my handkerchief—who could have foreseen that a chance encounter between strangers would lead to this?”
Elizabeth nestled against him, her head finding its accustomed place upon his shoulder. “Not I, certainly. I was too busy fleeing one fate to contemplate another.”
“And now?” His voice held a note of tender enquiry.
“Now,” she replied, lifting her face to his, “I find myself profoundly grateful for the impulsiveness that brought us together. For the courage to choose uncertainty over predictable misery. For the patience to allow affection to grow into something deeper.”
As their lips met in the gentle culmination of the day, Elizabeth reflected that their story, much like the novels she crafted, had transcended its unlikely beginning to find its true heart in the quiet moments of connection, understanding, and unwavering commitment that defined their shared life.
Outside, Pemberley slumbered beneath the summer stars, its ancient walls sheltering the family within. Tomorrow would bring new chapters—children’s laughter by the lake, correspondence to be answered, pages to be written—but for tonight, in the sanctuary of their chamber, the master and mistress of Pemberley rested in the contentment of a love that had grown from the most unexpected of beginnings into the surest foundation of their lives.
THE END