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Epilogue
December 4, 1812
Thomas Franklin Bennet ignored the sounds of laughter and gaiety coming from the front parlour; how his most exasperating daughter had become the bosom companion of his wife, he had little idea, but it was Mary’s high-pitched giggle, for certain. She, Frances, and Lady Lucas and her daughter were certainly making a lot of noise and fuss over a simple letter. He liked to hear Frances’s laughter; it was one of the first things he had noticed about her, her delight in so many simple things. Whilst I, as the Bard declares, am prone to ‘summon up remembrance of things past, sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, and with old woes new wail my dear time’s waste’.
Old woes caused by Frances’s betrayal were all to be forgot because, it turned out, it never happened. And yet, a wound nurtured for twenty years did not disappear because of a surprising lack of existence. At least, so she had informed him.
But ignoring his women and their wounds was his habit, and easily done. The door to his book-room was thick, and shut tightly. Not so easy to bear was his curiosity, the urgent, burning need to know. What news was there from Derbyshire? Would Frances leave the letter lying somewhere convenient that he might surreptitiously read it? Or would he be forced to search the house for it when no one was about—a difficulty because, whenever a letter arrived from the renowned Mrs Darcy, Longbourn seemed to fill with company for the next three days, and barely did the crop of visitors die down before another letter arrived. He paid for the postage, of course—the only thing he could do for her now. It was a temptation to simply open such missives when they came. But if he read the letters first, everyone would know…know his secret pride, his hidden shame. It was better to feign nonchalance, that it did not affect him in any manner, that his life was the same as it had always been. Which it is, he reassured himself. In essence, nothing had changed.
He caught the image of his own face in the looking glass perched atop the mantel. What a stupid place for a mirror! Why would one ever be required to inspect one’s appearance in one’s own book-room, where one was seldom disturbed? He hefted the thing, turning its glass face to the wall.
Satisfied, Mr Thomas Franklin Bennet, the last Bennet of Longbourn, returned to his newspaper, still pretending not to wonder, although there was no one to see if he did.
* * *
“Georgie,” Lizzy called loudly—even though it was the middle of the night—not bothering to whisper, heartily shaking her shoulder. A whisper would never waken her sister-in-law, who always could sleep like the dead. “Wake up! Time is wasting!”
Georgiana opened one eye. “Something…matter?” she muttered then rolled over as if to go back to sleep.
Lizzy jerked back the covers. “No! Make haste! Rise and shine!”
This time her sister sat up, rubbing her eyes and peering around confusedly. “Wh-what?”
“Get up! Put on something warm. It is snowing! Kitty is already dressing.”
It only took the girl another moment to understand. “Oh!” She scrambled from her bed. “I shall meet you downstairs in a very few minutes!”
It was hardly possible to sneak out because Pemberley was a very secure home with night footmen in the corridors and at the exits, but neither did Lizzy worry about the necessity of secrecy. She was mistress here; this was her home. If she decided that day was night and night was day, the servants would move the heavens about until it was so. Still, a clandestine departure was part of the fun, so she had dismissed the footmen to take their suppers, and she threw open the heavy door herself for her sisters, who were already giggling.
“Oh!” Georgiana cried at the sight.
A full moon shone down upon a perfect, undisturbed layer of frosting-white snow spread across the vast surface of the front lawns. Light flakes drifted gently down upon the absolute stillness of the scene. Kitty whooped and practically dove down the steps. Georgiana followed at a more sedate pace, but the two of them were soon thereafter immersed in a project to build the ‘most colossal snow sculpture ever seen’ and began rolling snow—boulders was the only suitable description—across the lawn; how they would ever build anything with them was, evidently, a problem for some future consideration.
“We shall sculpt a snow-gentleman,” Kitty cried. “Lizzy, we need one of Mr Darcy’s hats!”
“I will gather some supplies for his costume and return shortly,” Lizzy assured—although they were laughing so hard, it was doubtful they heard.
It was so good to hear their laughter. The recent news of Wickham’s death in a barroom brawl had, briefly, recalled the past to Georgiana’s mind, but it appeared she had finally and forever put it behind her. Lizzy heaved open the front door and slipped in—only to be hauled into the powerful arms of her husband.
“Oh!” she yelped, startled—but any potential further outcry was halted by a hungry kiss.
“Your lips…cold,” he murmured, barely lifting his mouth from hers.
“Surely not any longer.” She grinned.
His curls were falling down messily over his forehead, his banyan exposing a bare, muscular chest, his day’s growth of beard fiercely shadowing his chin—in all, he appeared like a pirate disturbed from his slumber, and just as she preferred to see him.
“I wakened…you were gone.”
“I warned you it might happen when you said we might get the first snow tonight. A first snow on a full moon…it can mean only one thing.” She glanced down his form. “You did not mean to join us, barefoot and only in your banyan and breeches? Talk of cold!”
“I meant only…catch a glimpse of you, ensure all dressed…warmly enough. But you made…mistake…allowing me to entrap you. Now I may not…let you go.”
“Our sisters might worry if I do not reappear shortly with the trappings for their project. They mean to build a snow-sculpture of massive proportions and dress him as a gentleman.”
He glanced over at the door; even through its heavy barrier, the faint sounds of giggles yet penetrated. “They seem…very anxious, indeed,” he said drily. But then his smile gentled, and he tucked a ruby curl behind her ear. “Thank you for…doing this…for Georgie. To hear her laughter…to know her happiness…it is everything.”
“Her influence upon Kitty is wonderful to see. Georgiana has blossomed beautifully—I am so fortunate to call her sister, to know that Kitty now uses her as an example of how a lady ought to be.”
