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“It is not just a marriage of convenience,” Darcy continued. “Northover needs to marry well, that’s true, but he has great affection for Anne.”
“And your cousin for him,” Elizabeth said. “She loves him deeply. Of that, I’ve no doubt.”
Elizabeth saw the pair step back abruptly in unison from the flames as they rose into the air due to a sudden supply of fresh fuel. A tall woman had thrown a huge bundle of greenery onto the bonfire and—after shouting something at another couple standing nearby it—ran back towards the house. She realized that it was Caroline Bingley and that she’d been addressing Mr. and Mrs. Hurst.
“Caroline looks as though she’s determined to burn up the whole of Rosings,” Elizabeth said. She did not know whether it was right for her to feel satisfaction at Caroline’s disappointment in failing to secure either Mr. Darcy, or any other gentleman in her Christmas season at Rosings, but she could not help feeling it all the same. After all, she told herself, Caroline Bingley deserved some disappointment after her treatment of Jane. Jane might not have a vengeful nature, but Elizabeth had enough of one to make the scene a pleasing one.
“Do you see that fellow there? The one with all the children following him?” Darcy pointed down at a figure who was struggling with a particularly large evergreen bough. “That’s Mr. Biddle. You’ll remember him from our Boxing Day visit. Some of those are his grandchildren.”
“I remember him indeed,” said Elizabeth. “You engaged him to take some firewood to the widow, Mrs. Rose.”
“Yes, he promised to keep her supplied with wood all winter.”
“He is one of the people who would be dispossessed if the common is fenced,” Elizabeth observed.
“Him, and his entire family,” said Darcy soberly. “And Mrs. Rose, and many others too.”
“That won’t happen now? The common won’t be fenced?”
“Northover told me he’d already run the steward, McGinty, off,” Darcy said with some satisfaction. “Of course, that’s not how Northover put it. He said only that he had a word with the fellow. The long and short of it is that the common will remain free for the benefit of all.”
Elizabeth watched the children capering round the bonfire, which sent licks of orange and red flame towards the heavens, and was glad that they would have a place to call home, and would remember this time happily rather than with sorrow.
So many good things that happened over the course of Christmastide—Jane and Mr. Bingley, Georgiana and Mr. Pettigrew, Lord Northover and Anne, and of course, she could not forget, herself and Mr. Darcy—that, together with the common being saved, had made it a most miraculous time. Things broken had been mended, good things had been preserved, and new beginnings promised many blessings in the coming year.
“It is a Christmas miracle,” Elizabeth said, squeezing Darcy’s arm. “Your Christmas miracle.”
“One of my Christmas miracles,” he corrected her gently. “Look there, is that your cousin? He is soon to marry Northover and Anne.”
Elizabeth saw Mr. Collins—unmistakable in his clerical garments—and Charlotte. Mr. Collins was pointing up at them, though she knew they were hidden from his view.
Elizabeth remembered how he had conveyed Lady Catherine’s invitation to her at Longbourn, how insistent he had been. How long ago that seemed! And how glad she was that she had come!
“And you are my Christmas miracle,” she said looking up into Darcy’s dark eyes, which caught the sun more magically even than the golden cupola.
Elizabeth lifted her face up to him and was about to tell Darcy how glad she was to have come to Rosings, and how happy he had made her, when she felt his hand on the small of her back pull her towards him, and he stopped her from speaking with the firm application of his lips to hers.
Mr. Collins stood before the roaring bonfire which threw off a most satisfactory amount of heat. Although it was a pagan ritual, he did not disapprove of it, for the bonfire was—its pagan origin notwithstanding—a wholesome activity by which to mark the end of the season’s festivities.
Rosings’ golden cupola gleamed brightly against the colorless winter sky. He marveled as the beaten gold caught every ray of the pale winter sun, and marveled still further at its cost. Only a person of inestimable stature could afford so expensive an ornamentation, and only his patroness could have effected it with such grandeur.
It inspired him, yes, that was the word, inspired. As Mr. Collins gazed up at the gleaming golden dome, his soul was filled with admiration and joy at the divine sight.
Oh, what a miracle Lady Catherine had wrought!
Epilogue
Pemberley, Christmas, 1813
“I only come to Pemberley to visit the library,” said Mr. Bennet. “You have a very fine library, Mr. Darcy.”
Mr. Bennet was a frequent visitor at Pemberley since Darcy and Elizabeth’s wedding and always maintained that he was drawn there only for the books, and not to see his daughter. On those visits, he came alone, but it was Christmas time, and the whole Bennet family had come but for Lydia, who was still in the north with Capt. Wickham.
“I’m glad you appreciate the library,” said Darcy inhaling the familiar smell of old books. “It was the work of generations, and my contribution to it has been insignificant.”
“You’re too modest, sir,” said Mr. Bennet. “There are many books too recently published to have been purchased by any other than yourself.
“But I had meant to mention another matter to you, that of your first child’s name, when that happy event occurs. I quite understand if you should wish to name your son Fitzwilliam. The practice of combining two old family names—Fitzwilliam and Darcy—is an eminently suitable one and I should think less of you if you were to depart from it.”
