Page 33 of Only Mr Darcy (Obstinate, Headstrong Girl #1)
EPILOGUE
T he third anniversary celebration of Mr and Mrs Darcy was held at Pemberley, on New Year’s Eve of 1814. Darcy, with only a dry remark or two regarding the cost of heating the place to entertain so many guests—such commentary also a usual occurrence at this time of year—looked round Pemberley’s largest drawing room at the assembled crowd of friends and family.
Elizabeth was, naturally, surrounded—the Gardiner children at her feet, the chubby Bingley babe with his golden ringlets upon her lap, Colonel Fitzwilliam’s toddler plucking at her skirts—the picture of maternal love. It was all the more unfair that, surrounded by mothers and fathers, she had no precious child of her own to cosset, the sorrow of their absence hidden, always, from these whom she loved so well. She was so brave, so strong, refusing to dwell on her bitter disappointments and reminding herself, instead, of all for which they had to be grateful.
The sight of his happy sister—laughing now with Miss Catherine at some piquant remark of Lydia Bennet’s—never failed to cheer his soul. Her very successful first season, thankfully complete, had lent her a confidence that she wore now as a second skin. Yet it was his Elizabeth who had helped Georgiana become the lovely young woman she had always been meant to be. It was Elizabeth, who by turns ignored, outwitted, outmanoeuvred, and twisted his uncles around the finger bearing his ring—the one she never removed, the one she adored beyond any of the priceless valuables he showered her with. Even Colonel Fitzwilliam’s marriage—which in turn, rescued him from the necessity of remaining under the earl’s thumb—was due to her friendship with the only slightly eccentric heiress, the former Sarah Bentley.
“Tell us the story of how Grandmama Gardiner predicted Cousin Jane’s marriage to Cousin Charles,” demanded the youngest Gardiner daughter—the one whose dark curls and darker eyes resembled Elizabeth very much, and so who, of course, was Darcy’s favourite.
“You do not believe that fairy-tale, do you?” chided the Gardiner’s ten-year-old son, Arthur, who was at the perfect age to torment his younger sister.
“It is merely an amusing legend,” explained Mr Collins—although some of the dignity of his response was lost when the baby he held began sucking on his nose, causing the assembled children to break out into giggles. The Bennets seldom believed in settling all the children to remain out of sight in the nursery, and obviously, Mary Collins had her way in the raising of their offspring.
Darcy silenced both Arthur and Collins with a look—the Darcy stare still had the power to quell rebellion, even if its owner had mellowed significantly.
“What prediction is this?” Mr Bennet murmured. “The old hag never predicted anything in my hearing except misery, gloom, and despair.”
Darcy turned to his father-in-law with an incredulous expression. Really, the sheer quantity of conversation the man could ignore within his own family was bewildering.
“Seriously? You have never, even once, heard this tale?”
Mr Bennet only shook his head.
“Well, then, I suggest you listen,” Darcy recommended.
Elizabeth told the story with gusto, making them all jump—especially Arthur—when she grabbed his arm during her eerie description of her grandmother’s death throes. The children responded with laughter, chatter, and questions upon the details of the eerie scene, which both she and her sister, Jane, attempted to answer.
“Balderdash,” mumbled Mr Bennet, but low enough that only Darcy heard.
“I must confess, when Elizabeth told me that old Mrs Gardiner only said the name ‘Charles’, I was somewhat less awed with the old lady’s accuracy,” Darcy murmured. “When I first heard of the event, I believed she had been much more specific.”
Mr Bennet snorted, but matched his tone to Darcy’s low one. “You will be less impressed than ever when I tell you that during her final illness, I brought in a doctor from town to attend her—a Mr Charles, you understand. Forgive me if I refuse to believe the old witch predicted anything useful, ever.”
Darcy’s brows rose at this information, but before he could reply, young Arthur had his say.
“But she did not answer your question, Cousin Lizzy,” he criticised, over the chatter of all other voices. “You were the one who asked her, after all, not Cousin Jane. I think she was unjust and-and prejudiced.” He pronounced the final word with all the budding, youthful authority of recent scholarship.
Elizabeth smiled at the boy, and somewhat to Darcy’s surprise, her expression was full of deep emotion as she answered.
“Grandmama Gardiner, upon her deathbed, tried to communicate—perhaps only to Jane, but still—the coming advent of hope and love. It would come, she knew, when a gentleman by the name of Charles took up residence in our small country neighbourhood. She was not given time to disclose any more than that, but the consequential moment she said it will live forever in my memory.” She gave the infant on her lap a little bounce, her smile growing slightly wistful.
“I was not able to ever, truly, know my grandmother. But the fact that she, with her dying breath, did her best to reveal a future bright with love’s promise…well, it says much, does it not? She did care, and she wanted us to know it, and I, for one, will always be grateful.” Eyes shining, she turned her head to give Darcy one of those loving gazes of which he never tired.
“God bless Grandmama Gardiner,” Darcy declared stoutly.
Mrs Bennet whooped.
“Here, here!” Mr Gardiner agreed, as the children and other adults laughed and cheered along with them.
“And that is why,” Darcy said in a quiet aside to his father-in-law, “you will never reveal the presence of any doctor, named Charles or otherwise, to disturb my wife’s understanding of those final moments of her grandmother’s life.”
The Darcy stare worked just as well as it ever had.
“My lips are sealed,” vowed Mr Bennet.
Later, alone with his wife at long last, he held her close as she related to him all the details of her relations’ lives which she was certain he had missed. Most of which, indeed, he had.
“Did you notice Catherine—she gets angry now if we call her ‘Kitty’—sitting so near to Mr Tilney on the settee after dinner? I wonder what they were talking of? I do hope he means to propose soon, for now that Lydia has accepted Lord Roden’s proposal, she will tease Kitty mercilessly until he does. I must say, I never envisioned Lydia with an older man, much less a widower, but he has a sympathy and a solidness about him that is good for her, I think.”
“It cost me a lot less than I believed it would, to find a sympathetic, solid husband for her,” he said wryly. Lydia had given them all a few hair-raising moments, but thankfully, they had managed—by dint of keeping her at Pemberley and at nearby Estwick Hall with the Bingleys, where she was introduced to his lordship. Darcy had settled something on both of Elizabeth’s younger sisters, but had never dreamt Lydia would do so well, even so.
His wife kissed his nose in acknowledgement.
“I believe Sarah is once again in the family way—she did not touch her mutton, and in fact turned rather green, I think, at the sight of it. I shall have to speak to Cook.”
He rolled over so that he overshadowed her in the firelight. “Think about menus…later,” he said, proceeding to show her, by every touch and breath in his body, of his love and adoration. She held him clasped to her heart, her kisses still as sweet and delicious as the first time.
“Tell me you love me,” he demanded, at the peak of their united passion, and at the very moment he knew she could not speak at all.
“I love you more than lemon cheesecakes, or trifle, or fruit tart,” she said, afterwards, when she had finally caught her breath.
“That much?” he smiled down at her, pressing kisses to the softness of her jaw and ear. “What do I have to do to exceed your affection for, say, chocolate drops?”
With a scintillating whisper in his ear, she told him, and it was much, much later before he allowed sleep to take her in its arms.
He found himself restless, however, and carefully slipped out of the bed they shared, donned his brocaded banyan, and decided to retrieve the book he had left in the drawing room. Taking a single candle, he quietly took the stairs and made his way to the entry of the great room.
A single servant, he saw, was clearing up the last of the clutter they had left there, her back to him.
“It is late,” he said, not wishing to startle her, and collecting his book off a side table. “The rest of this can wait until tomorrow, surely. You should find your bed.”
“’Tis not much left to do, sir, but thankee.”
He did not recognise her voice. He knew all his servants; this was not one of them. He froze, book in hand.
In that moment, she turned to face him; she was youngish, not pretty but sweet-faced, friendly, her smile broad. She gave him a little wave with the arm not holding a dust-cloth. She had no hand, just a stump at the end of her arm. Gradually, before his eyes, she vanished into mere firelight.
Darcy was not, generally, a superstitious man, but even he could recognise a miracle when he saw one. “I am going to be a father,” he said to the empty room. Hastily, he hurried to his wife—she would understand, and want to celebrate together.