Eternal Flame ~ A Pemberley Fairy Tale

Epilogue

 “I know what it is to live entirely for and with what I love best on earth. I hold myself supremely blest—blest beyond what language can express; because I am my husband’s life as fully as he is mine. No woman was ever nearer to her mate than I am: ever more absolutely bone of his bone, and flesh of his flesh.”  ~  Jane Eyre

As Liz stacked another handful of books into the box a plume of dust made her sneeze. Rubbing her eyes she reached for the last volume. When she lifted it from the shelf something dark poked out from between the pages.

The range of small, leather bound books were diaries left behind by a man called Mr. Hutton, a steward who had taken over the running of the estate when the previous steward had died. Mr. Hutton had been present for the death of old Mr. Darcy as well as witnessing William’s early years as master of the estate. She was curious to read the steward’s opinion of her husband.

Opening the page she recognised the black thing as a scrap of material. The first entry on the same page was Mr. Hutton recording an order for mourning crape, which they would have draped across the pediments outside, and black coats and feathered headdresses for the carriage horses. He listed the money paid to the mason for the headstone and to the carpenter who had made the coffin.

It was strange to realise this man had organised the mourning rituals that marked the passing of one of her previous lives.

Although the steward never once referred to little Thomas’s fate, William had described how he had laid the baby’s body in Elizabeth’s coffin—an unhappy necessity given that the church at that time would not knowingly allow an unbaptised child to be buried in consecrated ground, even for a family as privileged as the Darcys.

Mr. Hutton had not passed any personal comment on Elizabeth Darcy’s death and expressed no sorrow in his writing, but he had made little secret of his concern for his master’s wellbeing. Three weeks’ of entries spoke of his strong desire to talk to Mr. Darcy about outstanding estate matters, but the master remained—in the steward’s own words—distant and inconsolable. She felt a chill creep across her shoulders as she read those words, absently scrubbing at the goose bumps that grew on her arms.

Liz could not begin to imagine the pain and desolation William must have felt to set out onto the moors with the intention of ending his own life.

She closed the book, placing it in the box for later study. Although the past was a fascinating place to visit, it no longer dominated her life to the extent it had before she met William. She now had other distractions that, more often than not, called her away from her research. Her manuscript might be almost complete but she still found enough gems—like Mr. Hutton’s diaries—to add to her knowledge.

Liz stretched her arms above her head, easing her aching back. She might have overdone it today. William would be annoyed if he found out that she’d been lifting heavy books in her condition. She understood his concern, but still didn’t feel like a helpless invalid.

Her eyes squinted against the bright sunlight as Liz left the cool of the house through the side door. She wandered along the paths of the rose garden, inhaling the heady scents that swirled around her and headed out onto the swathe of lawn that swept gently down towards the lake. A cluster of chairs huddled under three large umbrellas. Liz chose the sun lounger and stretched out her legs, welcoming the warmth of the late afternoon’s rays on her bump.

After a few minutes she heard the musical chime of ice against glass. “Lemonade, ma’am?”

She waited while Mr. Reynolds repositioned one of the tables so the glass and jug were within easy reach. “Thank you, John, but how did you know I was out here?”