Page 25

6th January 1823, Monday

There was a painting that hung in the master’s study at Pemberley.

It had been commissioned almost seven years ago and depicted a woman sitting across from the artist on a gondola floating in the Grand Canal in Venice.

The Bridge of Sighs was captured in the background, its white limestone walls awash with reds and golds by the approaching sunset.

The lady in the portrait was smiling charmingly at her companion, a look so very affectionate in her eyes as to render any outside observer a little uncomfortable.

Her wild hair was barely bound, her bonnet tossed aside.

She held a peach and white parasol loosely in one hand while the other was captured in an attempt to tuck an errant curl behind her ear.

Her small white lace gloves and parasol complimented her blush-coloured muslin dress overlayed with a white embroidered lace.

A few dimming sun rays eluded the paltry protection her parasol provided and caught in her hair, her pink cheeks, her golden-green eyes.

She was beautiful.

And she was Pemberley’s mistress.

The original sketch of the oil painting was done by Darcy himself.

His flair for artistry was known only by a trusted few, his wife being one of them.

She had learned of his talent three years into their marriage, and only when, after tirelessly dealing with the consequences of Lydia’s baby and her second come out, a rather rough harvest season in Derbyshire the following year and Georgiana’s suitor during her third season, the Darcys had finally had enough time for themselves to go on their much-anticipated wedding trip.

In Italy, Darcy once again took up his hobby with renewed vigour.

He was passably good with pencil sketches, but had no talent for oils or watercolours and was by no means a professional in any shape or form.

He had been, however, in a beautiful country, with a beautiful wife, during a beautiful time of the year.

He had wanted to capture everything.

He drew Elizabeth as she slept, as she ate, as she read, and as she walked around the streets of Milan.

He drew her while she sat for him, and he drew her from memory.

She was an endlessly fascinating subject, with her expressive eyes and untameable hair and that neverending, restless energy she exuded from her person at all times.

Out of all those dozens of sketches, however, there was one he loved above all others.

It was this one that he had sent over to Sir Henry Raeburn in Scotland once they returned back home to the English soil to be commissioned into a portrait done in oil paints.

The man had once before captured the likeness of Pemberley’s mistress for its art gallery and so he was familiar with the lady’s colouring.

The painting, very aptly named ‘ trafitto da un raggio di sole’ , was a moment captured just before the couple kissed under the Bridge of Sighs as the sun set.

“It is a tradition, do you not know?” Elizabeth cajoled Darcy, who was a little more circumspect with displays of affection in public compared to his wife.

But it was unseasonably cold that evening, and except for their gondolier, there was no one around them, “They say if you kiss under the bridge of sighs during sunset, your love will last forever.”

Darcy raised a brow without looking at her, “And who are these ever elusive ‘they’ and why must we listen to them?” Most of his concentration was on his sketch pad as he laboured over getting his wife’s raised brow till it was arched just right.

She huffed, making him look up,

Elizabeth pouted when she caught his gaze, “Please, Fitzwilliam? ”

Darcy rolled his eyes, but put his sketchpad aside.

He would fill in the details of her dress later,

“Elizabeth, I do not need to kiss you under a specific piece of architecture at a specific time of day to know that I will love you forever.”

“Neither do I!” She exclaimed, and then promptly belied her words by moving closer to him, almost crowding him in his seat.

Darcy’s heart beat faster at her proximity, his cheeks going pink.

The gondolier behind him was doing a splendid job of ignoring them.

The man was perhaps only too used to couples trying to steal kisses in his boat.

“Nonetheless, will you not indulge your superstitious, irrational, romantic wife, dear husband?”

The bridge was almost upon them then.

Darcy sighed.

He had, after all, promised her everything that was in his power to give.

He closed the distance between them as the gondola crossed the bridge.

Elizabeth hummed against his lips in happy satisfaction.

Darcy almost laughed at the smile on her face when she pulled away.

Like a cat who got the cream.

He memorised that smile, and promised himself he would sketch it at his leisure.

“There, that was not so very difficult now, was it?” Her voice was coy, and her expression coquettish.

She batted her lashes and looked up at him through them and all of her was so completely ridiculous and so ridiculously charming.

If he had fallen in love with an uncivil Elizabeth who had had no designs on him, it was no surprise that a flirtatious Elizabeth completely fell him.

He wondered how long the dastard boat-ride was going to last and mentally amended their plans of going out to watch ‘Leonora’ that night.

They would not be leaving their chambers till the next morning if he had any say about it .

A knock on the door to the master’s study brought Darcy back to the present.

He gave his wife’s portrait a half smile, shook his head, and bid the person standing outside to come in.

The door was opened by a footman who nudged a little girl into the room.

He met Darcy’s eyes for a moment, and Darcy nodded for him to close the door behind him.

The girl, not much older than three, came toddling in, rounded her father’s mahogany desk and hugged his knees, looking up at him through her mother’s fine eyes,

“Papa!”

Darcy pressed his lips to stop himself from grinning at the pretty picture she made.

Her yellow frock was dusty, the ribbon in her hair askew, and there was a very distinct paw print on her cheek.

Wren Darcy was as wild as her mother and could not bear to sit in one place for too long.

“Hello, my sweet.” He picked her up and sat her on his lap, “Where are your brothers?”

“Shooting arrows outside with mama.” She made a face, not because she disliked archery but because she was, as yet, not very good at it.

Last year, Darcy had read Walter Scott’s Ivanhue to his sons as a bedtime story.

His eldest, Vernon, had instantly taken to the character of Robin Hood and had, at the young age of six, proclaimed to all who would listen, that he was going to be the best archer in the world.

Darcy’s second son, Warren, only two years younger, looked up to his brother as much as Vernon looked up to Robinhood and so it had surprised no one that once Vernon started learning archery, Warren followed.

Wren was not one to be left behind, and as soon as she learned to ask for it, she wanted her own bow.

At three, her little equipment was of little use in the natural environment, but indoors, his daughter was a veritable monkey- climbing over shelves and window sills and aiming arrows at vases and trinkets.

It was a very good thing the poor girl’s aim was so dreadful, or Darcy would’ve lost an heirloom or two by now.

As it was, she was the bane of her nanny’s existence and the delight of everyone else’s.

She got in trouble constantly, but apologised with such sincere sweetness in her manners that no one could be cross with her.

“I see. They’ve all left you all alone, have they?”

Wren nodded very sadly, sighing as if feeling much too put upon.

Darcy grinned,

“Oh, my darling little girl.” He hugged her to him, and stood up with her in his arms, “They are monsters, you brothers and your mama. We shall pay no mind to them. Come, play with your papa.”

Instantly, she brightened, “What shall we do, papa?”

“We shall do whatever you want, little Wren.”

“Will you push me on the swings, please?”

“It will be my pleasure.”

And so it was that Darcy sent Wren over to her nanny to get her ready for the outdoors.

Once armed with her warmest green cloak, and red muffs and matching scarf, Wren raced down to where her father was waiting for her at the main door, also clad in his great coat and leather gloves.

A footman opened the door as Darcy reached for his daughter’s hand, and they were not yet halfway down the stone steps when they saw a familiar carriage coming in on the drive.

Darcy paused and Wren, seeing one of the occupants of the carriage lean out of the window to wave at them, gasped happily and brought both her hands up to wave back, bouncing on her toes ,

“Auntie Lydia!”

Auntie Lydia was a favourite of the Darcy children, second only to Auntie Georgie, who had the added advantage of being settled in only twenty miles from Pemberley at Hallow Hills with her husband and son.

Lydia, on the other hand, still lived in the Darcys’ cottage near the Peaks with her daughter.

She now went by Mrs Barrett, a well known widow in her little society who had tragically lost her lieutenant husband in some battle or the other right before finding out she was with child.

Her sister Mary had been her biggest supporter and caretaker for the longest time, only having recently married a gentleman who had, a couple of months ago, inherited a modest estate near their neighbourhood.

Mary and her husband were currently in Brighton on their wedding trip and would only be returning sometime next month.

Dorothea Barrett, Lydia’s daughter, had turned ten this year, and thankfully looked too much like her mother for there to be any speculation about the father.

Like Darcy had first predicted ten years ago, Wickham had spread damaging rumours all through Meryton when

Darcy and Elizabeth had married.

But again, just as he had predicted, with no one to direct their vitriol at, and with the continued ignorance of the rest of the Bennet ladies, the citizens of Meryton had quieted down in unsatisfied confusion, and then later, when Miss Lydia had come to visit her hometown after her confinement, no worse for wear except for perhaps a little more plump in the cheeks, Wickham’s stories were proclaimed to be nothing more than slander and soon completely forgot.

Town had been a little different.

Considering the Darcys' scandal-free history and unmarred reputation, the ton was not so eager to let the scandal go. But, when it came out that the originator of the first rumours had not only previously been the son of the Darcy’s father's steward, but was also now in debtors' prison because of the said gentleman having called in his debts, the credibility of the stories suffered greatly. When, during the next London season, Miss Lydia came out into society at the same time as Miss Georgiana and the two of them looked to all and sundry as the best of friends with no sign of a child anywhere, the last of the speculation was at an end.

Lydia enjoyed two London seasons before retiring back to her wonderful cottage in the north as a widow, and Georgiana met a man and fell in love in the following year, and with both their responsibilities taken care of, the Darcys went to Italy for their wedding trip three years too late. Dorothea was considered the first child in their family and was unquestionably, the leader of her brood of cousins. After her came Vernon, then Georgiana’s son Anthony, then Warren, and then lastly, Wren.

Disregarding that there were almost a whole five years between then, Wren and Dorothy were the best of friends. Being the only two girls in their group of children, the two of them were thick as thieves and so as soon as Lydia’s carriage came to a stop in front of the house, Darcy was not even a little surprised when he was all but forgotten by his daughter in lieu of rushing down the steps to greet her friend as Dorothea climbed out after her mother.

“Do-do!” Wren squealed excitedly, making Lydia laugh as the little sprite all but jumped at the older girl.

“Wrennie!” Dorothea squealed just as loudly and the two of them hugged each other as if they had been separated for decades instead of only just a month and a half.

“Lydia.” Darcy greeted his sister by marriage with much more decorum but no less enthusiasm, placing a kiss on the crown on her head,

“Brother.” She smiled back, “Where are the boys and Lizzy?”

“At the butts practising their archery.” Darcy informed her, and then asked if she wanted to go meet them now or if she would like to rest ,

“Oh no, Dorothea and I slept through most of the journey. I’m not at all tired.”

And so all of them went over to the grounds at the back where a patch of field had been converted solely for Archery practice. Vernon and Warren were standing side to side, their forms being corrected by a master while Elizabeth sat a little ways away on a little garden table with her tea and her correspondence for the day. The commotion their daughters made made Elizabeth look up and her face brightened with a smile when she took in her guests,

“Lyddie!”

“Lizzy!”

The two sisters' greetings to each other were not so very different from their daughters and Darcy shook his head at their antics, walking over to the boys instead to see how they had fared,

“Well done, Master Vernon!” Their master, a middling man by the name of Mr Wright exclaimed as Vernon shot his arrow, hitting the target board at a solid nine.

Vernon scowled, “I cannot hit the bullseye today.” He muttered petulantly.

“You only have to aim a little more to the left, Master Vernon.” Then, tweaking the boy’s stance a little, Mr Wright asked him to try again.

Again, the arrow hit nine, but it was closer to the bullseye than before.

Darcy grinned.

He himself had no talent for target practice.

He was a decent shot, but was better with a foil.

He could only suppose his youngest son was like him in that, for when Warren aimed and shot his arrow, it only went halfway to the field before plunging into the ground .

Warren, however, was too much his mother’s son to scowl, and instead laughed at his own folly before running off to pick his arrow back up and try again.

The three of them noticed him as one and while Mr Wright bowed and retreated back to his equipment, both Vernon and Warren were too excited to show off their own achievements of the day to allow him a word in edgewise.

Darcy listened to them patiently, praising them over their efforts and commiserating over the boring repetitions of mundane movements that came with learning any new sport.

Soon, though, he interjected to direct the two of them towards their guests, and seeing their lovely Auntie Lydia, the two of them, just like his daughter before, ran off like shots, leaving their poor papa behind.

The archery lesson was done for the day, and Darcy dismissed Mr Wright before turning back to his family.

Wren and Dorothea had colonised one of the flower beds and were making crowns for each other out of snapdragons and delphiniums and Lydia was being happily accosted by her two nephews, and their neverending chatter.

Only Elizabeth was looking at him as he walked over.

Her eyes were warm as she offered him her hand and he placed a kiss on her knuckles before taking his seat next to her.

“I know I am a little early,” Lydia said to them as Warren climbed onto her lap to place a kiss on her cheek.

He was an affectionate little boy, and was at any moment, ready to cuddle with anyone.

Lydia kissed him back, making him giggle, then continued, “But Dorothea has been going on and on and on about visiting Pemberley this past week. Nanny and I were quite at our wits end with her.”

“You know you are welcome at any time, Lydia.” Darcy replied glibly.

In fact, having Lydia move to Pemberley permanently was a topic that was always on the table for the Darcys.

The house was big enough, after all, and the children would only be made happier by the addition.

But, Lydia loved the place she had carved for herself in her little society, and she loved being mistress of her own home too much to move away indefinitely.

A standing invitation to her sister’s palatial house was more than enough for her .

“Besides, you are not that early. The rest of the party will be arriving a little before dinner. The weather has been kind this winter, and despite Jane’s condition, the Lucases have made good time.”

Jane Lucas was, for the very first time in her ten years of marriage, with child.

She was some four months into her first pregnancy, and had fought tooth and nail with her husband, his mother, and her own mother, to make this trip to Pemberley.

John Lucas was a nervous wreck.

The couple had thought themselves barren and had lost all hope of producing their own children five years into their marriage, and had last year even begun contemplating adoption options.

This little Lucas baby, whether it be born a boy or a girl, was going to be a miracle child, and John, though in every other way a completely sensible and intelligent man, was understandably behaving like a protective Neanderthal in matters of his unborn babe.

“What about Kitty? That girl is a dreadful correspondent! The last letter I received from her was sent in October!”

Kitty Bennet, now Mrs Catherine Bingley, was a young lady of seven and twenty who had married Mr Charles Bingley a couple of years ago after a long courtship and an even longer engagement period that had lasted a total of three years.

Bingley had spent most of his youth flitting from woman to woman- all of them blonde and all of them serene.

It was, therefore, a surprise to everyone then when, at eight and twenty, he had fallen in love with the temperamental and brunette Catherine Bennet, who had at the time been enjoying the London Season with the Darcys.

Kitty, of course, had had no interest in being pursued by a man whose inconstancy she had witnessed firsthand when he had jilted her elder sister.

But, Charles Bingley had always been handsome, and lively and amiable (everything a gentleman ought to be!) and she could not resist his charms for long.

Still, she had made him prove himself.

Charles had courted Kitty for the better part of a year and their engagement period had been almost twice as long.

It was not until after they married that Charles bought Netherfield outright and finally fulfilled his father's wish of becoming part of the landed gentry.

“Bingley wrote to me only last week.” Darcy said, “Mrs Bingley’s health will not allow her to travel so far north, especially not in the winter. Besides, they have Miss Bingley currently visiting them and though I was happy to extend the invite, they did not want to subject us to their sister’s ill humour.”

Miss Bingley had, unlike most of the Bennet sisters, never married. Her aspirations were always too high when compared to her prospects and in the process of setting her cap on wealthy, titled gentlemen, she had spurned more than one respectable marriage proposal. Currently, she lived in Scarborough with her aunt as a companion and silently cursed Mrs Darcy regularly for essentially stealing her place in society.

Lydia gaped, “She cannot still be holding a grudge against Lizzy!”

Elizabeth snorted, “Miss Bingley is like an elephant. She is unlikely to forget anything, but she especially will not forget what she considers an offence to her person. Indeed, she has quite convinced herself that I married Fitzwilliam solely to outdo and antagonise her.”

Lydia raised a teasing brow, “And did you not?”

Elizabeth smirked, “ No , but perhaps it was a bigger perk that I would like to admit.”

Darcy rolled his eyes as the girls giggled and the conversation shifted to more merrier topics. The rest of the afternoon was spent in this fashion of catching up with each other's lives while their children played amongst themselves and it was not until the sun had almost started going down, that the rest of their dinner party was announced .

Mrs Reynolds walked into the garden, Mr and Mrs Lucas following behind her.

Jane looked positively ethereal with that expectant glow on her face, and her sisters ran to hug her and offer her their congratulations.

The children crowded around their Uncle Lucas, for the man was infamously known for spoiling his nieces and nephews.

Like Father Christmas himself, John had brought with him a sack of gifts that he presented to the children- toys, sweets, tea sets, and soldiers.

The children descended upon their bounty like savages and had to be physically picked up and brought inside the house as the sun went down and the day grew colder.

That night, dinner was a jolly and raucous affair.

Surrounded as he was with his wife, his sisters, his closest friend, and their children, Darcy was at his most comfortable, and despite some key members of his family not being able to attend due to conflicting schedules and prior engagements, he could not have asked for a better meal.

Elizabeth, sitting across from him on the other side of the intimately small dinner table, bestowed upon him her bright, beautiful smile, and mouthed softly, Happy Anniversary, Darling.

Darcy grinned back, uncharacteristically wide, and raised a silent toast in her direction, to ten more years just as blissful .