As the constables led the prisoners away, Elizabeth felt a curious lightness. Justice would indeed be served, but it could not restorewhat had been lost. Her parents would remain forever in their graves, their lives and relationship with her existing only in journals and faded portraits.
Darcy strode to her side, his expression shifting from grim satisfaction to tender concern as his gaze met hers. Georgiana squeezed her hand with understanding, the young woman’s quiet strength a comfort Elizabeth had not expected to need.
“Elizabeth, they would have been proud of you,” Darcy said quietly, his voice rough with emotion. “Uncle John would have seen his own courage in you. And Aunt Rose…” His throat worked as he struggled with words. “She would have loved watching you become the woman you are—intelligent, brave, uncompromising in your pursuit of truth.”
Georgiana’s grip tightened on Elizabeth’s hand. “I wish I could have known them,” she whispered. “All these years, I thought I had no family but Fitzwilliam, and now, I gain a cousin who survived to carry their legacy forward.”
Elizabeth leaned against her dear cousins, the tears she had held back finally spilling over. “I cannot even properly mourn them,” she confessed. “How do you grieve for parents who exist only in other people’s memories? How do you honor lives you never witnessed?”
“By living yours with the same principles they died for,” Darcy replied, his hand finding her shoulder with gentle certainty. “You have already honored them more than you know.”
Trust Mrs. Bennet to lighten the mood, having already recovered her spirits now that the unpleasantness had concluded. She bustled toward them with Lydia prancing like a princess behind her.
“Well! That is that!” She preened proudly. “And on your birthday, too, Lizzy. Though I suppose we must call you Miss Darcy now—or will it be Mrs. Darcy? Such a delightful confusion of names.”
“I shall always be Elizabeth,” she replied with a small smile. “The rest is merely a matter of legal documentation.”
“I believe,” Darcy said, recovering his composure, “that a toast isin order. To Miss Elizabeth Rose Darcy on her twenty-first birthday—may the years ahead bring joy equal to her courage and wit.” He paused before her, his dark eyes holding hers with an intensity that made her heart skip. “Although I hope she will become Mrs. Elizabeth Rose Darcy in very short order indeed.”
He dropped to one knee before the assembled company, taking her hand in both of his. “Elizabeth,” he said, his voice carrying clearly through the suddenly silent room, “will you do me the extraordinary honor of becoming my wife? Will you share your life with me, your heart, and all the adventures yet to come?”
Elizabeth’s breath caught in her throat as she looked down at the man who had rescued her from kidnappers, supported her through revelations about her identity, and loved her despite—or perhaps because of—her talent for attracting dramatic complications.
“Yes.” Her voice was strangely steady. “Yes, Fitzwilliam, with all my heart.”
The room erupted in cheers and applause, but Darcy’s attention remained fixed solely on Elizabeth as he rose and pressed a kiss to her hand. Only then did he turn to Mrs. Bennet with formal courtesy.
“Mrs. Bennet,” he said, bowing deeply, “I have the honor to request your daughter’s hand in marriage. I promise to cherish her, protect her, and love her for all the days of my life.”
Mrs. Bennet’s response was everything Elizabeth might have expected and more. “Oh! Oh, my dear Mr. Darcy! Of course, of course! What a match! We shall plan the biggest wedding Hertfordshire has ever seen! Three courses at least, and dancing until dawn! Lady Lucas will positively expire with envy!”
Georgiana embraced Elizabeth, tears of joy streaming down her face. “I have gained a sister and lost a mystery, all in one morning. I believe this may be the best birthday gift Elizabeth could have received—though I suspect you might disagree, Brother.”
“On the contrary,” Darcy said, his arm finding its way around Elizabeth’s waist with possessive tenderness, “Happy birthday, mydear Elizabeth,” his voice soft in her ear. “May all your birthdays henceforth be equally eventful, though perhaps slightly less dramatic.”
Elizabeth laughed, her heart full to overflowing with the finest man in Derbyshire at her side. “I love you, Fitzwilliam Darcy,” she whispered back, “dramatic complications and all.”
EPILOGUE: BREAKFAST TWICE SERVED
Elizabeth was finally married. Miss Darcy became Mrs. Darcy an hour ago, and it was time for the traditional wedding breakfast. Of course, her mother insisted on hosting it at Longbourn, and here she was, fresh from the wedding, joining in the bustle of what passed for elegant preparation in the Bennet household. Her sisters flitted about like colorful butterflies, rearranging flowers that had been perfectly arranged moments before, while Mama directed operations with the focused intensity of an admiral planning a blockade.
“The roses must be precisely so,” Mrs. Bennet declared, adjusting a vase for the fourth time. “Lady Catherine herself will see them, and I will not have it said that the Bennets cannot receive company properly.”
Elizabeth suppressed a smile. Three months had passed since the dramatic revelations at Pemberley, three months during which the banns had been properly read and justice properly served. Martha Wickham and Mrs. Amelia Bingley had been sentenced to transportation to New South Wales for their crimes, while George Wickham and Thomas Rumsey began seven-year sentences at Newgate Prison. The Bingley family haddeparted Netherfield in disgrace, retreating to their northern property—though Charles had sent a very particular letter to a certain angelic Miss Bennet before his departure. One that Jane had refused to open.
But today was not for dwelling on past darkness. Today was for celebrating the most improbable love story Hertfordshire had ever witnessed.
“Mrs. Darcy,” a familiar voice murmured close to her ear, sending a delicious shiver down her spine despite the propriety of being in her family’s drawing room. “You look particularly lovely when you’re planning mischief.”
Elizabeth turned to find her husband, Fitzwilliam, looking impossibly handsome in his formal morning attire. The warmth in his gaze as he looked at her told her emphatically that she was the only woman in the world worthy of such devoted attention.
“I am not planning mischief, Mr. Darcy,” she replied with mock severity. “I am merely observing the grand production that is my mother’s attempt to impress your relations.”
“Our relations,” he corrected gently, his hand finding hers and giving it a brief, improper squeeze that made her pulse flutter. “And if I know my aunt Catherine, she will provide quite enough theater for all of us.”
As though summoned by his words, the sound of carriages announced the arrival of the Darcy contingent. Elizabeth watched through the window as an impressive procession approached Longbourn—the Earl and Countess of Matlock’s elegant equipage, Colonel Fitzwilliam’s smart curricle, and most imposingly, Lady Catherine de Bourgh’s ancient but magnificent carriage, which had clearly been polished to mirror brightness for the occasion.
“Fortify yourself, my dear wife,” Darcy murmured, his lips brushing her temple in a gesture so brief that only she could have noticed it. “The siege is about to begin.”
