Elizabeth raised her head once more, her eyes seeking out her husband’s mother. The gentle woman sat a little apart from the others, as had always been her preference, her manner quiet, her expression composed. Time had treated her gently. There was a delicacy to her still, but no longer the fragility that had once marked her so strongly. The dower house had suited her far better than any grander arrangement might have done, and she had never shown the least inclination to alter her circumstances.
She had no desire to remarry.
No wish to reenter society.
Indeed, it had been a considerable effort to persuade her to come to London for Georgiana’s presentation—a season Elizabeth remembered with both amusement and admiration, for Lady Anne had borne it with remarkable fortitude, though she had retreated from it the moment she was able.
But Georgiana had done exceedingly well, stunning them all with her adoration of London and all its delights. She and her husband sat on the same row as Lady Anne. He was attentive without being ostentatious, his manners easy, and his regard for his lovely wife was unmistakable. Georgiana had married the eldest son of a duke, with all the consequence such a position entailed, and yet he was a man of genuine character—something Darcy valued far more highly for his sister.
The alliance had not gone unnoticed, however. Indeed, it had stirred certain long-dormant interests within the Fitzwilliam family.
Elizabeth’s expression cooled slightly at the thought.
There had been letters that were burned. Calls that went unreturned.
The sudden and most inconvenient resurgence of familial affection from those who had once shown very little inclination toward it was distasteful. Their overtures, though carefully worded, had not deceived anyone in the Darcy family, and the Fitzwilliams had been met with precisely the attention they deserved.
Which was, to say, none at all. There was no benefit to connection with that family.
Except for Richard, of course.
Elizabeth shifted her gaze toward where he sat.
Time had altered him, as it had them all, but there remained something of the man she had first known—though tempered now by responsibility and experience. His elder brother, now the earl, was the only other member left of the Fitzwilliam line. Shortly after his marriage, the then-viscount had contracted a ruinous condition, the consequence of long-indulged vices for which neither wealth nor prudence had ever been sufficient. That same affliction had been passed to his unfortunate bride, leaving her unable to bear children.
Thus, it seemed, the direct line would fail.
And Richard’s eldest son would, in time, inherit the title, the Matlock estate, and all that came with it.
But it was not the title that had given Richard Fitzwilliam a special place in her heart.
It was the lady seated beside him: Charlotte.
Of all the matches made in those tumultuous years, that had been the one Elizabeth would never have predicted—and yet, in retrospect, it made a certain, quiet sense.
Anne de Bourgh had not lived long after her marriage—just over a year. She had died bringing a daughter into the world, leaving Richard with an infant child and a grief that had driven him as far from Kent as he could go. For a time, Lady Catherine resumed her management of Rosings, while Richard removed himself to Pemberley, bringing his daughter with him. There, she had grown alongside Elizabeth’s own youngest, their companionship a comfort to them both.
Charlotte had still been at Pemberley then. The dearth of men in Hertfordshire due to the Napoleonic wars was, unfortunately, the same in northern counties as it had been in Hertfordshire. Even as the particular friend of the new mistress of Pemberley, Charlotte had been forced to give way to the younger, prettier, livelier girls in Derbyshire.
But when Richard came, his heart heavy with sorrow, he found a respite in Miss Lucas. Richard had once confided to Darcy—though not in detail—that Charlotte’s desire to leave her family’s home had not been without cause. Elizabeth had never pressed for particulars, but she had seen the difference for herself. The quiet resignation that had once marked her friend had given way to something freer, steadier, once she was removed from it.
And what had begun as companionship between Richard and Charlotte had deepened. In time, it became something far more. Their marriage had not been hurried, nor born of desperation, but chosen—deliberately, and with understanding on both sides.
They had returned to Rosings together. In less than a year, Charlotte had given her husband twin sons, the eldest to become the heir apparent to the earldom.
And then, eighteen years ago, she bore him a daughter.
Charlotte sat with her hands clasped tightly together, her composure only just maintained. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears as she watched her daughter—Susan Elizabeth Fitzwilliam—standing before the altar.
Elizabeth followed her gaze to her own son, Bennet, looking down on Susan with a love in his eyes that mirrored Darcy’s when he had once looked upon Elizabeth so many years before.
Tall.
Steady.
Certain.
The two mothers’ eyes met across the aisle, and they shared a smile—one of pure, unguarded joy.
