“Stories… our lives, our place in society, our reputations, our families, our shared history… it is all just stories. My grandfather gave us the right idea.”
“Which is?”
“What is a story, but a set of plot elements arranged graciously, with superfluous details removed, correct?”
Still confused, he nodded.
“Here is a story—a very good one—all entirely true: You proposed to me in April. I accepted your April proposal. You travelled to Hertfordshire to acquaint yourself with my familyand obtain my father’s blessing. I travelled north with well-known people of long and trusted association with your family. I took time to meet both your aunts and get to know them, at Matlock and Rosings. I seized the opportunity to know your cousin and your sister. I happened upon a disaster and acted as the mistress of Pemberley should, but I said nothing of any connection with you before it was properly sanctioned, as that would obviously be improper. I acted as mistress of this estate because it was necessary, merely assuming the role early. You returned to Pemberley as planned. I could not stay in the house with any sense of propriety after we were engaged, nor could I give up the role of mistress with so many depending on me. In desperation, we procured a common licence and married publicly before fifty villagers and the Pemberley staff, so propriety is satisfied. It was all according to plan, except for a minor scheduling change due to the fire.”
Elizabeth jumped to her feet and tugged him up. “Come along, Fitzwilliam. Jane will be here before ten. With a common licence, we must be at the church before eleven if we wish to marry today. We do not have all day to dawdle. Propriety must be satisfied, and I cannot think of a single way to do that except for a properly sanctioned wedding. Not one of these hasty affairs, mind you. A properly sanctioned and planned courtship, spanning months. It is fortunate for us that the months have already elapsed.”
Fitzwilliam sat with his mouth agape and finally stammered, “You mean… you mean… you… you… wha—”
Still stupefied, he stared at her for a moment, and then a small, sly smile touched his lips, which turned into a broad grin of legendary proportions.
Without a word, he grabbed her around the waist, spun her around a half-dozen times, set her down, and kissed her strongly enough to set her shoes afire, then let out a shout of joy, whileshe gave him a smile such as had never been seen in those parts before.
With a contented cry that scattered another flock of birds, the happy couple clasped hands and set off at a run towards Pemberley, towards life, towards love, towards heartbreak, towards children, towards grandchildren, towards great stories and destiny. They never looked back.
Epilogue
Jane Bennet, the fearsome smiter of overgrown boys, gazed out the carriage window in wonder. “Lizzy would love this place if she ever arrived. I can just imagine her first sight. She would feel compelled to say something pretentious like, ‘I have never seen a place for which nature has done more, or where natural beauty has been so little counteracted by an awkward taste.’”
Her companions laughed uproariously; Anne assumed a mournful expression. “Ah, but then wait until she looked around inside. She would be filled with regrets and heartache. I can imagine her whining with something like, ‘And of this place, I might have been mistress!’”
Ellen laughed, and added her own, “I’m thinkin’ she might interrogate the housekeeper like a French spy.”
Anne added, “Of course, that might go either way. Mrs Reynolds is the housekeeper and has known Fitzwilliam since he was four years old. She loves to sport with tourists, so about half the time she says he is the best master in the world, and the other half, the worst. It is all the luck of the draw.”
Not to be outdone, Jane added, “I wonder how long it will take Fitzwilliam to track her down. I imagine by now he has gathered at least a dozen men to start at Matlock and begin the hunt. She should still besomewherewithin fifty miles.”
All three ladies were still laughing uproariously as they descended the hill from the first view. As they came in sight of the house, a most singular sight greeted them.
“How ‘n Earth did he get so many men in just one morning?” Ellen asked.
Anne returned, “There are at least a dozen wagons sitting in the drive, and… does that not look like a crowd of villagers? I am also curious why they are loaded with timber and stone. Thatseems unnecessary unless Fitzwilliam plans to build a tower to lock her in if she does not marry him. It all seems extraneous for hunting one wayward girl. I should think a horse and a copy of a note sufficient!”
Jane agreed with equal confusion. “There are no obvious building works here, or in Lambton. This is quite a place, Anne. Is Rosings anything like this?”
“It is gaudier, and much more uselessly fine. I will have to strip a lot of its ornamentation when I redecorate. It is about two thirds the size of Pemberley, and under my mother’s management has about a quarter of the net income.”
“Ouch!”
The exclamation from Jane would have mortified her a month before, but at that moment, she was just happy she had not cursed in the process.
“Yes, Jane,” Ellen said. “Jason will have his work cut out for him.”
Jane and Anne giggled, not entirely certain if Ellen was serious or not, while Anne sighed wistfully, which lent some weight to Ellen’s hypothesis.
When they came to a stop in front of the house, Anne remarked, “That is odd! One might think Fitzwilliam could at least come out to greet us.”
“It is most peculiar indeed,” Ellen added. “Since he obviously overreacted in his search, perhaps he was just too busy.”
As the coach settled, they saw the usual complement of footmen approaching—or what would be the usual complement if that was double what was required. Even Anne, a long-suffering veteran of her mother’s over-exuberance, was a bit shocked.
One of the men reached up to open the door, but instead of the step being pulled down, they heard a scream that would wake the dead.
“JANE!”
