“Anne! Do be serious. Did Mr. Bingley truly make you an offer?” 

“Yes, indeed … one I could not refuse, complete with an emerald. Do you want your roses back?” 

“Silly goose. May I see the emerald?” 

Miss de Bourgh held out her left hand and wiggled her fourth finger. “It is an en-gag-ment ring.” 

“Do you mean an engagement ring? It is very beautiful.” 

“Well, yes, it is certainly that. However, I almost gagged and broke a tooth because it was in my slice of wedding cake. Ergo, it shall be named en-gag-ment ring from this day forward.” 

“I would still prefer to call it an engagement ring, Anne; but as Shakespeare said, ‘What’s in a name? That which we call a rose, by any other name would smell as sweet.’ Congratulations, my friend. I am very happy for both of you.” 

They hugged. “Thank you, Lizzy, and thank you also for the bouquet of roses. The gesture was very thoughtful of you. Speaking of roses, being married to my impeccable cousin shall not be a bed of them, you know.” 

“Every rose has its thorn.” 

“Yes, but if Fitzwilliam’s behaviour becomes obnoxious, you must promise me to nip it in the bud.” 

“I cannot, even in my wildest dreams, imagine Fitzwilliam ever being obnoxious. Nonetheless, since we were speaking of gardening, I do remember he once had a green thumb, green hair, green shirt, and …” 

The rich, resonant voice of her husband startled Elizabeth, and she jumped. “Ladies, I am almost afraid to ask about your pre-seeding conversation. When you two speak with one another, I never know the ground rules and am always garden my comments. I feel quite green and must pro-seed by trowel and error.” 

“You heard?” his wife guiltily asked. 

“Every word after ‘speaking of roses.’ Did I miss anything noteworthy prior to that?” 

Anne waggled her left hand in front of his face. “I am en-gagged. I have snagged and bagged Bingley.” 

“Ah! My best wishes then, Annie.” He bent to give her a hug and to kiss her cheek. “Poor Bingley! I hope my wretched friend shall take time to smell the roses once in a while.” He was duly rewarded by a pinch on his arm.

All guests had at last departed Pemberley except for the six newlyweds and their families. The Colonel’s fine new carriage, a wedding gift from his parents, stood at the drive ready to carry its owner and his wife to well-appointed Waterstone Inn, where the bride and groom would remain for ten cozy nights before journeying to London to stay at Matlock Manor while Richard finalized the resignation of his commission. The couple would subsequently travel to Kent and settle at Rosings Park. Leave had already been taken of the Bennets and Darcys, and Richard and Jane stood chatting with the Fitzwilliam family. 

Viscount Wentletrap, the Colonel’s older brother, had a relatively enjoyable afternoon quaffing more than his share of Mr. Gardiner’s generous contribution to the festivities. As he bent to kiss his new sister’s hand for the third time that day, he nearly keeled over and took Jane with him. 

With quick reflexes, the Colonel rescued them before they took a tumble. “Whoa there, James! Steady, man. Sorry, darling Jane, but I believe my brother is as drunk and wobbly as a wheelbarrow.” 

The Viscount put his arm around Richard and cheerfully quoted Lord Byron. “Man, being reasonable, must get drunk; the best of life is but intoxication.” 

“Well, brother, Lord Byron also said, ‘The great art of life is sensation, to feel that we exist, even in pain.’ The sensation you are feeling now will not exist long, and the pain is certain to come later. Please take good care of this poor sot, Lady Isabelle.” 

The Viscountess, who was with child and rather exhausted, gently took her husband’s arm. She smiled at her brother-in-law and said, “Colonel, you and I have had our differences in the past; all the same, I sincerely wish you and your wife much happiness. Years ago at our own wedding James and I vowed for better, for worse; and we have had quite enough worse, so we are attempting better for a while. Is that not true, husband?” 

“Ah, Isabelle, I never knew what real happiness was until I married you … and then it was too late.” He winked at his brother and then placed a loud, wet, sloppy kiss on his wife’s cheek. 

Richard rolled his eyes, patted James on the back, and led Jane over to take their leave of Lord Matlock and Lady Rebecca. 

There had been tears and laughter as the Bennets, Darcys, and Fitzwilliams said farewell to the newlyweds; and servants cheerfully tossed shoes, for luck, toward the departing carriages of Mr. and Mrs. Fleming and Colonel and Mrs. Fitzwilliam. Finally Mr. and Mrs. Fitzwilliam Darcy stood alone on Pemberley’s front steps and waved as their families pulled out of sight.