“IT IS A TRUTH UNIVERSALLY acknowledged,” the tall gentleman said, “that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.” He took a sip from the goblet of fine brandy he held in his long and manicured hand, and then observed the amber liquid as he swirled it around the inside of the glass, the colours reflecting in the firelight. He sighed the sigh of deep satisfaction. “And how true it is, Charles, how utterly true that is.”
“‘Tis even so for an impecunious old soldier as myself!” joked the former colonel who occupied the third chair by the fire. “I never knew how much until it was upon me.” He raised his own glass, and the three men toasted each other, each revelling in his own great fortune.
The three friends sat in the comfort of Darcy’s study in his London townhouse, whilst their wives gathered in the drawing room next door, engaged in deep and delighted conversation about whatever it is that sisters and dear friends discuss when they have not seen each other for some time. Jane Bingley was proudly showing off her latest acquisition, a perfect little boy, now three months old, named Oliver Charles. With his golden curls, rosy cheeks and sparkling blue eyes, the babe was an instant favourite with all who saw him, and Jane was right to be most pleased with her creation. Charles, too, doted on the lad in a manner most unfashionable amongst the haute set, and none could blame him.
Richard had cooed over the child with an unexpected enthusiasm that had his cousin baffled, until it became obvious that his dear Charlotte would soon be presenting him with an heir as well. If Eliza had a similar secret, she was not yet telling anybody.
Well comfortable with his close friends and in the knowledge of his beloved being only a short few yards away, Darcy allowed himself to relax into pleasant conversation while his mind toyed with the events of the past several months.
Of these events, his own engagement and wedding took primacy in his thoughts. After Freddy’s initial disappointment, his cousin had come to see that Lizzy had been quite right and that his affection for her was that of infatuation and friendship, rather than the selfless love that she deserved. The viscount had quickly offered his heartiest congratulations and had promised to do whatever was needed to smooth Lizzy’s way during her first season as Mrs. Darcy. He had returned to Town shortly after the wedding with Georgie in tow, and according to rumour—substantiated by Richard—he had become fascinated of late with a young woman who had but recently arrived in London from the colonies. Her father, the third son of a baron, had taken a post in Lower Canada as a young man. Having dwelt in Montreal with his family for the past twenty years, his duties had recalled him to England, and with him came his wife and four children, amongst whom numbered the charming and exotic Miss Helena Hutchison. It was far too early to plan his wedding suit, but Darcy began to hope that there might be a happy ending for his cousin Freddy as well.
Aunt Patricia had been delighted at the news that the false engagement had become real, for she had taken an immediate liking to Elizabeth, which over the course of the countess’ ministrations and guidance, had become a genuine attachment. She would, of course, have welcomed Lizzy as a daughter, but was almost as happy to see her as a niece, for it was apparent that this arrangement was of the most satisfaction to everybody. She had continued to squire Lizzy around town and to introduce her to the right people in the highest circles, and was right now preparing the new Mrs. Darcy for her presentation at court. The former country girl was completely accepted in society as a fine lady, and if none knew of her background, that would be quite acceptable as well.
The wedding itself had been as simple and without ado as was possible for two such people as the esteemed Professor Darcy—nephew to an earl, after all!—and the daughter of Mrs. Bennet. That lady, immediately upon hearing the happy news, had set off for Pemberley and arrived days later with none other than Patricia, Lady Malton. The two set right to work on arranging the wedding and the subsequent celebrations, and only the most strenuous objections by the couple succeeded in tempering any of their plans.
Darcy complained loudly and often about the entire affair, and on several occasions waxed poetic to his betrothed about the relative advantages of eloping to Scotland. “We are, after all, half way there!” he declared more than once. Eliza agreed with him, but reminded him that their suffering was to be of short duration—for they were to be wed within the month—and that other people’s happiness depended on their acquiescence. Reluctantly and with no good humour, he agreed to suffer through the elaborate celebrations.
“After all, Fitz, ‘tis only the wedding that they are planning,” she would remind him once and again, “and we all know that what is truly important is not the wedding but the marriage. And that we shall conduct on our own terms, with no influence by anyone wholly unconnected to ourselves.”
In the end, both survived the rites, as well as the attendant trials and tribulations, and were most happy in their new domestic arrangements.
Lost in these pleasant memories, Darcy smiled to himself and allowed the quiet conversation of the others wash over him like the warmth of a good fire on a cold day, soothing and reassuring.
“Tell me, Charles,” he asked at last, when the conversation had reached a natural lull, “what is the latest from Caroline and Wickham?”
Charles rolled his eyes and let out a very uncharacteristic huff. “Caroline will forever be a thorn in my side. Fortunately, she is more a thorn in her husband’s than in mine, and so I shall survive the experience. She writes nothing but to complain. She is unhappy with the lodgings though they were most comfortable when I travelled thither to see them; she complains of the food, for it is not the finest French fare, but simply good and hearty country cooking. She complains of the society, despite the people being good and honest friendly folk, with nothing but an excellent intention behind every action, and she complains of her husband. She was happy enough to bed him, but not to wed him, and it was only when I informed her that her dowry was not quite large enough to overcome her status as another man’s discarded mistress that she agreed. No one forced her into the alliance, any more than anyone forced Wickham. They have made their bed, and I truly believe that if they only decided to be content with their lot, they might be quite happy.”
“Then,” quipped Richard with a smirk, “there is little else to say. My modest income affords me only half of what they seem to have, if your accounting is accurate, Charles. Their community clearly does them well. And yet I am grown most content indeed with my lot, meagre though it may be. I have enough, and I have Charlotte. What more could I possibly desire? I believe it is the necessity to live exemplary lives that troubles them more than the physical or societal inconveniences they complain about.”
“You are correct, sir,” Bingley replied. “Where there is no real want of the necessities of life, a willingness to be happy can overcome so many troubles.”
“And a simple life can be most pleasing, when one shares it with a partner of one’s choice.” Richard relaxed into his chair with a most fulfilled smile.
“Enough of my wretched sister, gentlemen. We have more pleasant matters to cheer our spirits! Let us rejoice over our own great fortunes, for we three have the best brides in England,” Bingley declared with good cheer, and his companions agreed heartily.
“To the ladies,” Darcy raised a toast.
“To the ladies!” the others responded.
Life was good.