A cool autumn wind raced through the grounds of Pemberley, shaking the leaves from their branches and forcing them into a dance across the lawn. Summer had vanished for another year, leaving behind beautiful foliage that would soon disappear, committing the trees to a skeletal state. The locals had sighed at the cold, most silently wishing that it would have refrained from coming, despite their familiarity with the climate. They all still held their breath, hoping to abate the inevitable snowfall that would soon be on its way.
The staff of the great house walked silently through the corridors, the maids whispering gossip amongst themselves, all trying to avoid a scolding from the housekeeper. They worked diligently, preparing the house for another night, dimming the gas lamps, dusting the furniture, washing the dishes and linens. The groomsmen were checking the stables one last time, ensuring the horses were all fed and warm. The gardener stood in the doorway of the servants entrance, regarding the dying plants with a feeling of dread; autumn had always been his least favourite season. All in all, a typical night for the servants of Pemberley.
The master of the estate, Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, sat in his private sitting room attached to the Master's chamber. It was a cozy room, different from the various parlors throughout the house. Given that it was not frequented by the many illustrious guests Pemberley was known to entertain, the previous masters, as well as the current one, felt that formality was not necessary. Because of this, the sitting room did not follow the normal guidelines of a sitting room. It reminded Mr. Darcy more of a cross between a small library and his study. The walls were lined with shelves, all filled with many tomes of several genres. At the far wall there was a large window, which shone enough light upon the room that lamps were not normally necessary, though, on this particular evening, the drapes were drawn in an attempt to keep out the cold. The room its self was decorated with deep hues of red and cream, as well as a mahogany wood that adorned both the shelves and floors as well as the desk that sat in the far corner. Large, comfortable chairs and an intricately carved fireplace, which now housed a roaring fire, finished off the look of the room.
Currently, Mr. Darcy was attempting to focus upon the book in his hand. He was proving, however, to be unsuccessful. He had spent the last quarter hour reading one very small paragraph, unable to progress beyond it. Every time he tried to pay attention to his book, his mind wandered once more; he simply could not focus. The source of this inattention was not hard to pin point. The blame was to be laid with the person sitting adjacent to him.
Elizabeth Darcy sat in what she deemed to be the 'most comfortable chair in the room', the chair that, very early on in their marriage, had become hers. She sat engrossed in her own book, her husband unsure of its title as she went through them too quickly to keep track. She seemed unperturbed by her husband's stare, perhaps so used to it that she no longer took notice or too involved in the novel to be aware of the mortal world. It had become their ritual to finish off an evening like this, wrapped up in their own worlds, whether within a book or within their own heads. It gave them a chance to unwind from the day's events, big or small.
As was typical, Elizabeth had taken off her slippers and now had her feet tucked underneath her. Mr. Darcy watched as several strands of hair escaped from the pins holding her hair in place, and fell down towards her face, before she tucked them behind her ear. He smiled at the familiarity of it, and, for the thousandth time, thanked God for giving him the chance to earn her love. He closed his eyes and silently chuckled at the luck of it all.
It had been a fluke that Bingley had acquired Netherfield. If Darcy had not cancelled his plans with Bingley to stay at his townhouse with a heartsick Georgiana, Bingley would never have gone to Lady Rosalie's party. And, had he not gone there, he would never have had the chance to meet with Edward King, an old school friend. For it had been Mr. King who told Bingley about the beautiful estate he had just been to see. He told Bingley of all its attributes, before saying that, unfortunately, it had not been what he was looking for. He had been unaware that Bingley, too, was looking for an estate and encourage him to take a look at Netherfeild.
Darcy had, foolishly, tried to dissuade him, secretly hoping that his friend would purchase a house near his own, even if that meant having to deal with Caroline. Bingley, despite everything, could not be persuaded to give up the estate, especially after he had seen it for himself.
That, Darcy mused, was probably the best decision Bingley had ever made and he had made it by himself. Then again, his brain countered, it was not always best to allow his friend to follow his every whim. That blasted assembly Bingley had forced him to go to had been the first time that he had met Elizabeth, but it was also the place he almost lost her, thanks to his own actions.
Richard had always said his foul temperament and taciturn nature would one day place him in a very unlucky situation and he had been correct. Indeed, it had caused him to slight Elizabeth, and had been the foundation of her dislike. Perhaps, had he only put on a brave face and withstood the ill humour that assembly had brought on, he may never had need to rely on the addition luck and good fortune he had been given.
For it had been luck that Jane had fallen ill, (though it was horribly wrong to think in such a way). Had she not, he may've never been afforded the opportunity to become acquainted with his wife. Their being in Kent at the same time had too been a blessing. It had given him the chance to propose, despite how ill fated it had been. For had he not proposed, he would never been able to defend his character and she would have spent the rest of her life thinking ill of him. Their meeting at Pemberley had been chance, his sudden desire to return to his estate being the only reason for their interaction. The final stroke of luck had to be his aunt's interference. He had given up any hope of earning Elizabeth's affection, but his aunt's tale of the 'obstinate, headstrong chit' she had just been to see had made him try one last time. It had given him the hope and courage he needed.
It seemed Fate had spent much time attempting to correct his mistake. He had been given chance after chance to prove himself, and, despite the odds stacked against him, he had ultimately managed set everything straight. Fate must have sighed with great relief when she finally accepted his hand.
Indeed, he had no one to blame but himself. He had forgotten his manners as a gentleman and allowed his irritation dictate his behaviour. It had been true, at that moment, that compared to her sister, the second Miss Bennet had not been particularly striking. However, upon further acquaintance, he realized what it was that drew people to her. Truthfully, it was many things. For she was infectious, if she was laughing, you would hardly be able to stop yourself from joining her. Her intellect shone through and one couldn't help but be impressed by her vast knowledge of the topic being discussed. Add to that that she always made sure to ensure her opinion was sound, which made proving her wrong all the more difficult. But, it was her eyes that made his wife the most handsome woman he knew. They would always mesmerize him with their ability to shift and change. One moment they could be sparkling with laughter, the next clouded over in anger, or sometimes, when she really wished it, Elizabeth could make them impossible to read and you would never know what she's thinking.
Glancing at his wife, he smiled. After nearly thirty years of marriage, she was still the most beautiful woman he knew. Her hair may now be streaked with gray, but then so was his, and that was just a sign of a long, happy life to him. As were the creases in her face that were starting to form. They simply reminded him of the many happy memories they shared.
As he sat observing her, she looked up and caught his eye. In that moment it didn't matter that their bodies had aged, for when he looked into her eyes all the years disappeared and he felt young again, as if he wasn't a father and grandfather. No, he felt as he did on their wedding day, when they had said their vows and the priest had pronounced them man and wife. He felt that unbelievable surge of disbelief and happiness whenever he remembered that she was his and his alone. And, despite all the bumps and stops and jerks along the road to love, every time he looked into her eyes, he felt, with immense certainty, that everything had finally turned out the way it was supposed to be.
This was inspired by "Bless the Broken Road" by Rascal Flats. If you find any errors while reading this, feel free to correct me and I'll try to fix it as soon as possible.
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