After Mrs. Reynolds and Sonia assisted her in pushing out the afterbirth, Elizabeth was cleansed, dressed in a fresh shift, and carried to the master’s chambers by her husband. Forced to yield to her son-in-law’s desire to hold the newest member of his household clasped to his breast while his wife was being attended to—and in his presence, no less!—Mrs. Bennet felt her vexation magnified by tenfold when she watched Darcy reclaim his child after he had seen Elizabeth settled in their own room. Ignoring all others present, he joined his wife as she reclined upon their bed, speaking quiet words of affection with a warm smile of happiness. Darcy’s eyes, brimming with tenderness, moved between his wife—who had laid her head against his shoulder—and the precious charge cradled in his arms. Mrs. Bennet suddenly found herself torn between indignation that they would forget themselves in such a way while in company, and envy that they were so obviously able to do so and with an incredible amount of ease.

Unsurprisingly, Mrs. Bennet’s growing irritation at being kept from her grandchild soon overcame all other feelings. In a fit of pique, she threatened to remove herself from the room and quit the house entirely if she was kept from the child even one minute longer. It was then, after exchanging a pointed look with his wife, Darcy reluctantly rose and surrendered that which, in a matter of a mere half hour, he now held so very dear to his heart.

Mrs. Bennet’s sour expression softened to one of wonder and delight as she gazed upon the tiny bundle her son-in-law had transferred to her arms, and as she spoke, to everyone’s surprise, her voice was soft rather than shrill, and her words comforting rather than offensive. Darcy could only watch the transformation with awe, a smile curling the corners of his mouth as he turned to his wife and lifted her outstretched fingers to his lips.

*   *   *

Many hours later, Darcy and Elizabeth found themselves blissfully alone. “I am so very sorry I was unable to come to you earlier than I did, Elizabeth. If the situation between Mr. Roberts and Mr. Gordon had not been so dire, I would have made my excuses immediately to attend you. Sadly, that was not the case.”

Elizabeth nuzzled against the roughness of his cheek. “There is no need for you to dwell upon it, my love. I understand your responsibilities to your tenants and to Pemberley. There is no need to explain your actions to me. From what you have told me already, it sounds as though your presence there was required far more than it was here. It would have been tragic, indeed, had either Mr. Roberts or Mr. Gordon succeeded in killing the other over such a grievance, especially on this joyous day. If I recall correctly, Mrs. Gordon is soon to enter her own confinement. Surely, had you not been on hand, there existed the very great possibility their own child would never have known his father. I believe we all have much to be thankful for.” Elizabeth gave him a tender smile full of love. “You are a wonderful master, and as Mrs. Reynolds has so often said, I do believe no one here at Pemberley could ask for a better one. Your son will learn much of value from you, Fitzwilliam, and indeed, he will turn out to be exactly like you: the very best of men.”

Darcy pulled her closer. Even during what had, undoubtedly, been an emotional and fearful time for her, Elizabeth had still managed to understand him so well—had managed to perceive all that had been weighing upon him, the tremendous burden he had faced and was forced to carry on his shoulders that day. She had fully accepted his role as Pemberley’s master—his responsibilities to his estate and to its people—with grace and an unselfish heart. His heart swelled with pride for his wife. How could it not, for Elizabeth had certainly proven herself as Pemberley’s mistress on this day.

“We must think of a name for this little one,” Darcy said as he gazed with tenderness at his son, who, at that moment, suckled at his mother’s breast. Darcy reached out his hand and caressed the downy hair that covered his child’s tiny head. It was very dark—almost black—with somewhat of a curl to it, very much like his own. His son’s infant features, however, showed him to be an exact replica of his mother, save for his eyes. Even after living in the world for only a few short hours, it was apparent to all who had looked upon him that his eyes were exactly like those of his father—penetrating and expressive.

Elizabeth stroked the softness of her son’s cheek with her finger, and a smile graced her lips. She could not ever remember feeling such happiness. “Yes,” she said, “we do need to find a name for you, do we not, my little prince? Do you have any preference, Fitzwilliam?”

Darcy gazed upon his son, of whom he could not be more proud, and felt his heart swell to painful proportions, both for this miracle of life and for the incredible woman who had made his son’s existence in the world possible. Darcy glanced at her. “What would you say to naming him after Bingley?” he asked. “I have always been fond of the name Charles, and I believe I owe him a very large debt of gratitude.”

Elizabeth looked at him with a quizzical expression, and he sighed as he raked his hand through his hair. “For many years now Bingley has been a very great friend to me and an even greater friend over this past year. He made me look at myself—my principles and my life—more closely than I had ever dared to do before and perhaps even more importantly, he forced me to examine, and acknowledge the wishes and desires of my heart. I cannot help but feel that, had he never leased Netherfield, it may have taken me far longer to find you. Perhaps it would even have taken me the rest of my life. So you see, Elizabeth,” he said as he fingered the gleaming gold of her wedding band, “I owe him much.”

Elizabeth laid her head upon his chest and reached her free hand up and around his neck to bury her fingers in his hair. Darcy closed his eyes as he pressed soft kisses upon her curls, which were currently arranged as he liked them best—loose and flowing, spilling over her shoulders and down her back, framing her face as a painter would a masterpiece. They were reclining together in bed—their bed—their son nestled between them as he nursed, the perfect picture of familial harmony. It was very late or very early—Darcy knew not which—and he had not parted from either of them since the miraculous moment when he had watched Elizabeth give birth countless hours earlier.

“I believe Charles would do very well for this gentleman,” she said as she gazed upon her son with an expression of deep adoration. “Perhaps, Charles Thomas, after my father?”

Darcy opened his eyes and smiled. “I can think of nothing more appropriate.” He gazed with tenderness at the perfect little image of his wife. Their newborn son had placed his tiny hand upon his mother’s breast.

He now studied Elizabeth intently with his expressive eyes, much in the same manner his father had been known to do on countless occasions in the past and would certainly continue to do in the many years still to come. “He does have your eyes, Fitzwilliam,” Elizabeth said. “See how he stares at me so? You had a very similar intensity about you, you know, when we first knew each other in Hertfordshire. Even now, I often see it in you when you look upon me. I cannot help but wonder what such a look can mean in our son, though.”

Darcy leaned in and tangled one of his hands in her tresses. “Can you not?” he asked.

Elizabeth slowly shook her head, and Darcy smiled and kissed her again. “I daresay my son knows when he is in the company of a breathtakingly beautiful woman. He is bewitched by you, as I have been since nearly the very first moment I laid my eyes upon you so many months ago.” His hand slipped from her hair to caress her shoulder, where he lingered for several moments before sliding his fingertips along the length of her arm. Elizabeth shuddered with pleasure and turned her eyes upon him. Darcy’s own grew very dark then, and as he touched his forehead to hers, his voice dropped to a murmur. “I have long suspected I could spend an entire lifetime in your company, Elizabeth, and never have enough of you.”

She leaned into his touch and closed her eyes with a sigh, a small, contented smile upon her mouth. “You are incorrigible, Mr. Darcy,” she teased, then asked, her tone surprisingly serious, “Shall we put this theory of yours to a test, then, do you think?”

Darcy pressed his lips to her temple, her cheek, and, finally, her lips before saying in a low, even voice full of love and conviction, “I plan to devote my life to it, Mrs. Darcy.”

And, indeed, he did.

Epilogue

Four years later, Elizabeth Darcy stood in the midst of all her relations, lifelong and newly acquired, each impeccably attired and wearing a smile of joyful anticipation as the door of Pemberley’s small chapel was thrown open. As the heady scent of freshly cut roses permeated the air and beams of sunlight shone through the stained glass windows, Elizabeth smiled. Her eyes sought those of her husband as he made his way toward the altar with Georgiana on one arm and Lydia on his other. His face was an inscrutable mask as he avoided meeting his wife’s joyful gaze.

After placing a kiss upon the rosy, glowing cheeks of each young woman, Darcy surrendered his sisters to the keeping of their prospective bridegrooms and claimed a seat beside his wife. His eyes were suspiciously shiny, and as the minister began to speak, Elizabeth felt her husband’s hand reach for hers and apply an almost painful pressure. She moved closer and placed her other hand over his, squeezing his fingers. Their eyes met and held for a long moment, and Darcy, his emotions running high, swallowed hard several times before finally mouthing a reverent, “I love you,” as he brought both her gloved hands to his lips. Elizabeth smiled, her love for him showing just as clearly in her eyes on this day as it had on the morning of their own wedding.

Once she had learnt to apply herself in the proper manner, Lydia had flourished during her years away at school in London. However, while Mary and Kitty were content to return to Longbourn once their education had been completed, Lydia was not. At the invitation of her second-eldest sister and her brother-in-law, Lydia returned to Pemberley and placed herself under their guardianship indefinitely. With consideration, encouragement, and a healthy dose of patience, her discourse had become sensible, her opinions insightful, and her talents and interests far exceeded those of her past. Her most fulfilling reward for any effort now came in the form of a few kind words of praise or a warm smile, most particularly when bestowed upon her by the master of Pemberley.

Though she, Mary, and Kitty had taken to addressing Darcy as Brother, Lydia had actually come to look upon him as more of a father figure. His good opinion was important to her, and so, she had taken it upon herself to strive to please him in very much the same manner Georgiana had always done—with the intention of making him proud of her. Lydia trusted Darcy’s judgment implicitly and was apt to defer to his wisdom and experience with complete faith in his desire for her welfare, paying him a consideration and a respect she had never been inclined to show her own father during her fifteen years under his roof.

To the astonishment of many, neither gentleman permitted it to become a source of strain or resentment between them. Rather than dwell upon the implications, Mr. Bennet chose instead to do what he had always done so effectively over the years: he overlooked the offense, though, this time with a heavy heart, especially on the day when Lydia traded her maiden name for that of another. Feeling, in a matter of four short years, that his son-in-law had more than earned the right to give away the admirable young lady who had once been his most troublesome daughter, Mr. Bennet gracefully ceded the honor of escorting her down the aisle to Darcy. John Brewster, who was to be the happy recipient of Lydia’s fair hand, hardly cared which gentleman held the distinction of presenting his bride to him, so long as she was surrendered at the proper hour and location.

Music suddenly filled the small chapel, signaling to all within that the ceremony was now officially ended. Darcy watched in a daze as the two smiling couples, who had eyes for none but each other, turned and proceeded up the aisle arm in arm. The doors were thrown open without ceremony, and as birdsong filled the air, all four young people burst out into the perfect June morning amidst shouts of joy and wishes of glad tidings and prosperity. Beaming, Elizabeth stood and tugged on her husband’s hand. The wedding breakfast would be held on a stone terrace not far from the house. A white canopy had been erected by the servants and trimmed with seasonal flowers and silk ribbon. It would be a sumptuous affair, a perfect complement to the ball that had been held the night before. Darcy placed his wife’s hand in the crook of his arm and sighed.