Page 82 of Yearning

“I am glad you have found your way back to each other at long last,” he said.

There was a knock at the door. “Coming in,” called Mr. Darcy from without, and the door opened.

Richard was up right away, heading for the door. “I shall be off, then.”

“So soon?” said Mr. Darcy.

“I think it’s best,” said Richard, but he was still smiling. “You will take good care of him.”

“I shall,” said Mr. Darcy, quite seriously.

“You know,” said the colonel, surveying them both, “I did not wish to do this for the two of you, and I am not saying that it is quite the easiest thing on earth, but you are both so… well, perhaps it is worth it, to see you both so well settled.” He squared his shoulders.

And then he walked out of the room without another word.

Mr. Darcy stood at the foot of the bed. “He did not hold him?”

She shook her head. “I think it might pain him, Fitzwilliam. Imagine knowing you have a child you cannot be a parent to.”

Mr. Darcy sighed heavily. He turned and looked into his cousin’s wake.

BUT TWO YEARS later, Elizabeth watched the colonel out on the lawn of Pemberley as his own little son named Percival (Percy for short), little Edmund, and one of Mary’s little boys named David were all running giggling from him as he chased after them on all fours, making growling noises, and the small little boys screamed with laughter (and routinely toppled down onto their bottoms, for they were all toddling boys, not so steady on their feet).

It was quite a gathering they had put together, perhaps a celebration of what she and her husband had finally wrought together as much as anything. And she had not felt up to it, truly, not until Edmund was this age. The whole of his babyhood had seemed to stream by at top speed. So, it had been now that they had been ready to host everyone.

And they were hosting everyone.

Even Lydia and Wickham. She and Mr. Darcy had gone back and forth on it, both agreeing they would be happy enough not to see him again, but then also agreeing it would not do for Elizabeth to host all of her sisters and not invite Lydia.

The Wickhams were a pair, after all. They had no children, none at all, and if anyone was interested, Lydia was quite happy to explain the myriad ways they prevented pregnancy in shocking detail. Not that anyone was interested. Not that Lydia cared if people were interested, anyway. Lydia simply liked the sound of her own voice.

However, perhaps Mr. Wickham had found his match in Lydia, for she seemed to keep him on his toes, and Elizabeth did notice the way the man’s eyes followed his wife about a room.

They had their share of financial woes, but they always managed to land on their feet. Elizabeth was happy enough not to have the drama of the both of them in her life. Her life had been wrought with quite enough drama already. Now was the time for sheer goodness and satisfaction.

Her other sisters and their husbands were there as well, along with their children. There was rather a throng of small bodies in the lawn just then, truly. Jane had three now, and Kitty and Mary had two each.

And the colonel had spent a great deal of time with all of the children, truly. He was a proud papa to Percy, and Elizabeth could see that fatherhood had changed him in some unfathomable way. But now, he knew what it was to be a father, and she could see that it colored the way he interacted with Edmund.

Was all healed?

Perhaps not. Perhaps it still must pain him. However, he had spoken to her only yesterday that they must find more time for their families to see each other. “The boys are such fast friends,” he had said.

“Yes, it would be good for the boys to see each other more often,” she had responded.

And it was true that Percy was Edmund’s brother. They even resembled each other a bit.

Maybe everyone knew, she thought. No one asked questions, not even Jane, as everyone assumed that Edmund was the son of the late baron, but there they all were, the colonel and his two boys, rough-housing on the lawn, and was it as obvious to everyone as it was to her?

She cared not.

Mr. Darcy cared not.

They had been through far too much to let something such as this fell them. They were, indeed, rather inured to the slings and arrows of life, outrageous or mundane, as the case may be. They had seen too much, hurt too much, healed too much, and now they were stronger for it.

Just then, Mr. Darcy appeared next to her, leaning heavily on his cane as he eased himself into a chair next to her. “Lily and the other girls have entirely worn me out,” he informed her.

She laughed. She had long ago noticed that in gatherings such as this, the menfolk seemed to take it upon themselves to go out and actively play with the children, whereas the women simply sat on the periphery, remaining close if needed but not throwing themselves into the fray. Good for the menfolk, she supposed.