Page 65 of The Eye of the Storm

Somewhere from behind, Bevan muttered a prayer.

Ferguson exhaled sharply, blood dripping from his arm.

And there, beside Anne’s still form, lay Sir Lewis’s letter opener, its blue gem catching a stray shaft of sunlight.

The exact dagger she had used to kill her mother.

***

Darcy remained at Rosings just long enough to see his duties fulfilled.

The earth had barely settled over Fitzwilliam’s grave when Darcy finalized the estate matters. It had been a quiet, sombre burial. Only a handful of local families came to pay their final respects, offering one last farewell to the last mistress of Rosings and her husband. The new parson officiated.

Darcy had no words to offer. There were no speeches, only the solemn rites of the Church. He stood silent as the ceremony unfolded, the wind howling over the cliffs as the last shovelful of dirt fell.

Fitzwilliam had made his choices. Now, the only thing left was to lay him to rest.

Anne was buried not far from him. With her, they laid the dagger with the blue gem—the same blade that had ended Lady Catherine’s life, and, ultimately, Anne’s own.

The curse of Rosings had finally come to an end.

By the time Darcy left the cemetery, he was exhausted in a way that went beyond physical fatigue. But there was still work to be done.

Many unpleasant letters were written, many explanations given. More would follow once he reached home. The Earl of Matlock would demand answers about his sister’s fate, his son’s death, and the future of Rosings. These were conversations Darcy did not wish to have, but could not avoid.

He had come to bring order. Instead, he had buried them all.

Darcy returned to the house on the beach only once—to retrieve Georgiana’s letters.

Just stepping inside sent a shiver through him. The air was thick; the silence oppressive, as if the walls still bore witness to the madness that had unfolded there.

He went straight to the library, unwilling to linger. The letters were exactly where he suspected—in a drawer, tied with a blue silk ribbon. Darcy pulled one free, unfolded the paper, and scanned the writing. Georgiana’s words to her lover stared back at him. Without hesitation, he tossed them into the fire, watching as the flames curled around the paper, reducing the past to ash.

That chapter of his life was closed.

The steward was rehired. The remaining servants were given direction and purpose. Rosings, in its ruined state, still stood, though a shell of its former grandeur, yet one that would not crumble entirely under his care.

Only then, when everything was settled, did he allow himself to leave.

The journey to Longbourn seemed longer than it truly was. He had imagined this moment a hundred times, but now that it was finally here, he found himself gripping the edge of the seat, restless, uncertain. Only when the familiar outline of Longbourn came into view did he finally exhale.

The carriage rolled to a stop, and as soon as the footman unlatched the door, Darcy hopped down. He stepped onto the gravel path, barely finding his footing before Elizabeth ran to him without hesitation, her skirts swaying, her breath catching as she threw her arms around him.

He held her tightly. No words passed between them at first. Only the warmth of her embrace, the certainty of her presence after everything he had endured was there to sustain him. His throat constricted, and his chest shook—a sob, a chuckle, perhaps both.

It did not matter. They were finally together.

Elizabeth pulled back slightly, her hands cupping his face. “Are you well?”

Darcy blinked away the mist in his eyes. “I am now.”

FIN

Epilogue – Rosings’ Fate

History, as it so often does, took an ironic turn. The man who had sworn never again to set foot in Rosings was the one who ultimately inherited it. To everyone’s astonishment, when the papers were revisited, a residuary clause was found annexed to the amendment lodged at the notary’s office in Ceredigion. This clause, together with a schedule enumerating the estate’s assets and investments—far greater than anyone had imagined—named Fitzwilliam Darcy sole heir of Rosings upon Anne’s death. Lady Catherine de Bourgh had her way in the end: Fitzwilliam Darcy was bound forever to the estate he had never desired.

Although this unwelcome twist of fate nearly doubled Darcy’s fortune, Rosings always left a bitter taste in his mouth. He never returned to the island, and the management of the estate fell entirely on the steward. Nothing tied him to the place; no fond memories remained, save those connected to his wife and the love that had blossomed in the heart of the storm. The estate was listed for sale the moment Darcy was declared its legal owner. Yet, despite numerous attempts over the years, no buyer ever came forward.

While his life lasted, not a day passed without Darcy endeavouring to rid himself of the cursed island. He even included a special recommendation in his Last Will and Testament, urging his heirs and the generations that followed never to set foot on Rosings,and to rid themselves of the property at the first reasonable offer. That day never came. Rosings, like a haunted relic, remained in the Darcy family for generations, until the property was finally donated to the National Trust after the Great War, where it stood as a crumbling monument to the past.

The profits derived from Rosings were never a source of pride or satisfaction to its reluctant master. Darcy did, however, make deliberate use of these earnings in the early years, not for himself, but to aid those who had suffered most in the mansion’s downfall. He took particular care of Mrs. Collins, whose life had been blighted by the madness and greed of others. Her husband’s name was fully vindicated, and Darcy purchased for the young widow a neat little property near her parents’ home. He also secured her a suitable allowance, allowing his wife’s dearest friend to live quietly and comfortably, far removed from the scandal that had once darkened Rosings.

Ferguson, too, benefited from the Rosings inheritance. As part of the final settlement, he was granted a small dwelling on the island—no grand reward, but a secure roof and land enough to call his own, whether for himself or for his kin. Beyond this, and entirely apart from Rosings, Darcy bestowed upon him a modest house on the southern edge of the Pemberley estate, a personal token of gratitude for bravery, steadfast devotion, and years of unwavering service.

Yet the taciturn Welshman remained with the Darcy family by choice until the end of his days, surviving his master by only a few weeks. He became not merely Darcy’s companion in travel, but the quiet, watchful guardian of his children as they took their first steps and grew into adulthood. Their story transcended time, recorded in the Darcy family history as a testament to trust, friendship, and fidelity—an enduring legacy of a man who had once stood in the shadows, but whose devotion would never be forgotten.

Darcy and his uncle, the earl, remained estranged for a time, not only because of the circumstances surrounding Colonel Fitzwilliam’s death, but also on account of the scandal that had stained the family’s name when his involvement in the events at Rosings came to light. Yet, at Elizabeth’s persuasion, Darcy sought a reconciliation, and in time the bond was partially restored. The earl’s and his lady’s affection for their only nephew, now the reluctant master of Rosings,proved stronger than their bitterness, though the closeness they had once shared was never fully regained.

Though born of tragedy and chaos, Mr. and Mrs. Darcy’s marriage became a union marked by profound understanding and affection. Their temperaments, once seemingly at odds, proved delightfully complementary—his steadfastness grounding her vivacity, her wit enlivening his reserve. In time, they came to cherish not only the love they bore for each other, but also the playful teasing and quiet companionship that filled their days. Together, they raised a family rooted in honesty, kindness, and the hard-won wisdom of their past, finding in each other a partner not just for life, but for every joy and trial it contained.