Page 94 of Courting Elizabeth

I ran my fingers through his hair.

“Pemberley is a well-run estate. It will survive.”

He laughed and kissed me.

Dinner grew cold without us.

Epilogue

DARCY

One year after our marriage, Elizabeth opened the new schoolroom at Pemberley.

She stood before a row of desks still fragrant with new wood. Reading and arithmetic books lined the shelves. Boys and girls entered together, intimidated by Mrs Darcy’s presence, then reassured when she knelt to fix a ribbon for a child who had lost hers.

The project had begun on her second day at Pemberley, in front of two long tables where four girls sat at the back of the room. Elizabeth had examined the accounts, questioned the families, convinced the most reluctant, and secured the right for girls to stay longer or attend afternoon lessons.

I had financed it.

She had given it life.

Lady Catherine had sent six pages of disapproval. Elizabeth kept them in a drawer labeled “Encouragements.”

Charlotte wrote from Hunsford every month. She had requested the plans for the room and the carpenter’s name, never specifying for what purpose—which, with Charlotte, meant a decision had already been made.

Georgiana played a piece on the pianoforte before the assembled families. She did not tremble. Elizabeth had never asked her to become bold; she had simply given her enough security for her courage to emerge.

Jane and Bingley now lived less than thirty miles away. Their first child was expected in winter, an event Mrs Bennet announced to everyone as a personal achievement. Kitty divided her time between her sisters and was beginning to think before following Lydia. Mary corresponded with the schoolmaster about matters of education with a regularity Elizabeth pretended not to notice.

Lydia wrote from the North. Her letters remained boisterous and filled with requests for money that we refused. The income placed in her name, however, ensured she had what she needed, and Wickham’s new colonel monitored his debts more diligently than his predecessor had.

It was not perfect happiness.

It was better than disaster.

That evening, when the house had grown quiet, I found Elizabeth in the library. She held a letter from her father and was smiling.

“Good news?” I asked.

“Mama now credits Pemberley with fifteen thousand pounds a year.”

“Should I correct this error?”

“She would be disappointed by the truth.”

I wrapped my arms around her waist. She leaned against me with that familiarity that remained my deepest happiness.

“What did you do today?” she asked.

“Inspected the new bridge. Met with two farmers. Refused a request from Wickham. Watched my wife transform an idea into a school.”

“Quite a full day.”

“And you?”

“I taught a child that seven and five make twelve, prevented Georgiana from fleeing before her piece, and moved a chair that Lady Catherine had declared perfectly placed.”

“Essential work.”