Epilogue
July, 1816
Thesunhunglowover the Hertfordshire countryside, casting a warm, golden glow across the fields as the carriage rolled steadily along the familiar road to Longbourn. Inside, Elizabeth—rather, Lady Pemberley, his bride of four years, sat beside him, her gloved hand resting lightly atop his. Across from them, their daughter, a lively girl of three with his blue eyes and her mother’s unruly curls, pressed her small hands against the window, delighting in the passing scenery.
“Is this the place where you lived, Mama?” Jane asked, her dark curls bouncing as she craned her neck to see out the window.
Elizabeth brushed a fond hand over their daughter’s shoulder. “Only for a short time, love. Just long enough to learn something important.”
Jane’s eyes sparkled with curiosity as she turned. “What, Mama?”
Elizabeth’s gaze drifted beyond the carriage window, past the hedgerows and blooming orchard, to the house that was fast approaching—a tidy country home tucked beneath the swelling green of Hertfordshire trees.
“That family is more than blood,” she said. “It is safety. It is laughter. It is the place you run to when the world turns upside down.”
The little girl made a thoughtful hum, leaning close to the windowpane with that expression on her face that Elizabeth always claimed matched his exactly. “Did you run away here?”
“Yes,” Elizabeth said softly. “And someone came to find me.”
Darcy had not spoken. He was watching… listening… soaking it all in. His cravat was slightly skewed—thanks to the tiny hands that had insisted on helping him dress—and his expression purposely hooded.
But Elizabeth could read him far too well, and she was already prepared to laugh at whatever he might say.
“You found Mama?” the girl asked, lifting her chin to him.
His brow rose, but his lips quirked. “I did,” he said, voice dry and warm at once. “Though she made it very difficult. She is rather slippery.”
“I am not!” Elizabeth laughed.
“You are,” he said, settling one gloved hand over hers. “I am surprised I did not lose you entirely.”
“You almost did,” she replied.
He sobered. “Yes. Almost.”
The carriage came to a gentle halt before the house, and the door swung open to reveal Mr. Bennet already standing on the front steps, his expression a mix of amusement and anticipation as he rocked eagerly up on his toes and back to his heels.
“Welcome home, Lizzy,” he greeted, his eyes twinkling as they landed on Darcy’s wife. “Darcy—or rather, Lord Pemberley, always a pleasure, but first, let me greet this young lady.” He tugged at the fronts of his trousers and squatted slightly. “Do you remember me, Lady Jane?”
The child curtsied with practiced grace. “Grandpapa. Mama says you may call me Just Plain Small Jane.”
Mr. Bennet chuckled, bending down to scoop her into his arms. “Well, now, Small Jane! An honorary grandpapa, am I? I shall make no complaints. You have grown since I last saw you. Have you been keeping your parents on their toes?”
Elizabeth laughed, linking her arm into Darcy’s. “She has, indeed.”
Darcy extended his free hand, which Mr. Bennet shook warmly. “Welcome, welcome, sir. The chess board is waiting, so which of you shall I have the pleasure of matching wits with first?”
“I shall claim the honor,” Darcy replied with a respectful nod. “I fear once you playheragain, I shall never see the two of you again for the rest of our visit.”
Darcy followed Mr. Bennet into the familiar drawing room, the memories of past visits flooding his senses. The room was bathed in the soft glow of the afternoon sun, highlighting the subtle changes that time had wrought upon the Bennet household.
“Oh, my dear, dear Lizzy!” Mrs. Bennet exclaimed, enveloping Elizabeth in a tight embrace. “And Mr. Darcy! Such an honor to have you here. You are very welcome, very welcome indeed!”
Elizabeth exchanged a knowing glance with Darcy, who offered a polite smile. Over the years, Mrs. Bennet’s effusions had become a source of gentle humor between them. Tea was called, and Darcy’s fingers trailed just at the small of Elizabeth’s back as he escorted her into the drawing room.
Jane Bingley sat on the settee, posture straight, hands folded neatly in her lap. Her expression was sweetly mellow as always, but her eyes followed every move her son made. Charles Bingley crouched beside her, balancing William on one knee while the boy galloped a wooden horse up his father’s sleeve. The child’s laugh broke across the room, high and clear, and Bingley’s grin matched it without effort. They looked absurdly alike—same hair, same eyes, same wild energy barely contained in either frame.
Mary, now Mrs. Thornton, had returned to Longbourn for the evening. Marriage to the local rector had drawn gentler lines around her once-sober expression, and she sat with Elizabeth near the hearth, laughing quietly over some remembered absurdity. Their heads tipped close together, shoulders brushing now and again, the ease between them something that had not always been there—but had clearly been earned.
