Page 182 of Companions of Their Youth
Darcy stepped forward and knelt by the bed, his hand over Mr. Bennet’s. “You honored me with your trust,” he said softly. “And your secret—never once have I forgotten it.”
The old man’s eyes filled. “Tell Stephens… tell him I will wait.”
∞∞∞
The funeral was held three days later. The men gathered at the churchyard in Meryton, the women remaining respectfully behind, clustered at Longbourn in silent vigil. Charlotte, who was now their cousin via her marriage to Mr. Collins two years prior, kept close to the Bennet ladies. Her presence was a welcome blessing, steady and kind as she guided them through the waiting.
Mr. Collins, now the rector of the little chapel, delivered the service with gravity and unusual dignity. Darcy stood at the head of the mourners, with Mark beside him, his arm steadying Stephens as the older man walked slowly, holding his hat tight to his chest.
Kitty had arrived the day before, wearing mourning black and traveling from London in the well-appointed carriage of her husband’s, a baron who preferred to remain in town. Jane came with her husband and children from Netherfield, her youngest—a wide-eyed baby boy—held on Bingley’s hip during the procession. Even Lydia had written with her love and grief, too heavily encumbered by her numerous children and her husband’s frequent travel.
Mark would now inherit the estate, where he would live with his Maria Lucas, as was. Mrs. Bennet had already made her decision—she would move to Brighton to live with Lydia and her naval admiral, whose gruff affection and occasional poetryreadings she now cited as proof that true love could arrive more than once in life. The older naval admiral had been a widower, content to die alone on the sea until he met Lydia, some twenty years his junior. Darcy privately found the arrangement bizarre—but then again, stranger things had happened.
∞∞∞
Hours after the funeral had ended, Elizabeth passed by the old study and paused. The door was ajar.
Inside, Stephens stood by the desk, folding a worn greatcoat with trembling hands. Her father’s books had been straightened on the shelves, his inkwell sealed, his chair empty and awaiting its next master.
Stephens was crying.
Silently. Without shame.
Elizabeth stepped inside and closed the door behind her.
He looked up, startled—but only for a moment. She crossed the room and held out her hand.
He took it.
Their embrace was quiet. Fierce. Grief passed between them without words.
She pulled back, her eyes misted. “Thank you,” she said softly. “For loving him. For protecting him. For never leaving.”
His throat worked. “It was my honor, Miss Elizabeth. Always.”
She nodded, pressing a kiss to his cheek, and left him to his mourning. Going out the front door, she found Darcy standing in the garden, staring at the old sundial where they had once argued over Wickham and fear, of redemption and control. The roses had faded, the air turned sharp with the promise of autumn.
She took his hand.
“I hope,” she said quietly, “that we will live to be as devoted in our love as my father was in his.”
Darcy brought her hand to his lips. “We are still young yet,” he murmured.
She smiled. “True. But I am grateful. So grateful to God for companions of youth who grow old together.”
He pulled her close, and together they stood in the fading light, wrapped in memory, in hope, and in the quiet, steadfast rhythm of a life built on love.
