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Chapter Eighteen
Posted on Sunday, 11 November 2007
William and I did not marry at the end of the week. Mamá protested lack of time to adequately prepare for the event. Even though we declared that we wanted naught but a simple ceremony with only close family in attendance, she insisted that we must have a proper celebration. Besides, it would afford us opportunity to send express posts to Town to invite the Gardiners and have Colonel Fitzwilliam escort Georgiana.
I rather dreaded facing the colonel. I was relieved that I had never granted him a private audience whereby he might actually have proposed. William had not the slightest sympathy for his cousin. Indeed, I think he looked forward to flaunting his prize before him. Mrs. Gardiner wrote that they could return to Longbourn by Wednesday next, and upon telling William, he pronounced Thursday morning as our wedding day and not a day later. His tone was so marked and the look in his eye so fierce that Mamá dared not suggest further delay.
The day before the event, William and I had escaped my mother’s nerves and demands by retreating to the walled garden farthest from the house. There, we had used the opportunity to steal a few kisses and murmur words of love to each other. Unexpectedly, the wind came up, warning that winter would soon be upon us. I had neglected to bring my shawl, and I began to shiver in William’s embrace.
“Shall we return to the house?” he asked.
“Oh, I do not wish to give up this rare idyll just yet.”
“Then, I shall fetch your wrap.”
I protested, but he would not be deterred, promising to return before I could miss him. But I did. How could I not? He had become as necessary to me as the air I breathed.
I walked about, noting that the plants were most likely wearing their final blooms of the autumnal season. That part of the yard contained few plots of colour, providing a haven for natural grasses and reeds instead. I recalled how Lady Catherine had called it a pretty sort of little wilderness. Only a year earlier, she had led me past the wall of stones into its privacy before unleashing upon me her particular brand of torment. I shuddered anew, recalling the abyss into which I had fallen upon hearing her words.
“Lizzy?”
I whirled around, startled to find Papá standing behind me.
“I did not mean to frighten you. Mr. Darcy said I would find you here.”
“Is he not returning?”
“In a few moments. I hoped for this opportunity to speak to you, for the morrow will be upon us before we know it, and you…will be gone.”
I looked away, uncomfortable at hearing the emotion in his voice, for he rarely revealed himself in such a manner.
“I fear for you to begin a new life with this…distance between us.” I made no response. “Lizzy, once again, I must tell you that I regret causing the rift. You know me well. I can normally forego any guilt my shortcomings cause far sooner than I should, but this time I am utterly ashamed of myself…and I find that I cannot overcome the deep sorrow caused by the gulf that separates you and me.”
The grief in his eyes was evident. Suddenly, the fact that he had suffered far too long because of my stubborn prejudice overtook me. My heart began to ache, and I felt the quickening of tears.
“Papá, I am at fault. I have judged you harshly, and I was wrong. You have fathered me in a manner that belies the relationship of a man and his foster child, for I never felt adopted. I knew that you loved me as much as you loved Jane or Kitty or any of my sisters.”
“Or more,” he whispered.
“Oh, Papá!” I threw my arms around him. “Will you forgive me for acting the ungrateful daughter?”
“If you forgive me for being the foolish father who did not consider you brave enough to know the truth.”
Some time later, William found us sitting on the stone bench, my hand resting in Papá’s as we talked. He started to excuse himself and leave, but my father rose, calling him to take his place beside me. After kissing my forehead, Papá walked back to the house.
William placed the shawl around my shoulders, took out his handkerchief, and wiped the tear from my cheek. “I take it all is well between you?”
I nodded. “You lingered in the house a long time. Did you do so to afford Papá time alone with me?”
He shrugged. “I could not find that pesky wrap of yours anywhere.”
We married in Longbourn church on the very first Thursday in November. The day was glorious – one of those beautiful autumn mornings lit with brilliant sunshine, hidden now and then by a few downy clouds, and just a bite of cold weather in the air. All my sisters, save Lydia, were in attendance, including my newest, Georgiana. Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner had arrived as planned, sans their children, giving Mamá cause to rejoice. Colonel Fitzwilliam was William’s only additional relative who came, and the colonel displayed not the slightest regret at having lost my hand, an affront to my ego I bore as best I could.
Radiant sunlight flooded the sanctuary as William and I spoke our vows. My heart overflowed with the warmth of love I felt within the church, love not only from the man who stood beside me but from the family witnessing our union. I realized how truly blessed I was to have grown up as Elizabeth Bennet. Leaving through the church entryway to return to Longbourn, surrounded by our loved ones, I spied Mr. Fawcett standing just outside the door. I reached out and clasped his hand, as he smiled his approval. Papá had told him the truth about my birth only a few days earlier, and I could see that he shared in my happiness.
After a clamorous, joyful breakfast and many congratulatory wishes, we at last kissed and hugged our families goodbye and departed in William’s carriage. He had asked me if I wished to honeymoon in Florence or Vienna, but I was as tired of travelling as he. All we truly longed for was to go home to Pemberley. Georgiana was to return to Eden Park with the colonel, so we found ourselves alone at last.
The moment the carriage rounded the bend and could no longer be seen by anyone at Longbourn, William removed his hat, untied my bonnet, and pulled me close. He kissed me with loving, tender, lingering kisses that stirred my senses.
“Are you warm enough, Mrs. Darcy?” he asked, wrapping his arms around me even tighter.
“I am.”
“Are you happy, Mrs. Darcy?”
“Exceptionally happy.”
“Are you content to be called Mrs. Darcy?”
“You know that I am, but at this moment I believe I would be content no matter what you called me.”
“Even Bessie?”
“Even Bessie…dearest Fitzwilly.”
We spent our wedding night in a fine house outside Daventry in Northamptonshire. I was surprised to find the owners away, until my husband announced that he had bought the house six months earlier. It was a modest estate about the size of Netherfield, providing excellent sport or so he assured me. William planned to let it out as soon as renovations were complete. Thus, we were not forced to spend our first night of marriage making do with inadequate facilities at a village inn.
Little remained to finish the place, and I found the house more comfortable and much grander than any I had expected to encounter on the road. A full staff was in place for our visit, and we arrived to fires lit in every room, well-polished floors and furniture, an abundance of light, and the promising aroma of a sumptuous wedding supper in preparation.
A lady’s maid who met me in my chamber quickly unpacked and helped me bathe and dress for the evening meal. She laid out my finest nightgown for later use, and I felt my pulse quicken in anticipation of the night to come. I had preliminary knowledge of what to expect, but still I felt nervous, hoping I would not disappoint my husband. Jane had assured me only the night before when we had snatched a few moments alone in my room, that all I must do was follow Mr. Darcy’s lead. She had blushed repeatedly while imparting her brief instructions concerning the wedding night, so much so that she had to sit down and fan herself.
William stood waiting at the foot of the staircase, as I descended, and I hoped he approved of my dress. The light in his eyes told me that the simple green gown pleased him. At the table, neither of us seemed to have much appetite, although the meal was deliciously prepared and elegantly served. I found myself partaking of more wine than food to the point that when we rose from the table at the close of supper, I had to reach for the back of the chair to steady myself.
“You should have eaten more,” William whispered into my ear, as he took my arm and guided me into the drawing room. My eyes widened as I heard myself giggle. Where had that come from?
“Shall you play for me, dearest?” He gestured toward the instrument sitting prominently near the window.
“I fear that I should play even more poorly than usual tonight.” My eyes beseeched him not to insist, and he did not.
“Then, sit here by the fire, while I provide the music.”
What? Had my husband kept his talent hidden from me all this time? I could not believe Georgiana had failed to tell me that her brother was proficient on the pianoforte. Instead of walking toward the instrument, however, William rang the bell for the servant. Within moments, three men entered the room, walked to a far corner, and picked up a violin, bass fiddle, and cello. I smiled with delight when they began their serenade with the loveliest of songs.
William poured himself a snifter of brandy and picked up the bottle of sherry with a questioning look in my direction. When I nodded, he smiled and brought me a glass before sitting close beside me on the sofa.
“Do you think of everything?” I asked, inclining my head toward the musicians.
“I want tonight to be perfect.”
“‘Tis more than I ever dreamed of.”
“I trust you will say that in the morning.”
His statement and the look in his eyes made me drink the sherry far too quickly, for I drained the tiny glass in one gulp.
“Another?”
I nodded my head more than I needed to. “Please.”
He smiled again, rose, and fetched me another drink. “I suggest you sip this one.”
“I will.” I nodded, took a sip, and from somewhere another unfortunate giggle escaped.
William rose, took our glasses, placed them on the side table, and held out his hands to me. “Will you do me the honour of dancing with me, Mrs. Darcy?”
“I…yes, of course.” I could not help but smile. “But how shall we dance with just the two of us?”
“I wish to teach you something new called the waltz.” He led me to the wide, open portion of the vast room, nodded at the musicians, and took me in his arms.
“William!” I was surprised at his boldness in front of others.
“This dance allows a somewhat shocking position, but one I consider perfect for dancing with my wife.”
The most beautiful music I had heard in a long time began. The romantic nature of the waltz proved entrancing. It did not take me long to follow William’s lead, and I loved how the three-quarter rhythm provided perfect timing for the steps of the dance. Secure in his strong arms, I felt like a princess in a castle. Round and round he whirled me, until I began to laugh aloud.
“Where did you learn how to do this?” I asked at the end of the song.
“At a ball in Bath. A couple that had honeymooned in Vienna introduced it. Evidently, it is the latest rage in Austria.” He signalled the music-makers to begin again, and they launched into yet another song in the same tempo.
“Once upon a time, I do recall hearing you declare that you did not care for dancing.” I gave him an arch smile. “Then you surprise me with a reel in Ireland and now the newest of steps.”
“It all depends upon my partner. I detested being forced to lead around every mother’s daughter seeking a husband. But now that you are my own darling wife, I find I tolerate it fairly well.”
Just then, I stepped wrong and fell against him. He caught me and helped me to regain my footing. When he suggested that we sit down, however, I did not object, for by that time the room was spinning. I reached for my glass of sherry as he guided me to the sofa.
“I suggest, my dear, that you forego the sherry for water from now until we retire.”
“If you wish, but sherry tastes better.” I said, giggling again.
He smiled and whispered into my ear. “Elizabeth, if I drink because we cannot marry and you drink because we can, how shall we ever make this union work?”
I leaned my head back and smiled up at him. “Seems a hopeless task to me.”
“Nothing is hopeless,” he growled. “Come with me.”
You must believe me when I tell you…my husband made it work.
As much as I found myself swept away by the enchantment of the night before, as exciting, enlightening, and somewhat surprising I found the marriage bed to be, awaking within my husband’s arms the following morning touched me so profoundly that I almost wept.
My head lay upon his chest. I took a breath and revelled anew in his delicious scent. My arm was thrown around his bare waist, and the warmth of his skin filled me with pleasure. He held me in a close embrace, his chin resting on my head. Oh, how I loved that man!
Stirring slightly, I raised my eyes to see if he still slept. Instead, I was greeted with a smile. “How long have you been awake?” I asked.
“Long enough to rejoice that I am not dreaming.”
“This is not a dream, is it?”
“It cannot be, for no dream feels as good as you.” He kissed my forehead, and I lowered my gaze, hoping he did not notice the mist in my eyes. Unfortunately, nothing escaped William.
He lifted my chin, and I saw his frown. “What is it, my love? What is wrong?”
“Nothing. I am simply overcome with happiness.”
“But you must not weep. Happiness does not cause tears.”
“Sometimes it does.” I raised myself enough to lean upon my elbow. “I wakened this morning feeling so safe, so wanted, so loved that I cannot find the words to express what I mean. All I can say is that for the first time in more than a year, I feel as though I have come home. In your arms, I feel as though I am truly where I should be.”
“Oh, my only love, you are…you are exactly where you should be.” He pulled me back into his embrace. We were content to simply hold each other for the longest time, marvelling at the unbelievable gift we had been granted in becoming man and wife.
Our accommodations for the second night on our journey were not as fine by any means, but it mattered little to either of us. The food did not compare to our wedding night feast, there were no musicians with strings to entertain us, and the bed was by no means as soft as the former night’s. I tell you the truth – we could have slept in a barn as long as we slept together. I no longer needed the wine bottle to calm my nerves, for William had proved a patient and generous lover, and I found that I took to his guidance with exceptional speed. Now that I had been introduced to the delights of married love, my eagerness matched his.
We found that we were compatible not only in bed, but out of it as well. Upon reaching Pemberley, I undertook my duties as mistress of that great house as though I had been born there. At times, I was astonished anew at the fact that, but for Sir Linton’s interference, I might have come into the world in one of those bedchambers. William fascinated me with all that he knew about the history of our home, and I spent countless hours listening and learning from him. Wishing me to be acquainted with an outline of his estate duties, he introduced the basic tasks he attended to in running Pemberley.
In the weeks to come, I was surprised to learn that not only did William own the vast lands surrounding Pemberley and his townhouse in London, he also possessed a home in Ramsgate.
“It is but a cottage,” he said. “My father bought it so that Mother could enjoy the benefits of summers by the sea. I should like to take you there, if you have not had your fill of the ocean.”
I smiled and kissed his cheek. “By the summer months, I am quite certain I shall be glad to visit the sea again.”
“And would you welcome another ocean voyage?”
I was surprised he made that suggestion. “Perhaps.”
“Do you recall how narrow the beds were onboard The Falcon?”
“I do,” I said, wondering why he asked such a curious question.
He pulled me onto his lap and began running his finger along the neckline of my gown. “I rather think I would enjoy sharing one of those beds with you.”
I laughed and played with his curls. “Would you now? For how long?”
“At least a hundred years.”
After we had resided at Pemberley as husband and wife for a little over a fortnight, William called me into his study one day. He said the post had come, and several letters in the stack were addressed to me. I recognized Jane’s script and that of Aunt Gardiner, but the third hand belonged to a stranger. Intrigued, I opened it to see Father Darcy’s signature, his writing obviously shaky. He had dictated it to Father Rafferty as planned, but he made the effort to sign his name.
He hoped that we were married by the time his letter arrived, and his best wishes and prayers for our happiness made up most of the remainder.
You have filled my heart with joy that I never anticipated, Elizabeth. I am still amazed that I have fathered such a daughter.
Father Rafferty added a postscript wherein he stated that my father’s health declined daily. He doubted that he would live to see the New Year. That statement saddened me, and I hastened to answer the letter immediately.
We travelled to Town a week before Christmas and spent the holidays with Georgiana. Colonel Fitzwilliam’s parents called upon us, and I found that I liked the earl and his wife. I was thankful that, although he resembled Lady Catherine in looks, his manners were entirely the opposite. We spent the eve of the New Year at a dinner party at Eden Park where William introduced me to various members of the ton who evidently were well acquainted with him. I also renewed acquaintance with some who had paid me scant attention when last I had visited London, but hastened to curry my favour now that I was Mrs. Darcy.
We invited Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner to the townhouse more than once, and I was glad to see that my aunt had passed that part of her confinement which caused her to feel ill. She now bloomed with that particular radiance women exhibit when expecting a child.
“I am quite well, Lizzy,” she assured me, “and judging from the light in your eye and that of Mr. Darcy, marriage seems to agree with both of you.”
“I have never been happier, Aunt.”
“You do not know how much your uncle and I rejoice at your good fortune. Little did we know it would all turn out so well when we set off for Ireland. Do not tell Edward I said this, but that was one business setback I shall never regret.”
William announced that we were to return to Pemberley the third week in January. I met the news with gladness, for, although I enjoyed London now that I was married, I still preferred the abundance of beauty and tranquillity provided by the country life in Derbyshire. Before we left, however, I told my husband that I wished to call upon Miss Willoughby.
“I would prefer to send a message asking her to call upon you, instead. Have you any objection?”
I agreed, of course, for I had dreaded returning to that dreary house belonging to the baronet. My aunt replied soon after receiving the note, indicating that she accepted my invitation with pleasure. Thus, on Thursday next, William took Georgiana out on an errand while I waited in anticipation of Miss Willoughby’s visit.
At precisely half past two, she was ushered into the smaller drawing room. We curtseyed in greeting, and I was relieved to see the smile upon her face. I knew that she was aware that William and I had married, for it was common news all over Town. However, for some reason, I had feared her disapproval because of the deep conflict between my husband and her brother. It seems that I had not yet overcome my apprehension that some possible danger yet emanated from the Willoughby house.
“Elizabeth,” she said, advancing into the room, “or, should I say Mrs. Darcy?”
I smiled. “I am pleased to see you, Miss Willoughby. Do call me Elizabeth.” I indicated that she should be seated on the sofa and offered her a cup of tea before sitting in a chair across from her.
“Will you not come and sit beside me, dear?”
I was surprised at her invitation and still a bit uneasy, but I rose and settled myself on the sofa.
“You look positively lovely. May I be so bold as to suggest that marriage suits you?”
I blushed and smiled. “It does. I am more than content.”
“Then do I assume correctly that you and Mr. Darcy have made a love match?”
I nodded. “We have.”
She reached for my hand. “Your mother would be so pleased!”
“Do you think so?”
“Without a doubt. At last, you wear the name to which you were born. I hope you enjoy a long life as mistress of Pemberley.”
I assured her that my husband and I both hoped she would visit us in Derbyshire, an invitation that brought tears to her eyes.
“I have so longed to see Bridesgate again,” she said.
“Then you shall, for we are acquainted with its tenant, Admiral Denison.”
“I have not lived there since I was but a child.”
“I hope that it will provoke memories of pleasant times.”
She reached out and took my hand. “Each time I look upon your face, my dear, I remember pleasant days, for I see my sister. Your presence lifts my spirits in a manner I thought had died long ago.”
Unfortunately, upon returning to Pemberley, we were met with greetings most grievous. A letter from Ireland awaited me, stating that Father Darcy had died on the sixth day of December.
His passing was easy and peaceful, Father Rafferty wrote. Within the packet containing the message, the priest had included my father’s rosary. I held it in my hand, noting that most of the beads were worn thin from his years of prayers.
“He died on your birthday,” William said softly.
I raised my eyes to his. “He died on the same day that my mother died.”
We both grieved Peter Darcy’s loss, each in our own way. William thrust himself into the management of his estate, keeping himself busy throughout the day. I took long walks all over Pemberley’s extensive grounds. I longed to plunge into the woods, but it was the end of January and still quite cold. Snowfall had been less than usual that winter, but a sharp wind often arose without warning. My husband had asked me not to wander off alone, and I obeyed.
I thought of my father’s life, how events and people had conspired to rob him of the love of a wife and family and yet provided him with a purpose he evidently found fulfilling. I thought of the good he had done and yet how cheated I felt not to have known him longer. My spirits lagged, and I found the same melancholy creeping back into my moods that had beset me for so long during the past year. I had thought it all behind me, but once again, life had taken a bitter turn. And, for some strange reason, I could not weep over his passing.
William was as loving and kind as I knew he would be. That first night, upon reading the letter, he had held me in his strong, comforting arms all night long, for I could not sleep. He had gone out of his way to provide me with time alone so that I might grieve in private, cautioning Georgiana not to intrude when I departed the house for my sojourns in the garden. After the first few weeks, he offered distractions, such as rides through the countryside, visits with neighbours, or even an invitation for my family at Longbourn to come, but I refused all of his suggestions.
At length, one day William walked into my sitting room, where I sat alone, staring out the window. He said nothing, but strode through the adjoining door into my chamber, returning within moments carrying my new fur-lined cloak and hat.
“Come, Elizabeth, let us go out.”
“I do not wish to call on anyone.”
“Then, we shall not see anyone, but you will leave the house. Look without – we are graced with one of those rare days in February. The sun shines, the snow melts, and, best of all, the wind has disappeared.”
I protested, but he would have none of it, insisting that I rise from my chair, while he fastened my cloak securely. He donned his long coat and hat and ushered me out the door. I was surprised to see the phaeton harnessed and waiting in the drive, its big yellow wheels still bright and shining. When I asked him our destination, he refused to say.
Once we were securely seated, the fur rug wrapped around us, he flicked the reins, and we drove away from Pemberley. I could not help but recall our previous ride in that conveyance a year before. Much had changed since that outing but not Mr. Darcy’s driving. Again, we careened down the road at a speed that robbed me of breath, and I was forced to cling to him for dear life. This time, however, I had not the slightest hesitation in hanging on.
When my husband turned up the path that led to Bridesgate Manor, I began to protest that I was in no mood to visit with Mrs. Denison or the admiral.
“Good, for they are not at home. I have it on good authority that the family journeyed to Town on Tuesday last.”
“Then why are we here?”
He refused to answer my query, but drove around the circle path that led to the back of the house. Servants, who were obviously acquainted with the master of Pemberley, held the horse while we climbed from the phaeton. Mr. Darcy spoke briefly with the steward, who nodded and led us through the back garden. He pointed toward a slight incline some distance from the grounds and left us to my husband’s pursuit. I followed him quietly, having given up asking questions he would not answer. We walked through a stand of trees that opened upon a glade, containing what could only be the family graveyard.
I caught my breath. “William, is this where my mother is buried?”
“It is.” He took my hand and guided me among the tombstones until I saw the one bearing her name. Elizabeth Willoughby Darcy. I fell to my knees and traced the letters with my fingers.
“It was here all along,” I said softly. “If only we had found this grave last year…”
“Yes.” He knelt beside me, taking my hand in his.
For some reason I felt peace descending upon my spirit. There, in that quiet haven, concrete evidence existed of the mother I never knew.
“How did you know to bring me here, that I needed to see her grave?”
“Because I know you.”
I turned to see his eyes upon me, eyes filled with love and understanding. What had I ever done to deserve such a good man?
We sat there for some time until I was ready to go, thinking we would return home. Instead, William turned the horse off the road onto the narrow path leading through the wood. Within a short time, we arrived at the Catholic chapel.
“Would you like to go in?” he asked before descending from the phaeton. When I nodded, he jumped down, lifting his arms to assist me.
Inside the building, the familiar odours of incense and old wood greeted us. We were the only visitors, and after William saw me seated in a pew, he walked to the side of the sanctuary, knocked on the door where he was met by the priest, and entered the sacristy.
I gazed at the altar, the statue of the Madonna and Child, and the Celtic cross on the table. I could see my grandmother lighting candles, fingering her rosary, and praying for forgiveness for having worshipped in the Anglican Church. I saw a young Peter Darcy and then Elizabeth Willoughby as they embraced the Catholic religion. I saw the devoted couple as they stood before that altar and vowed to love each other forever. I saw my father prostrate on the floor, pounding his fist into the slate, pouring out his anguish when he thought my mother dead.
And finally, at long last, I began to weep. Great, wracking sobs escaped from deep within as though they had been locked away for eternity. I wept for the past, for what had been, and for what could never be again. I mourned the loss not only of my parents, but of the childhood I might have known. I mourned the loss of the person I might have been. I mourned the loss of the person I had thought myself to be. I mourned the injustice that had caused these souls such pain, and I mourned for the loss of innocence and hope that I had suffered.
And when, at length, my weeping subsided, I mourned no longer.
I felt William’s presence beside me, oblivious as to when he had joined me. I looked down to see his dear, strong hand holding mine. Taking a kerchief from his pocket, he gently wiped the tears from my face.
“I have something to show you,” he said softly.
I rose and followed him to the sacristy, wondering why he should lead me there. Inside the small room, he introduced me to the priest and then indicated that I should sit at a table. The priest placed a large open book before me and then left us alone.
William pointed to the page containing writing, but I could not make it out. I attempted to decipher what he wished me to see before I realized it was not written in English.
“I cannot read Latin, William.”
“Look closely. I believe you will see names that you recognize.”
I questioned him with my expression, but did as he instructed. There, among all the foreign words, I saw the names Peter Darcy and Elizabeth Willoughby.
“The answer we sought this past year was right here,” William said, “for with many other words and phrases this entry states that your parents were married by Father Timothy Ayden in this parish on the 1st day of March, in the year of our Lord, 1791. If I had known last year that your mother had become Catholic, I would have found the answer right under my nose.”
“Thank you for finding it now,” I whispered. “It fills me with peace to see it written down, much like touching my mother’s tombstone.”
I sat there no little time, gazing at the priest’s handwriting from more than twenty years past. William waited patiently, and when I rose at last, he asked if I was ready to return home.
I shook my head. “Pray, take me somewhere new. I need to see a part of this countryside that I have never seen before.”
We rode for miles, my William and I, down roads I had not yet travelled and through countryside I truly had never seen, and still we remained in Derbyshire, according to my husband. At last, he reined in the horse, causing the phaeton to stop. I was amazed at our destination, for we had left the main road and struck out through paths not clearly marked. I had realized that we were climbing, but until I looked back, I had not the slightest idea that we had ascended such a distance.
“If we venture any farther, we shall have to walk. Shall we?” he asked, and I agreed, of course.
The landscape had turned barren, without grass or trees nearby. Instead, we climbed up a constellation of huge rocks flat enough to walk on, yet leading higher and higher. At length, when I began struggling to catch my breath, William suggested that we content ourselves with the view. I turned to glance over my shoulder and was surprised at how far we had climbed. I walked to the jagged edge of the cliff upon which we stood and looked down.
“How deep the valley lies below us!”
William joined me and took my hand in his. “Do not stand too near the rim.”
I found myself entranced by not only how tiny the stream below appeared, but by the sheer terror the thought of falling produced in me. I had never feared heights, but then I doubted that I had ever before hiked to such an elevation. We stood there, each of us lost in our own thoughts.
At length, William spoke. “Where are you, dearest, wading in that stream below?”
I shook my head. “Nowhere that pleasant.”
He frowned. “Then where? I hoped to distract you from your grief.”
“You have,” I assured him. “It is just that…”
“Just what?”
“Standing on the edge of this precipice makes me think of life itself.”
“Indeed? In what way?”
“It takes but a step to encounter disaster. A single event can change an ordinary day into a tragedy.”
“I suppose,” he said, removing his hat. “By the same token, however, a single event can make a horrid day into one more lovely than can be imagined. It is all in how one chooses to look at it.”
I released his hand and knelt down, continuing to gaze at the scene far below. “Yes, I understand what you are saying. One must be hopeful in one’s outlook, but William, what do I do with this fear that continues to beset me?”
“What fear do you speak of, my love?” He clasped my shoulders within his strong hands and caused me to rise.
“The fear that I have lost my faith. The fear that no matter how much we love each other, how good our life together is, how much we try…out of nowhere, on a day that begins in all innocence, something may come along to make the life we know disappear as easily as a vapour dissolves into nothing.”
He turned me around to face him and placed his hand against my cheek. “Elizabeth, you have experienced a series of shocks in the past fourteen months that would fell the strongest of faiths.”
“As you have.”
William shook his head. “Mine does not compare with yours. I was never told that I am not who I thought I was, that my parents were not my birth parents, that my life was altered through no fault of my own. And I did not discover my father only to lose him within a matter of months. You have endured more than you should have, Elizabeth, but you have survived. If your faith is weak, give it time. I believe it will grow strong again.”
I turned away, gazing at the scene far below once more. “But how, William? How will it ever take root anew? ”
“By looking up.” Tenderly, he lifted my chin. “You have spent far too long staring at what lies below or looking over your shoulder, watching for what may or may not creep up from behind. Feast your eyes on all that lies ahead of us.” Holding his arm aloft, he gestured toward the hills.
I did as he said and was amazed at the vistas I saw in the distance, at how far one might see from the peak on which we stood, and at the magnificence of the prospect before me. How had I missed such a sight?
He slipped his arms around my waist and together we attempted to take in the wonder of all that we could see. “What is it that the Psalmist says?” he whispered into my ear. “I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills…”*
“From whence cometh my help,” I finished.
“I cannot promise you that each day will be perfect, Elizabeth, for, granted, life is fragile. There is one thing I do know. Our love is not fragile. Our love is strong and enduring. Our love will stand when all else fails. As for the rest of it, what can I say? We are all in God’s hands. Let us leave it to Him.”
*Psalm 121:1
Epilogue
Ten years have now gone by since I married Mr. Darcy, and he still makes love to me with his eyes. In a crowded room, across a clamorous, joyful dinner table, it takes but one certain glance, and I feel that rush of anticipation overtake me, knowing that he wants me. I have seen numerous days surprise me, for many events have transpired, but one remains constant. As William said on the day that we stood together on the peaks of Derbyshire, our love for each other has remained strong and continues to strengthen with each passing year.
Our immediate family has been altered, as well as our larger family. Kitty and Mary have married: Kitty to a curate in Hertfordshire and Mary to a local attorney working with my Uncle Philips in Meryton. Thus, Mamá often enjoys the frequent company of two of her daughters. Jane and Mr. Bingley left Netherfield within a year of my marriage, moving to a neighbouring county within thirty miles of Pemberley. That move has afforded my sister and me much joy, now that we dwell within easy distance of one another. They are parents to three daughters and a young son, all sweet children possessing hearty constitutions.
Mr. and Mrs. Wickham remain in Newcastle. I wish that I might say their marriage is happy, but since I rarely see my sister, I am not well acquainted with the facts. Money, or their inability to manage it, continues to plague them, and Jane and I are often besieged by requests for assistance that we grant as often as possible. Sadly, they lost their only child within the first two years of marriage. Mamá writes to tell me each time my youngest sister visits Longbourn, but I have rarely had opportunity to be there at the same time. Thus, I would say I have only seen her twice since her marriage, and I have never encountered Mr. Wickham again, for he is much employed with his own pursuits.
Georgiana had a successful Season the first spring that William and I were married. Within two years, she married Mr. Wentworth, the grandson of a prominent gentleman in Town. He prefers London to the country, but allows my sister to visit us whenever she chooses. They have two daughters, one of whom is the image of Georgiana.
Six months after William and I married, a sad event transpired at Bridesgate when Admiral Denison’s wife fell ill and died within days. A grieving widower, he appeared most cast down for much of the following year. However, as things happened, he remarried the next year and, surprisingly, to someone close to me.
The same month that Mrs. Denison passed from this life, we were in residence in Town for the Season. You may well imagine how shocked we were when late one evening Miss Eleanor Willoughby sent a message to us.
“Georgiana,” Mr. Darcy said, upon reading the note the servant had brought in, “would you excuse Elizabeth and me? The hour grows late, and I believe it is past time for you to retire.”
I was surprised at my husband’s statement, for he rarely directly his younger sister as to when to go to her chamber now that she was out. Gradually, he had begun treating her more like the young woman she had become. She frowned, but did not question him, simply rising from her chair and bidding us goodnight.
“William, whatever is the matter?” I asked upon her removal from the room.
He took my hand, assisting me to rise from the sofa. “I did not wish for Georgiana to hear the contents of this note, for they are quite shocking.”
My eyes widened, fearing that one of my family had fallen ill.
“It is from Miss Willoughby.”
“Miss Willoughby! At this time of night?”
“Sir Linton is dead.”
My mouth flew open, but I could not think of anything to say.
“Elizabeth, he fell from the second floor and broke his neck.”
“Oh! We must go to her.”
William shook his head. “I shall go alone. She requests my assistance.”
“Do you not think that I am needed to comfort her?”
He rang the bell for the servant. “I do not want you to witness the scene. The constable has been called, naturally, and there is much confusion. I prefer that you wait here. Will you do that for me?”
“If you wish, but I would rather go with you. I do not like the idea of my aunt being alone.”
“If she is willing, I shall bring her home with me.” He kissed my forehead and strode from the room, directing the servant who had entered to fetch his hat.
Thus, it came about that my uncle died the same unspeakable death that he had proclaimed for my mother in the lie he told my father all those years ago. I marvelled that he fulfilled his own horrid prophecy.
Aunt Eleanor not only stayed with me at the townhouse while William saw to her brother’s funeral, but she consented to return to Pemberley with us when we left London. In Derbyshire, she spent three months renewing her acquaintance with the county in which she was born. That included visiting Bridesgate, of course, which was rather traumatic, and yet she welcomed it. Even though the admiral and his family were in mourning, they often invited her to visit along with me. I believe that by the time she returned to London, she had recovered from the shock of Sir Linton’s death well enough to cope with living in that dreary old house again.
There were no male heirs to inherit the Willoughby property. In truth, none of the three Willoughby children had progeny other than my mother. Sir Linton’s will directed that his property, such as it was, be left to his sister. William and I knew that Aunt Eleanor could not be happy living in that tumbledown townhouse, so we encouraged her to visit Pemberley often, which she did.
Eighteen months after her brother’s death, Admiral Denison and Eleanor Willoughby were married. He took her home to live at Bridesgate once more, in the house she had loved as a child. She and I had grown much closer since Sir Linton’s death, and I was overjoyed to have her as a neighbour, for she truly had become my Aunt Eleanor.
The day William had brought me home to Pemberley as his wife, he had surprised me by an addition he had made to the gallery of family portraits in the great hall. Included on the wall hung the picture of my mother that Andrew Denison had discovered in the attics of Bridesgate.
“When did you order this hung at Pemberley?” I asked in wonder.
Standing behind me, he slipped his arms around my waist. “The day after you agreed to marry me. I wrote to Mrs. Reynolds that evening from Ireland and directed her to carry out my wishes.”
“Thank you, William.” I lay my head back on his shoulder and gazed up at the mother I had never known.
“The portrait hangs where it should have all along, for she was the proper wife of Peter Darcy and the mother of the mistress of this house.”
“I wish we owned a likeness of my father as a grown man.”
We walked down the hall to stand before the picture of the three young Darcy brothers as children. “We shall simply have to see the future man reflected in the face of this young boy,” William said. “And, when your portrait is done, I believe we will see reminders of both your mother and him in your lovely countenance.”
“I have never had my picture painted.”
“You may do so with one caveat.”
“Oh?” I cut my eyes up at him. “And what might that possibly be?”
“I shall sit in on each of your sessions with the artist.”
“Indeed. That shall prove most tiresome, I would think.”
“I never grow tired of gazing at you, my love.”
“A pretty answer, but is it completely truthful?”
“What do you infer?”
“Surely, you would not prove jealous of the poor artist who is forced to draw my likeness.”
“Hmmph! How could I not grow jealous of a man who looks upon your beauty for hours at a time?”
“William! You have no reason to worry. Surely, you know that you alone own my heart.”
He drew me into his arms. “Surely I do. However, I alone also own your body, and no man shall spend hours in your presence without my company.” He kissed me tenderly. “Indulge me, sweet one, for mercy’s sake.”
I kissed him back. “I do recall promising to have mercy.”
“You did, and I always collect on promises.”
And now, in the tenth year of our marriage, we added yet another portrait to the gallery of Darcys, one I happened to consider as dear as the great picture of my husband, for only a few inches from the likeness of my father and his brothers as children hung the portrait of three more young Darcy brothers. George Fitzwilliam, Peter Thomas, and Henry Edward sat on a deep green velvet couch, their dark curls smoothed down, their shining, pink cheeks scrubbed, and their starched white collars almost in place.
Our Georgie, named, naturally, for his grandfather and father, was the oldest at eight years of age. Henry Edward, my baby boy all of four years old, wore the names of our uncles. And our six-year-old middle son, Peter Thomas, with the twinkle in his green eyes belying the serious demeanour about his mouth, had been named for my fathers, Peter Darcy and Thomas Bennet.
Already an accomplished horseman at his tender age, Georgie excelled at any sort of sport and dogged the steps of his father. I knew he would make an excellent master of Pemberley one day. Little Henry was, naturally, still a baby. His comical antics could make William and me laugh on the darkest of days. And dearest Peter - somehow, he reminded me of both my fathers, for he had an excellent mind, already excelled at his studies, and preferred his own company much of the time. I often found him with his head in a book while his brothers ran and played outdoors. On the other hand, it was uncanny how his sharp wit would make one think that Papá had somehow passed his gift down to the boy.
Perhaps Papá’s influence shaped my son’s thinking, for he proved to be his grandfather’s favourite. William had issued an open invitation for Mr. Bennet to visit Pemberley as often as he wished, and thus, I enjoyed my father’s company quite frequently. While Mamá spent much time at Jane’s house, Papá preferred William’s well-stocked library. He was content to while away such long portions of the day within its confines that we sometimes forgot he was on the premises until he appeared at the table for dinner.
On a sunny day last week, however, after Mamá had joined my father and been in residence at Pemberley over a fortnight, she suggested that we all take the children to visit Mr. and Mrs. Bingley so that the cousins might play together. She insisted that Papá accompany us, for she feared that Mr. Bingley felt neglected by lack of his presence. Although Papá resisted, he could not withstand her demands and finally consented. I assumed that William would go with us and was quite surprised when he announced that neither he nor I would be able to make the excursion.
“Feel free to go yourself, Mrs. Bennet, and by all means, take the children.”
I questioned him with a look, but when he made no further explanation, I kissed my parents and the boys goodbye and watched the carriage depart.
“What is so important that we could not visit my sister, William?”
“Simply this.” He drew me into his arms. “I wish to spend the day alone with my wife.”
I smiled, pleased at his desire. After ten years, the passion had not lessened between us. Indeed, it only increased the longer we were married. The thrill of discovery had been replaced with the certainty that each of us knew how to please the other, and we took particular delight when happening upon a novel means of doing so. I walked toward the stairs, assuming he would follow me to the bed in my chamber. Instead, he remained standing at the foot.
“I think a light shawl will do,” he said.
“A light shawl?” I turned to him with a look of surprise.
“For our walk. It is a beautiful, warm day.”
I walked back down the stairs. “Exactly what did you have in mind, my dear?”
“A long tramp in the woods. Is that not your favourite thing to do?”
I inclined my head and pursed my lips. “Among others.”
He smiled and squeezed my hands. “Then, let us walk.”
“Very well.” I ran up the stairs and secured my wrap. If he preferred walking to sweeter pursuits, I would not attempt to change his mind. I would show him that I was perfectly content with his decision, although privately I did feel somewhat miffed.
Outdoors, the summer day proved glorious. The gentlest of breezes kept us cooled as we plunged into the woods. The trees were splendidly decked out in various shades of green, interspersed with various vines laden with red and purple fruit. We picked strawberries and grapes, placing them in the basket cook had prepared for us. Along with a bottle of wine, a generous wedge of cheese, and a loaf of freshly baked bread, we dined sufficiently once we found a secluded glen in which to picnic. William had spread the blanket beside a gentle stream. After eating our fill, he reclined back while I sat beside him, lazily popping grapes into his mouth, quite content to hear the brook gurgle over the stones.
As his lips opened for the final piece of fruit, he closed his mouth upon my finger, refusing to let it go. I laughed as he pulled me down on top of him. “No more grapes,” he said. “I desire something much, much more delicious.”
“And what would that be, sir?” I teased.
He released my finger and replaced it with my lips. With tantalizingly slow, lingering kisses, he awakened the yearning in me until I willingly surrendered. There, in that beautiful hidden Eden, we allowed passion the free reign that our love demanded. Afterwards, I lay in his arms, staring up at glimpses of blue sky peeking through the leafy arbour above.
William continued to nuzzle my neck. “I am the most blessed of men.”
“And why is that? Because you dared to persuade me to let you love me out here in the woods?”
“Because you are mine.” He rolled onto his back, continuing to keep his arm around me. “Sometimes I think back to how easily all could have been lost, and it unsettles my soul.”
“God has smiled upon us.”
“He has, and I shall give Him thanks as long as I draw breath.”
I rolled over onto my stomach and gazed upon him. “I admire you more than I can say for not giving up all those years ago, for not accepting Lady Catherine’s word as I did, and never seeing me again. Just think where we might be today if you had not been persistent, William.”
“I do not wish to think about that, for I cannot envision a life without you.”
“What was the worst time for you during those dark days?”
“In Ireland, after first meeting with Lord Castelaine. When he told me that Peter Darcy was a priest and I erroneously assumed that fact would have precluded my uncle from fathering a child, I felt true despair. That was the only time I considered all hope gone.”
I placed my hand upon his cheek. “I had never seen you in a pit that deep.”
“But all turned out well, for you discovered your father all on your own. Thank God it ended happily.” When I did not respond, he lifted my chin so that he might see my eyes. “Elizabeth, what is it? You are happy, are you not?”
I smiled. “Of course, I am. How can you ask?”
“You bear a wistful expression.”
“Recalling those days remains painful.”
“But you no longer dwell on them, do you? I cannot recall when you last awakened in a panic caused by dreams of the past. Surely, it has been years now, has it not?”
I sat up. “True. Those memories have, naturally, faded. Still…”
William sat up and put his arms around me, drawing me close. “Still, what? Tell me.”
“Sometimes, at the odd moment, I find myself reflecting on the person I was before Lady Catherine came calling at Longbourn. We both know how I changed after that, William. I shall never again quite be that same lively, self-assured girl.”
“Of course not, but you are a woman now, experienced, wiser, not without confidence. And you certainly have not lost all of that Lizzy Bennet impertinence. I can testify to that!”
I smiled, but then looked away. “You have given me so much. Think what I might have missed had we truly been brother and sister.”
William shook his head and stood up. “As I said, I cannot bear to think of that. It is all in the past and forgotten.” He held out his hands to help me rise.
“How can you say it is forgotten? I shall never forget it. I know with certainty that life can be altered forever in a single day.”
“Agreed. The past can never truly be forgotten, but I refuse to live my life in fear of what might happen. I fail to see any benefit in brooding o’er the past, and I regret having introduced the subject, for it always makes you sad.”
I sensed his irritation that our idyllic afternoon had turned dark. He began to fill the basket with the remains of our feast. I picked up the blanket, but he took it from me and folded it. I walked over to the edge of the brook and peered at my reflection therein. Within a few moments, I felt his arms encircle my waist, and in the water I watched him bend to place his cheek against mine.
“I did not mean to speak harshly. I love you,” he said softly.
“And I love you.”
“You know I shall always love you…until the grave and beyond. It is impossible for me to not love you.”
I turned and held onto him. “That will be enough,” I whispered.
But one thing I know: I will not take this life, or this man, for granted. I shall be oh so grateful for the blessing each day brings.
I did not say the words aloud, but they are ever present in my thoughts.
The End