Before the magnificent baptismal font at St. George’s Cathedral, his doting uncle, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, stood proudly, his pregnant wife, Amanda, at his side. Cradled within his strong arms, B. George Darcy screamed bloody hell, furious at the dribble of holy water running down his forehead, affronted by the laughing comments and oohs and aahs, aggravated by the ribbons and ruffles on his gown and the lace on his cap. They’d pay one day, they’d all pay, just as soon as he figured out who they all were.

Intoning aloud for his tiny cousin the promises of lifelong devotion to God and church, the rejection of Satan and all his wicked ways, his “uncle” Fitz chuckled at the impressive display of impatience, the seven pounds of hubris encased in satin. And while family and friends gathered round to wish the newest addition into their privileged world a holy and happy life, the realization came to the boy’s adoring father that this would probably be the first in a lifetime of family gatherings, both happy and sad, to be shared between the Darcy and Fitzwilliam households.

As he listened to the head of the Church of England explain the spiritual as well as physical role of parents in a child’s life, the importance of godparents, the love of family and ritual, Darcy’s thoughts drifted back to a little country assembly hall where he had condescended to dance only with Caroline Bingley and her sister, Mrs. Hurst. His friend, their brother, Charles, had indicated a sweet-looking young thing, the sister of the beautiful girl with whom he had danced, sitting out the current set due to scarcity of partners, egging him on to dance with her.

Elizabeth. His beloved, beautiful, Elizabeth.

“She is tolerable, ” he had brayed like a donkey within her hearing, “but not handsome enough to tempt me. And I am in no humor at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men.”

Smiling down on her lovely face now, he squeezed her hand tenderly as it rested snugly within his elbow. She had brought him love and joy and family. His world was richer because of her. “I love you, Miss Bennet,” he whispered in her ear, moved by the tears of happiness shining in her eyes.

“I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed upon to marry.” She laughed softly as her insulting rejection of his first marriage proposal flashed through her memory. Then she sighed. He was magnificent and handsome and noble. Her world was richer because of him.

“No more than I love you, Mr. Darcy.”

Epilogue

Shortly before Easter, 1850

Darcy joined his cousin as he rested outside on the grand terraced veranda. He carried hidden within his coat a bottle of whiskey, two glasses, and a carafe of water, proudly brandishing them as he approached. Fitzwilliam had already been alerted by the clinking and clanking of the glassware and was now waiting patiently on one of two large lawn chairs they had placed for optimal viewing of the vast driveway into Pemberley.

“I say, Buccleuch?” Darcy loudly called out, greatly enjoying his cousin’s annoyance.

“Damn it to hell, brat, you know how I detest being called that. Why do you persist?”

“Well, if you’re going to answer your own questions, I wonder that you even waste your breath.”

Fitzwilliam emitted a derogatory sound through his clenched lips.

“No mouth farts, please.” Darcy glowed with pleasure. “Has Amanda reconciled herself to becoming a duchess yet?” He carefully placed his purloined goodies onto the table and then settled himself in his own chair.

Fitzwilliam harrumphed. “She was only recently coming to terms with being an earl’s wife after… how many decades has it been? Now it appears it was my fault all my old cousins died childless within a year of each other.” Richard took the glass that Darcy offered and watched eagerly as the whiskey was poured. “She hates the name, you know, says it sounds as if someone is coughing up phlegm. She cannot stop laughing whenever we are addressed.” His mood brightened considerably, relishing their rare treat. “How did you get this past the old gargoyles?” He smacked his lips at the forbidden taste.

“Really, Richard, I am the master of my home, the king of my domain.” With an indignant huff, Darcy lowered himself deeper into the chair, elegantly repositioning his cuffs and collar.

“I imagine that is why you hid the bottle as you walked by the windows.”

Darcy gazed with haughty condescension at his cousin. One eyebrow arched. “I hid the bottle for the same reason you’ve got those two pipes stashed beneath the table.” Fitzwilliam grunted happily at being reminded of their presence and reached below to bring them up.

Their doctors would be disapproving of these liberties with their health—their wives would be livid. It made it somehow all the more enjoyable.

As he lit his own pipe, Darcy became aware of the trouble his cousin was having when he noticed for the first time the glasses perched upon his nose. “Since when do you wear spectacles?” He watched as Fitzwilliam swiveled his head around like a bird eying a worm. It began to be a nearly comical attempt to bring a flame even remotely near the bowl of his pipe. Darcy leaned over to guide the light.

“Thank you, brat, I don’t.” Fitzwilliam puffed vigorously once or twice in triumph. “Wear glasses, that is. They’re not mine. Since you feel the need to snoop, these are Amanda’s. I stole them from her dresser when I rifled through it this morning.” He stifled a chuckle. Looking very proud of himself, he leaned his head back and blew the pipe smoke into the air. “Aaahhhhh,” he sighed. He was in heaven. “The woman’s blind as a bat for reading, you know.”

“Good God, why were you going through her dresser?”

“Well, nosy bits, I was looking for the tobacco pouch she stole from my dresser, of course.” He shook his head as if Darcy had mortar for brains and clucked his tongue in annoyance. “You know perfectly well she won’t allow me to have tobacco since that episode with my heart.” The spectacles were quickly slipped into his pocket. “She’ll go mad looking for these.” He beamed.

“Fitzwilliam, as wealthy as you are, you could provide your wife with more than one pair of spectacles, could you not?”

“Well, a lot you know. Amanda has at least six pairs of these things.” Fitzwilliam glared indignantly at his cousin. “And it took me a devil of a time to find and hide them all.”

Darcy shook his head sadly, “Have you no shame?”

Fitzwilliam gave this a fleeting moment of thought. “No, why do you ask?” He puffed on his pipe and grinned wickedly. “Heavens, man, how else can I obtain the vital information with which to torment my beloved if I do not go through her private things? My God, Darcy, what kind of marriage do you have?”

***

It was one month after the passing of the indomitable Lady Catherine de Bourgh, having lived to be an exquisitely lively eighty-nine years, her wits about her until nearly three weeks before the end. And it was one week until Easter. Easter for the two men had always been with Catherine and her daughter at Rosings Park for as long as they remembered. They had decided the tradition would continue on at the Darcy’s magnificent home, Pemberley.

Darcy and Fitzwilliam were now resting on its grand veranda, awaiting the arrival of their children and a large number of grandchildren, who would be joining them for the holidays.

“Elizabeth only this morning informed me all the children will be in attendance this year. Tell me it isn’t so, I beg of you.”

“Yes, Cousin, as horrible as that thought is, it is true. From what I’ve been told, all of ours will be here with assorted spouses and children, as well as your three and their families.” Fitzwilliam grinned, his pipe securely clenched in his teeth. He removed it as they clinked their glasses and downed their drinks in one swallow.

“Well, that settles it.” Darcy placed his empty glass down on the table between them. “I’ll have to sell immediately and go into hiding. God help Derbyshire.” He puffed on his pipe, unable to suppress his grin.

Glancing furtively over his shoulder to ensure they weren’t being watched by the wives, Fitzwilliam poured them both another drink. Their children, the next generation of cousins from the Darcy and Fitzwilliam families, were very close and famously rowdy when together.

“From what I hear, most of them were to meet in Matlock to stay overnight before setting out, in which case, poor Matlock has very likely raised a white flag by now, and they will all descend at the same time.” Fitzwilliam slouched down into his own chair, his head resting on the back cushion in order to better enjoy the sun’s warmth on his face. His pipe dangled from his mouth.

“Have they said why they all accepted the invitation this time? Not that I begrudge them coming, bloodcurdling thought that it is, but I believe it’s been many a year since the whole family was together for a holiday. In fact, I don’t think it’s ever occurred before. Usually in-laws or business or school claim a few casualties. This may very well violate some sort of municipal health regulation.”

“I believe they felt badly about Catherine’s passing, thought perhaps we all needed the support.” Fitzwilliam took a puff on his pipe and grew serious for just a moment, staring absently down the long road. “They have all turned out to be truly splendid people, really—proud of each and every one. I mean, if you can ignore the shootings and screaming.”

“Elizabeth tells me that Anthony, however, will be absent, that he is traveling to Egypt”—Darcy turned his piercing gaze toward Richard—“along with the very elegant Sir Edmund Percy. That’s rather a surprise, don’t you think? He’s rarely missed a holiday before in my memory. And as a matter of fact, how does he even know Sir Edmund?”

Richard became very still.

“Is there anything you wish to finally share with me, Richard?” It was highly diverting to watch his cousin squirm as he did. “You know how futile it is to try and keep anything from me—I shall drag the truth from you one day.”

“Well, their acquaintance is of long standing—only natural, really—they are both members of the Royal Academy Board, both interested in antiquities.” He was withering under Darcy’s relentless stare. “I know nothing,” he finally blurted out. Fitzwilliam’s eyes went everywhere but to his cousin. “Good God, it’s like having two wives,” he mumbled.

***

They sat in silence then, their minds going over the past years and the loved ones who would not be joining them this Easter.

Lady Catherine, the Grande Dame, passed shortly after her beloved daughter, Anne. Losing Anne had taken the desire to live from the old girl, and in the last few weeks of her life, her mind began wandering to prior days. She was once again aghast at that impudent Elizabeth Bennet, fought her battles with that horrible American Amanda Penrod, and chased her “horrid little nephews” after they disrupted one of her parties. She also redecorated constantly, now only in her mind, but always of the highest quality. The entire family missed the daffy old woman dreadfully.

For many, many years, between the Darcys and the Fitzwilliams, there had been a constant flurry of children, carriages, nannies, and dogs throughout elegant Mayfair, and then all those children had also descended merrily upon Aunt Catherine’s for tarts, biscuits, and cakes. Mayfair would never look the same again.

Mr. Bennet had passed away over twenty years before, followed the next year by Charlotte Collins in childbirth. Mr. Collins was inconsolable for many months until he finally found his comfort with Mary Bennet, who had been secretly yearning for him the whole while.

Caroline Bingley had finally married a very wealthy tradesman and had settled in Edinburgh. She never had children and quickly regretted her removal from London society. London society, it can be reported, did not return the sentiment.

Lady Penrod died a short four years after Amanda and Richard’s marriage, and Harry immediately became one of the wealthiest nine-year-olds in London, inheriting both her London townhome, where he now lived with his own family, and another home in the Lake District.

Fitzwilliam and Amanda had eight children besides their wonderful Harry. His brother, Regis, passed two years after their marriage, and his beloved father passed five years after that, thereby making Richard the seventh Earl of Summerton. Happily, the sixth earl had lived long enough to meet the eighth earl, along with several spares.