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Epilogue
Last night I dreamt of Pemberley again.
I woke, sitting up, heart pounding, to the lovely dawn views of Pemberley woods framed by a perfectly placed window in the bedchamber that had become ‘ours’ rather than ‘his’ long ago. Fitzwilliam smiled sleepily at me.
“Awake so early, darling?” he asked, reaching for me.
I snuggled in close beside him, waiting for the wisps of night terrors to utterly subside. I had not had the dream in many years, but it was no real surprise that it had come now. Our youngest son, Bennet, was leaving for school today, and though he was perfectly excited, with two older brothers having eagerly prepared the way, and with Richard’s eldest son—Bennet’s best friend—joining him in the adventure, my mother’s heart would feel all the anxieties of this new season of life. For long minutes, Fitzwilliam and I lay facing each other while he expertly combed his fingers through my hair to ruin the braid restraining it.
“I wish tutors were adequate, and that little boys would remain little for much longer than they do,” I said softly.
“We shall take great care and pay careful attention,” he assured me. “The moment it appears Bennet is not thriving, we will bring him home, or find a different situation for him. I swear it.”
I smiled. “You made the same promise with the other two, and I have yet to have a son returned to me.”
“And you would not have it any other way,” he added. “Nor I.” I saw, then, his own little sorrow, joy, and pride, in perfect alignment with my own.
“Motherhood is difficult, at times,” I whispered. “But you are the rock that strengthens me. I can do anything, bear anything, as long as you are beside me.”
“You are my heart,” he said simply. And when tenderness and affection slipped into something more passionate, I welcomed him eagerly. We would face this, as we had so much else, together.
When my husband’s even breathing told me he had fallen back to sleep, I slipped out of bed and into my sitting room to watch the sun come up over the trees. On those rare occasions when the dream disturbed, I liked to be alone for a few moments to remember the past, to ensure I remained grateful for the present. Unbidden, my mind drifted to the memory of listening in on a tour of Pemberley some two or three weeks ago.
Mrs Reynolds lives on the estate and conducts the public tours on most Wednesdays for her niece, to whom she handed over the reins some years ago. Her knowledge of the place is unmatched, and though she might at times forget the day of the week, she always knows her Pemberley.
We all, of course, avoid the tours, and in a home as large as ours, it is easily done. But I was in a parlour off the gallery, deciding on paint colours for its refurbishment, and so I could hear her peroration on the portraiture, which I always enjoyed. And when she took questions, I heard them, and her answers. The first few were on provenance and worth, as usual. Every now and again, someone asked something more gossipy about the family. These enquiries were not unusual, and Mrs Reynolds had a repertoire of routine answers—all more complimentary than we, perhaps, deserved. But it had been years since Anne de Bourgh had merited one.
“Wasn’t Mr Darcy married once before the current Mrs Darcy? Why isn’t there a picture of her?”
The answer, of course, was that they had burned with her mother; the last time the question arose, I believe Mrs Reynolds had replied that the first Mrs Darcy’s family had claimed all her portraits—truth, if not all of it. But this time there was a long pause…so lengthy, it grew awkward and I heard feet shuffling and throats clearing.
Then Mrs Reynolds said in her gentle, somewhat quavering voice, “I apologise…I am growing old. I do recollect Mr Darcy was married before the current Mrs Darcy. I remember hers was a portrait unfortunately destroyed when the old cliffside wing burned in 1820. According to her family’s wishes, she was reinterred in her family cemetery in Ramsgate, beside her parents in 1821. But for the life of me, I cannot recall her name.”
Another question was posed about an artist and the party moved on, but I was struck by the simplicity of her words. Mrs Reynolds is aging, doubtlessly so, but she remembers still, and in incredible detail, every fact and facet of her one true love—Pemberley. And there is nothing left of Anne de Bourgh at Pemberley. Nothing except the occasional bad dream.
Smiling, I raised the sash so that the scent of woods and dewy morning breezes would freshen the chamber. And there Clara found me a few moments later.
“I knew you would be up early today, mistress,” she murmured quietly, and I observed with appreciation the small tray she carried with a pot of chocolate upon it.
“You are a treasure,” I sighed. “Will you have a cup with me?”
Clara had long since grown to be a dear friend; she was accustomed to my less formal ways, understanding that I would never forget the time I had spent in service to the Dowager Lady Matlock—now long since interred beside her husband at Matlock Court. Mr Darcy had seen to Dawson’s pension. Clara would never be just a ‘servant’ to me.
“Not today, mistress, for I have much to occupy. Windsy is in a taking, bless her. I haven’t seen her in such a state since Edward left for school. As soon as you are dressed, little Jane Elizabeth and I have much packing to do.”
Mrs Lindsey—dubbed ‘Windsy’ many years ago by our oldest son, Fitzwilliam Thomas, until few remembered she had any other name—was the soft-hearted nurse who had charge of all the children. She was bound to be emotional today, even knowing, as she did, of Bennet’s keenness to go and that Fitzwilliam and Edward impatiently awaited him. Fortunately, I had no doubts that cheerful little five-year-old Janey’s disposition would ultimately prevail.
Jane Elizabeth, our surprise addition to the family, apple of her father’s eye, and the beloved little ray of sunshine to everyone she met, adored ‘helping’, especially bestowing the favour of her talents upon Clara and Cook.
“Clara, you have the patience of Job. I will come and help you repack everything she arranges.”
“No need, no need. I like to listen to her dear little thoughts—it’s as good as a play, it is.”
I had to smile at this. Janey had both my inquisitive nature and her father’s introspective one. She noticed what few would notice, read like a child much older than her years, and had the vocabulary of one as well. My father would have adored her.
And so I dressed early, and by the time Janey stole into my sitting room—she was adept at evading nursemaids—I was ready for the day and at my desk making lists.
“Mummy!” she cried, running to me. “What are you doing?”
