Page 78 of Mr. Darcy's Runaway Bride
When they drew apart, a comfortable silence enveloped them, broken only by the distant sounds of the city beyond the park’s boundaries. Darcy’s forehead rested against hers for a moment, their shared breath creating an intimate space that belonged to them alone.
“What shall we do now?” Elizabeth asked at length, though the question held none of the uncertainty it might have days before.
“Return to Pemberley”
Epilogue
Pemberley, Derbyshire
2nd June 1817
The June sun cast long shadows across Pemberley’s terrace as the evening descended in shades of amber and gold. Lanterns hung from the ancient oak trees, their gentle glow illuminating the faces of those gathered to celebrate five years since the master and mistress had renewed their wedding vows in the small chapel on the grounds.
Elizabeth Darcy stood at the balustrade, observing the assembly with quiet satisfaction. Her gaze lingered on her husband, who knelt beside their four-year-old son James upon the lawn, earnestly examining what appeared to be a particularly fascinating beetle. The boy’s dark curls—so like his father’s—fell across his forehead as he bent closer to inspect the creature, his face a study in solemnity and wonder.
“I believe your son has inherited his father’s capacity for thorough investigation,” Jane remarked, approaching with a sleeping infant cradled against her shoulder. “Charles says James will make an excellent naturalist.”
“Or barrister,” Elizabeth replied with a smile. “He questions everything with such persistence that I sometimes feel as though I am being cross-examined by a judge in miniature.”
Jane laughed, careful not to disturb her youngest child. “And little Anne? What profession do you predict for her?”
Elizabeth’s eyes shifted to her daughter, who tottered determinedly after a butterfly, her chubby hands outstretched. At two years of age, Anne Darcy possessed her mother’s spirit and her father’s steadfastness—a formidable combination that manifested in a child who, once set upon a course, could rarely be deterred.
“A diplomat, perhaps. Or general of an army. She has a remarkable talent for marshalling her dolls into formation.”
The sisters shared a moment of quiet amusement, their familial understanding deepened by the shared experience of motherhood. Jane’s three children and Elizabeth’s two had formed a close-knit cousinage, spending summers together at either Pemberley or Thornfield, the handsome estate Bingley had purchased not thirty miles distant.
“Charles appears to be enjoying himself,” Elizabeth observed, nodding towards where Bingley stood in animated conversation with Colonel Fitzwilliam and his wife Cassandra. “I had feared he might find our gathering too sedate after your London season.”
“He is never happier than when at Pemberley,” Jane replied. “London society amuses him briefly, but his heart remains in the country.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam’s laugh carried across the lawn, drawing Elizabeth’s attention. In the five years since her marriage, Richard had become one of her staunchest allies and most valued friends. His unexpected courtship of Cassandra Howard, daughter of the Earl of Sutherland, had culminated in a marriage of genuine affection that delighted all who knew them—save, perhaps, Lady Catherine, who always found reason to find fault.
“Lady Catherine sends her regrets, I understand,” Jane remarked, following Elizabeth’s gaze.
“Indeed,” Elizabeth replied. “As she has done for every invitation these past five years.” She paused, her expression softening. “Though Lord Matlock’s absence is more keenly felt. His letter suggested he might attend, but I imagine Lady Catherine’s influence prevailed.”
“Yet he writes to you regularly now, does he not?”
“He does.” Elizabeth smiled faintly. “My latest novel appears to have softened his resistance considerably. He wrote three pages of commentary on the heroine’s development—quite insightful observations, in fact. I believe he secretly fancies himself a literary critic.”
Lord Matlock’s attitude changed nine months prior, when he had chanced upon a copy of Elizabeth’s second novel in a London bookshop. His grudging admiration for her work had slowly evolved into a correspondence that, while still formal, contained genuine intellectual exchange. Lady Catherine, by contrast, maintained her resolute disapproval, refusing even to acknowledge the existence of Elizabeth’s literary career.
“And your parents?” Jane enquired. “Mama seemed in excellent spirits when they arrived yesterday.”
“A vast improvement over her initial visits,” Elizabeth agreed. “I never thought to witness the day when she would apologise to Fitzwilliam for her misguided presumptions, as she termed them.”
Time had worked surprising changes upon Mrs Bennet. The security of having two daughters so advantageously settledhad gradually mellowed her nervous disposition, while Mr Bennet’s newfound dedication to managing Longbourn’s affairs had relieved much of the financial anxiety that had plagued their marriage. He now visited Pemberley quarterly, dividing his time between his grandchildren and the extensive library that had been his daughter’s particular inducement for his first visit.
As they crossed the lawn, Elizabeth noted with quiet pride how naturally her husband assumed his role as host, ensuring each guest felt attended to without ostentation. His quiet authority wrapped around their guests like a comfortable mantle rather than an intimidating shroud—a transformation she had observed with satisfaction over the years of their marriage.
The drawing room glowed with candlelight and conversation, the assembled company representing the curious blend of connections that characterised the Darcys’ circle. In one corner, Georgiana sat at the pianoforte, her husband, Viscount Linfield, turning pages with an attentiveness that spoke volumes of their harmonious union. Their courtship had progressed with a steadiness that suited Georgiana’s temperament, the viscount’s appreciation for her musical gifts matching his respect for her gentle nature.
Elizabeth’s gaze drifted to the library doorway, visible from her seat. There, in a place of honour on the central shelf, rested a leather-bound collection of her three published works. Darcy had commissioned the binding as an anniversary gift, the volumes embossed with gold leaf and bound in Pemberley’s distinctive green Morocco.
Her literary success had come as a surprise to many—including herself. The Gothic romance she had laboured over during those early months at Pemberley had found anenthusiastic readership, its blend of mystery, social observation, and psychological insight striking a chord with the public. Two subsequent novels had cemented her reputation, and while she would never achieve Mrs Radcliffe’s fame, Elizabeth found deep satisfaction in the knowledge that her stories had found appreciative readers.
She smiled to herself and joined Jane who was now seated with Mary and her husband, James Hatfields, a solicitor like their uncle, and Kitty, who had recently become engaged to Mr Jones, Meryton’s vicar. The conversation turned to news of acquaintances past—some pleasant, others less so. Lady Eleanor Hayward had, after a brief courtship, married Jonathan Blackfriars, a union that society whispered had disappointed both parties. They maintained separate establishments, he in London and she in Bath, their interactions restricted to the minimum required for propriety’s sake.
