Read A Peculiar Connection Online
Authors: Jan Hahn
A Peculiar Connection (40 page)
I did as he said and was amazed at the vistas I saw in the distance, at how far one might see from the peak on which we stood, and at the magnificence of the prospect before me. How had I missed such a sight?
He slipped his arms around my waist, and together we attempted to take in the wonder of all that we could see.
“What is it that the psalmist says?” he whispered in my ear. “I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills…”
“From whence cometh my help,” I finished.
“I cannot promise you that each day will be perfect, Elizabeth, for, granted, life is fragile. There is one thing I do know: our love is not fragile. Our love is strong and enduring. Our love will stand when all else fails. As for the rest of it, what can I say? We are all in God’s hands. Let us leave it to Him.”
Epilogue
Ten years have now passed since I married Mr. Darcy, and he still makes love to me with his eyes. In a crowded room, across a noisy, joyful dinner table, it takes but one certain glance, and I feel that rush of anticipation overtake me, knowing that he wants me. I have seen numerous days surprise me, for many events have transpired, but William remains constant.
Our family has been altered by marriages and births. Both Mary and Kitty married men from Hertfordshire. Thus, Mamá enjoys the frequent company of two of her daughters. Jane and Mr. Bingley left Netherfield within a year of my marriage, moving to a neighbouring county within thirty miles of Pemberley. That move has afforded my sister and me much joy now that we dwell within easy distance of one another. They are parents to three daughters and a young son, all sweet children possessing hearty constitutions.
Mr. and Mrs. Wickham remain in Newcastle and continue to reap what they have sown. Mamá writes to tell me each time my youngest sister visits Longbourn, but I have rarely had opportunity to be there at the same time. Thus, I must say I have only seen her twice since her marriage, and I have never encountered Mr. Wickham again, for he is much employed with his own pursuits.
Georgiana had a successful Season the first spring that William and I were married. Within two years, she wed Mr. Wentworth, the grandson of a prominent gentleman in Town. They have two daughters, one of whom is the image of Georgiana.
Six months after William and I married, a sad event transpired at Bridesgate when Admiral Denison’s wife fell ill and, within days, departed this earth. He appeared most cast down for much of the following year. However, as things happened, he remarried the next year.
Admiral Denison and Eleanor Willoughby were married eighteen months after her brother’s death. The admiral took her home to live at Bridesgate, the house she had loved as a child. After Sir Linton’s death, she had made frequent visits to Pemberley, and she and I had continued to grow closer. During those visits, we had called on the Denisons, never dreaming my aunt would one day become the admiral’s bride and my neighbour.
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The day William had brought me home to Pemberley as his bride, he had surprised me by an addition he had made to the gallery of family portraits in the great hall. Included on the wall hung the picture of my mother that Andrew Denison had discovered in the attics of Bridesgate.
“When did you order this placed at Pemberley?” I asked in wonder.
Standing behind me, he slipped his arms around my waist. “The day after you agreed to marry me. I wrote to Mrs. Reynolds that evening from Ireland and directed her to carry out my wishes.”
“Thank you, William.” I lay my head back on his shoulder and gazed up at the mother I had never known.
“The portrait hangs where it should have all along, for she was the proper wife of Peter Darcy and the mother of the mistress of this house.”
“I wish we owned a likeness of my father as a grown man.”
We walked a few paces to stand before the picture of the three young Darcy brothers.
“We shall simply have to see the future man reflected in the face of this young boy,” William said. “And when your portrait is done, I believe we will see reminders of both your mother and him in your lovely face.”
“I have never had my picture painted.”
“You may do so with one qualification.”
“Oh?” I cut my eyes at him. “And what might that be?”
“I shall sit in on each of your sessions with the artist.”
“Indeed? I would think that should prove most tiresome.”
“I never grow tired of gazing at you, my love.”
“A pretty answer, but is it completely truthful?”
“What do you mean?”
“Surely, you would not prove jealous of the poor artist who is forced to draw my likeness.”
“Hmph! How could I not grow jealous of a man who looks upon your beauty for hours at a time?”
“William! You have no reason for concern. Surely, you know that you alone own my heart.”
He drew me into his arms. “I do. However, I alone also claim possession of your body, and no man shall spend hours in your presence without my company.” He kissed me tenderly. “Indulge me, sweet one, for mercy’s sake.”
I kissed him back. “I do recall once upon a time promising you that I would have mercy.”
“You did, and I always collect on promises.”
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Recently, we added yet another portrait to the gallery of Darcys, one I happen to consider as dear as the great image of my husband, for only a few inches from the likeness of my father and his brothers as children hangs the portrait of three more young Darcy brothers. George Fitzwilliam, Peter Thomas, and Henry Edward sit on a deep-green velvet couch, their dark curls brushed, their shining, pink cheeks scrubbed, and their starched white collars almost in place.
Our Georgie, named naturally for his grandfather and father, is the oldest at nine years of age. Henry Edward, our youngest, who is all of five years old, wears the names of our uncles. And our seven-year-old middle son, Peter Thomas, with the twinkle in his green eyes belying the serious demeanour about his mouth, is named for my fathers, Peter Darcy and Thomas Bennet.
Already an accomplished horseman at a tender age, Georgie does well at any sport. He dogs the steps of his father, and I know he will make an excellent master of Pemberley one day. Little Henry is, naturally, still my baby. His playful capers can make William and me laugh on the bleakest of days. And dearest Peter—inconceivably, he reminds me of both my fathers, for he has an excellent mind, already excels at his studies, and prefers his own company much of the time. I often find him with his head in a book while his brothers run and play outdoors. On the other hand, it is uncanny how his sharp wit makes one think that Papá has somehow passed down his gift to the boy.
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And now, as I close this account and reflect upon the past ten years, I tend to dwell on the happiness I have been granted all because Mr. Darcy fell in love with me. I would not, however, have you believe that our marriage has always flowed smoothly or that we have not endured trials. I would like to say that the day Lady Catherine lied to me in the garden at Longbourn did not change me…but it did. It left me with a wariness that plagued me and worried William.
For some time—years, in fact—I confess that I struggled with periods of darkness. To most, I appeared much as I ever had. My disposition was amiable, and my wit remained impertinent. I seemed the woman upon whom fortune had smiled. I was the wife of Mr. Darcy, after all, and mistress of Pemberley. Nevertheless, at times, I found myself overwhelmed with fears of the future and even of the present day. I would forget my husband’s admonition and feel that I was yet being pulled back into my past. I wish I could say I regained my faith as easily as William wanted me to…but I did not.
When my children were born, I determined they would never experience that same pain of uncertainty that dwelt within me. I set out to become the best of mothers, a proposition that, of course, is insupportable. I sought to protect them from everything. If not for their father, they never would have ridden horses or climbed trees. I blundered in other ways, but their tender hearts forgave me.
My prayer book became my constant companion. William bought me a new Bible with pristine white pages, unstained with tears or wrinkled from use. I, however, preferred his mother’s old prayer book. I had discovered it hidden away at the back of a drawer in the desk she used to write her letters. The pages had been turned often, and I was somehow comforted to know that another wife and mother had evidently retreated to that same book to strengthen her faith. I kept my father’s rosary near the book, for it consoled me because it had been his.
Slowly, my faith returned. Bad dreams ceased to disturb my sleep, and weeks would pass wherein my thoughts never strayed to the note, yellowed with age, that had altered my existence. I had no desire to live a life devoted to my suffering. I prayed to become whole again, and eventually, God granted me that desire.
I can now say that for the most part, I am recovered. I face each day, if not with optimism, at least with confidence that my loved ones and I are resting in God’s hands.
Throughout these years, naught but one knew of my struggles, and that one, of course, was my dearest William. His strength supported me when I stumbled, and his faith sufficed when mine failed.
My husband continues to declare that our love will increase until the grave claims us and even beyond. I am unsure about the last part of that statement because I do not know what happens to love after death, and I recall that when it comes to declarations of love, my husband remains wildly extravagant. Still, I cling to that promise with all that is within me.
One thing I am sure of: I will not presume to enjoy this good life, or this good man, without thanking God. I shall be oh so grateful for the blessing each day brings.
I may not utter the words aloud, but they are ever present in my thoughts.
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