Page 85 of Resilience

The house was awake in every corner, footsteps on stairs, doors opening and closing, low voices of servants, the rustle of silk and linen. Everyone was in preparation for the wedding which was to take place the following day. Elizabeth and her husband had escaped it all, if only for a moment.

They stood together at the open window of the nursery parlour overlooking the south green, their son–Fitzwilliam Richard Darcy–asleep in Elizabeth’s arms, one small fist curled into the lace at her sleeve.

“He sleeps through anything now,” Darcy murmured, watching the child with a quiet wonder he still had not outgrown. “Six months ago, a servant at the door would have startled him.”

Elizabeth smiled. “He has had six months to learn that each sound is not a personal insult to his dignity.”

Darcy kissed the crown of the baby’s head, then Elizabeth’s temple. They were silent for a moment, the future pressing gently rather than urgently upon them.

“Do you think,” Elizabeth said at last, “that Lydia ever imagined this?”

“That she would marry again?” Darcy shook his head. “No. Nor that she would be this happy. Nor that she would be–” He searched for the word, then settled on honesty. “Whole. Wickham is most certainly receiving his eternal punishment for what he did to her. For what he did to her and so many others.”

Elizabeth’s eyes were on the lawn below, where gardeners were checking over everything to ensure that every bush, every bloom, was perfect before the gardens were filled with guests the next day. “Three years is a long time to heal. But she used it well.”

“She did,” he agreed. “She even learnt to play the harp.”

Elizabeth’s expression softened. “She learnt restraint the hard way. And quiet acceptance was perhaps the hardest lesson of all.”

They both knew whom she did not speak of.

“Mr and Mrs Denny will come today?” Darcy said carefully.

“They will,” Elizabeth confirmed. “Kitty does what is required. No more, no less. Lydia has learnt not to press her. I doubt they will speak a single word to each other.”

“How do you feel about it?” he pressed. “I know how important it was to you that they would reconcile eventually.”

Elizabeth shifted Fitzwilliam slightly against her shoulder. “I no longer ask for what Kitty cannot give. I think that is the final lesson of growing up.”

“Collins says that Longbourn is doing well. Better than he expected when they arrived.” Darcy said. “It was good of Mr Helston to allow him to return to perform the ceremony for Lydia.”

“Mary will manage our childhood home well, and the future of Longbourn will be love and care,” Elizabeth said. “And Mrs Bennet–”

“Will complain,” Darcy finished gently. “But she is safe, provided for, and surrounded by people who indulge her far more than they ought.”

Elizabeth laughed quietly. “The damage she can do from Netherfield’s dower house is limited, though my Uncle Gardiner tells me that she has demanded to visit him in Gracechurch Street. Heaven forbid.”

They fell silent again.

“Willoughby cannot wait to bring Lydia to Combe Magna.” Darcy said at last. “He speaks of it endlessly and says it prospers far beyond his early hopes. Knowing his reputation as a young man, I did not expect too much of him, though I would never deny anyone who asked for advice just because I thought they might squander it. He said that he wished to improve, and he did.”

Elizabeth nodded. “Redemption is rarely loud. It prefers steady work.”

Darcy looked down at their son. “And this is what comes next.”

From the hall came the distant sound of Lydia’s laugh; soft, controlled, unmistakably her own.

Elizabeth exhaled. “She is ready.”

Darcy smiled. “So are we.”

They stood together a moment longer–husband and wife, parents,–before turning back toward the life waiting just beyond the nursery door.

Elizabeth had thought herself long past being surprised by Lydia. She was wrong. From her place near the front of Lambton’s church, Elizabeth watched her youngest sister enter on Mr Gardiner’s arm, and for a moment the familiar stone walls, the excited crowd, the whole world, seemed to simply fade away.

Lydia Wickham–who in a matter of moments would be Lydia Willoughby–walked steadily towards her future. Her expression was radiant.

That alone felt miraculous.