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.