Once He Made a Beginning

Epilogue

By now, there had been three weddings of consequence among Elizabeth’s circle, all but one of which had been the cause of Lady Catherine de Bourgh’s most serious displeasure.

The one having no reason at all to raise her ladyship’s ire was the wedding between Mr. Bingley and Jane. Indeed, it would appear that Bingley and Darcy were of the same mind regarding the manner of their courtships and the timing of their proposals.

The first of the remaining two weddings had been met with so fierce a disapproval on her ladyship’s part that all communications between the affected parties had ceased. But Lady Catherine was compelled to give up all her resentment and bestow her blessings on the newlyweds, albeit most belatedly. Just how long could one’s ill will sustain itself in the wake of an olive branch, in a matter of months, from a most beloved daughter and a nephew who was now her son-in-law? Such news of impending joy must surely soften even the sternest displeasure.

Indeed, Anne and the colonel had delayed their union long enough, and they were wed by special license almost as soon as Darcy’s engagement to Elizabeth was formally announced.

And then there was the last of the two weddings that had plagued her ladyship’s equanimity. All of Lady Catherine’s prognostications that Elizabeth would not be received by any of them proved false as, one by one, Elizabeth met Mr. Darcy’s noble relations. Despite Darcy and Elizabeth having garnered the approval of everyone, winning over Lady Catherine did not come easily, what with her ladyship’s fury being such that it was. It manifested itself in a scathing letter filled with insults, particularly directed at Elizabeth, and in her outright refusal to acknowledge the marriage for some time. After the initial resistance, Lady Catherine’s resentment gradually gave way—whether due to her affection for her nephew or her curiosity about Elizabeth’s conduct as mistress of Pemberley. She even condescended to visit them, despite her continued disdain for Elizabeth’s presence owing to her lingering contention that all Elizabeth now called her own rightfully ought to have been her daughter Anne’s.

Elizabeth had only spent time with Miss Georgiana Darcy occasionally before the wedding. She recalled the formidable introduction that had occurred with Elizabeth still under the influence of Wickham and Miss Bingley’s testimonies. She was exceedingly pleased to know the young lady was nothing at all like either of those two had described her. She was not proud but only shy. Miss Darcy was not nearly so fond of the Bingley sisters as Miss Bingley had often alluded to—indeed, Elizabeth was afforded the chance to see them in company when Darcy brought his sister to Netherfield Park for a brief stay. To her way of thinking, it was as if the young lady did not know Bingley’s sisters at all and was glad to have Elizabeth as a friendly barrier between them.

When Darcy observed the ease with which his sister and his intended got along, he envisioned a future at Pemberley that included Georgiana, who had her own establishment in London, staying with them. Upon the young lady’s acceptance of her brother’s invitation, his ambition for sisterly harmony between the two most important people in his life was fulfilled.

Regarding the Bingley sisters, the younger was obliged to return to Hertfordshire despite her wishes to the contrary to preside over her brother’s table—albeit temporarily, until he and Jane were married and Miss Bingley’s services were no longer needed. She could not be pleased with the arrangement, however, not so much because of Jane, who had ruined her brother’s chance for the sort of advantageous match he ought to have enjoyed but rather because of Jane’s family—specifically her eldest sister, Miss Eliza Bennet.

She could scarcely believe that Mr. Darcy chose such a lowly country nothing as Eliza Bennet when he could have had her—a young woman, by her own assertions, blessed with all the accomplishments the future mistress of Pemberley ought to possess: educated in one of the first private seminaries in town, proficient in most of the modern languages and in possession of a dowery of twenty thousand pounds. What did the gentleman see in Eliza that he did not see in herself, Miss Bingley was wont to ask? However, in the interest of retaining the right to visit Pemberley, she dropped all her resentment, was almost as attentive to Darcy as ever, and paid off every arrear of civility to his wife.

Some mention of the Collinses must be made. As if influenced by his noble patroness, Mr. Collins had taken it upon himself to write a letter to Mr. Bennet advising him of the danger of having a daughter wed into a situation for which she was neither welcomed nor prepared. Not that Mr. Bennet regarded the letter with the seriousness that its writer had intended, supposing Collins would change his loyalties in a day under the right circumstances. Collins would not always be a vicar. The situation of Longbourn’s entail would see to that. Between the nephew and the aunt, Bennet was certain the former had more to give.

As for his wife, so long as Lady Catherine’s suspicions were merely that, Charlotte could suffer the officious lady’s protests and vexations over having been ill used by the parsonage’s former houseguest. But shortly after the suppositions and insinuations turned into confirmations, Charlotte set off for Hertfordshire for a long delayed, extended visit with her Lucas relations until the storm was blown over.

Mrs. Bennet, who had for the longest time resented Charlotte for usurping her daughters’ rightful role as the next mistress of Longbourn, now regarded the young woman with a measure of gratitude—well, at least as far as Jane and Elizabeth were concerned. After all, Mr. Collins was nothing at all compared to her sons-in-law, Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy. Although a part of her could not rid herself of the idea that Mary or Kitty would have accepted Mr. Collins’s hand in marriage if either had got the chance.

In truth, neither Kitty nor Mary had grounds for unhappiness: the former enjoyed the benefit of frequent visits with her two wealthy sisters, and all the gaieties such a privilege entailed, while the latter, now free of the burden of being judged against her sisters and found wanting, had attracted the notice of a vicar in a neighboring parish.

Mr. Bennet’s favorite daughter living far away in Derbyshire proved the perfect excuse to pardon himself—with the discovery of Pemberley’s library—from the constant companionship of his wife’s vexations, and indeed, he exercised such opportunities regularly.

It pleased Elizabeth considerably the frequency with which her family, including the Gardiners, joined her at her new home and the hospitality toward them her dear husband generously bestowed. Perhaps he had come to love them as much as she had hoped he would. She certainly had no cause to repine about anything, including her youngest sister, Mrs. Wickham.

By way of Lydia’s hired companion, Darcy had set strict conditions on how her funds were used, subtly guiding her toward more refined behavior and preventing her from indulging in reckless spending and making sure she did not stray from the path Darcy envisioned for her.

Not long after the wedding, Elizabeth naturally assumed the responsibility of guiding young Mrs. Wickham. As Mrs. Darcy and Lydia’s elder, Elizabeth was perfectly suited for the role.

Though Lydia remained far from Pemberley, Elizabeth occasionally extended invitations for brief visits. These visits, always carefully planned, allowed Lydia to experience the grandeur and refinement of her sister’s home. In addition, Elizabeth encouraged Lydia to take on charitable work within her Scottish community, framing these responsibilities as opportunities to gain respect and influence. Elizabeth hoped to instill in her sister a sense of duty and maturity. Though Lydia was reluctant at first, Elizabeth’s steadfast persistence had its intended effect.

Months hence, Mr. and Mrs. Darcy sat together in Pemberley’s grand library, the soft crackling of the fire accompanying the peaceful evening. The room, lined with towering shelves of leather-bound volumes, exuded an air of timeless elegance. Elizabeth, ever the curious reader, pulled a worn volume from one of the higher shelves, a book she had not noticed before. Its spine was cracked, and the cover bore the faint impression of long-forgotten hands. As she flipped through the yellowed pages, inhaling the faint scent of old parchment, a folded letter, similarly aged and brittle with time, slipped out and landed gently in her lap.

“Oh! What is this?” she asked, raising an eyebrow as she held the letter up.

Mr. Darcy leaned forward, intrigued but cautious. “It looks quite old. Perhaps it is best left unread,” he said, a slight smile playing at his lips, though his tone was serious.

Nodding, she carefully set the letter down on the table beside them, her mind momentarily hearkening back to the time when she herself had received a letter from him, one that had changed the course of their lives.

“I wonder whose story this tells,” she mused softly, her fingers tracing the edges of the aged paper. “An old love, perhaps?”

Darcy gently took the book she was still holding from her hands and closed it, setting it aside. “Whatever its content, I doubt it is a story as wonderful as ours,” he said, his voice low and purposeful.

Elizabeth smiled at his teasing remark, recalling the very letter he had once written her in Kent, and the moment she had debated whether to keep it or burn it forever. She had chosen the former.

“Of course you did not always feel that way, nor did I, to be sure,” she said, her tone playful as she leaned against him, the warmth of the nearby fire matching the warmth of their closeness.

Are you referring to my ungentlemanly proposal and my later attempt to justify myself through my letter?

“In part,” she confessed.

“Did it soon make you think better of me? Did you, on reading it, give any credit to its contents?”

Elizabeth explained what its effect on her had been, and how gradually all her former prejudices had been removed.

“I knew that what I wrote must give you pain, but it was necessary. There was one part especially, the opening of it, which I should dread your having the power of reading again. I can remember some expressions which might justly make you hate me.”

He took her hand in his.

“When I wrote that letter, I believed myself perfectly calm and cool, but I am since convinced that it was written in a dreadful bitterness of spirit. I hope you burned it.”

“No—”

“I rather wish you would. I hate your being in possession of something that serves as a constant reminder of events best forgotten.”

She raised her brow. “You appreciate the irony in such a speech, do you not?”

He colored. “I—I?—”

“My love, I am only teasing you! You are far too serious, sir,” Elizabeth said, her fingers lightly tracing the line of his jaw. “And here I had fancied myself having accomplished my mission to bring more laughter into your life.”

Their eyes met—his soft with affection. “You have, my love, which is why I insist you destroy the letter, for I shall spend a lifetime making up for any past wrongs,” he murmured, pulling her gently into his arms and kissing her temple, his lips lingering as if to seal the promise. “No doubt, you will find yourself with more letters pleading my love and devotion than you could ever imagine,” he added softly, a hint of playfulness in his voice. “Who knows? You might even tuck a few within the pages of these books for future generations to stumble upon.”

Elizabeth smiled at the thought, her heart full as she nestled in his arms. “Perhaps I shall,” she whispered, already intent on treasuring every letter he penned.

Darcy, feeling the warmth of her embrace and the soft promise in her words, reflected on how far they had come, both as a loving couple and in his own path to becoming deserving of Elizabeth’s love—indeed, a woman truly worthy of being pleased. The trials he had endured, from the fog of forgotten truths to the clarity of understanding, and his relinquishment of arrogant pride—all had paved the way for the happiness he now felt, a happiness he had sensed, deep within, would surely emerge—once he made a beginning.

The End