Writerly Ambitions

by Timothy Underwood

“Except?” Elizabeth could not help but smile happily at Mr. Darcy’s nonsense.

  “Perhaps some fellow gentleman of the road — a man besotted by your beauty, a man who though they may kill him, this man must venture all to save the lady he loves, though she be also a thief and a robber, though she commit any crime.”

  “You know,” Elizabeth said with a sudden frown, as Darcy’s conceit brought to her an unpleasant memory of those days when she was driven to London, “an added reason to prefer city to country. Here they will believe anything about you — I don’t commit crimes.”

  Darcy stopped her in the path and took her hand. “I always believe you — though you be accused by a thousand others, I will trust you.”

  Elizabeth smiled tremulously at him. “Will you?”

  “What makes you anxious?”

  Elizabeth’s heart sped still faster. Suddenly she wondered at the moment. Their gazes, as the French would say, kissed. “Do… do you promise to trust me… always?”

  “Elizabeth, I will always trust what you tell me. What your eyes tell me.”

  “What do my eyes tell you now?”

  He brushed his hand against her cheek. He smiled. “I think they speak what I most wish to hear. But — ah, it is difficult to speak for you are scared.”

  It seemed to Elizabeth as though the entire world was narrowed down to just include them. The air around her was become hazy and indistinct, as though seen through water.

  Her stomach was flipping in tight catapulting circles.

  “What,” she breathed out, “would you wish to say? If I promised… promised to… to not be scared. To… to only reply from my heart.”

  He took her gloved hand and pressed his soft warm lips against the back of her knuckles. He smiled at her again.

  “You already once told me… told me nay. I hope — Elizabeth, I spoke those weeks ago from a realization that I only fully understood in that moment, when you seemed to need me — my heart and my soul spoke then. My heart spoke rightly, and my soul spoke rightly. For I need you. I want you. Every consideration which does not claim you are for me, and I am for you, every item upon my list which you do not meet with perfection — oh Jove, I can barely speak. My heart runs away with me so.”

  She took his hands and squeezed them between hers, and then pressed his palm against her heart, half on her breast. “Fitzwilliam…”

  “I have thought. I seem to have done almost nothing but think upon what… what truly matters to me. What I truly want, in marriage, in my home, in my future, where my happiness lies, where my true duty lies, what would be right for me to do — I love you, Elizabeth Bennet. You are not the woman I imagined I would fall in love with. But you have seized me, heart and soul, and shaken me so that all my pretenses, and all my foolishnesses, and all my habits and expectations have become of no worth next to my hope that you might take me into your heart and your soul, and come to live with me.”

  Elizabeth breathed out, her heart in her eyes. She was trembling, but smiling also. “Fitzwilliam… I… I…” She could not look at his eye. He glowed with passion and intentness.

  “Elizabeth, I beg you answer. I beg you say that you are mine. My heart cannot stand such anxiety. I fear that I may explode if you do not answer me.”

  She took his hands, and she kissed them. The back of one hand, and then the other. And she turned them over, and kissed his palms. She still could not look up at him, but her heart was filled with love for him, and for his beautiful character, and his care for her, and with the realization that somehow he had become the man she could depend upon.

  And she was glad for it.

  “Elizabeth.” His voice was filled with smiles and tears and happiness and passion, and it was as though the brightest summer day had dawned in her heart, the gleams of sun warming everything in her that had ever been cold, sad or unhappy.

  “Mr. Darcy. My Mr. Darcy, I will… you must know… I can no more resist you than you me. And… and, I love thee so. I love thee dear. I love you with my toes, love you with my fingers and I love you heart and soul, with all my heart. We are bound together tight, by something neither of us can describe nor control but which we both feel, feel in everything—”

  “Yes.”

  “Promise me. Swear, swear that I can always depend upon you.”

  “Always.”

  “You know how dear my independence is to me, my ability to protect myself, I can scarce — though I feel so full in my heart, I can scarce trust myself to you. To let you take care of me, to… rely upon you. I do not wish to lose my strength.”

  “Elizabeth — you will always have that strength in you. I adore your strength. You can care for yourself, but you do not need to, for I shall be there, always, and forever. No matter what, no matter how we change, no matter that we be despised by the whole world or adored by it, we shall support each other, rely on each other. You shall support my strength, and I yours. And we shall love, love intently and intelligently, and passionately.”

  “Well then, Mr. Darcy, then, I—”

  “Call me Fitzwilliam.”

  “Fitzwilliam, you make me the happiest of women, and I hope, I hope desperately I can make you, strange habits and all, the happiest of men.”

  “You have, you already have.”

  Elizabeth grinned at him. “No, that is a matter of the future — as we build our happy life together. You cannot speak to how happy a marriage shall be in the moment of a proposal, but I think, you and I, I think we have more, much, much more than the average hope for great happiness.”

  Darcy laughed. “Only you would respond in such a way to such a statement.”

  “And that is why you ask me to marry you.”

  “I could never find, no matter that I looked a thousand years, and danced every dance in that great span of time at Almack’s, find another woman such as you — that is why I wish to marry you. Elizabeth, will you marry me?”

  “Oh, I will! Yes. Yes, and yes.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Elizabeth entered Longbourn with a huge smile that deliriously delighted young woman could not repress. Nor did she desire to. “Good day, Mrs. Hill! Excellent day. Excellent day.”

  “Blowsy, I’d say. Quite too blowsy! But warms my heart, Miss, to see you in such a fine fettle.”

  “Papa, is he in the bookroom?”

  “Yes, Miss. Yes—” Mrs. Hill lowered her voice, as she studied Elizabeth’s irrepressible smile. “Is there something particular you mean to tell him?”

  “Maybe there is.” Elizabeth grinned back. “It so chances there is something quite particular.”

  “Oh, my! Oh!”

  “Not a word! — I have said nothing yet, no gossiping with all the staff.” Elizabeth placed her fingers over her lips and pinched them shut, though she could not reduce her smile. “But I hazard that you have ventured a decent guess.”

  Elizabeth paused before Papa’s door to compose herself. She did not want him to find her out before she could open her mouth to deliver her intelligence. It was a matter of pride to be a little hard to read.

  She adopted a solemn expression, dour.

  And then, with some difficulty maintaining that expression, Elizabeth knocked and opened the door to Papa’s bookroom.

  “Hello, Papa,” Elizabeth said, dragging out her syllables so each took longer to enunciate, as if she were dejected. She consciously slumped, lowering her shoulders and frowning.

  “Hullo, Lizzy.” He put down his book and pushed up his spectacles onto his bald head to peer at her clearly. “What put you in a bad mood?”

  She nearly broke into a delighted smile at that question, but she managed after a valiant struggle with herself to say in the dullest voice possible, “It is a matter about Mr. Darcy.”

  Papa’s eyes sharpened. He pushed his chair back and stood to come over to Elizabeth. “Oh?”

  “Yes, well… you see, we had a—”

  “Jove! He asked you to marry you. At last. And you agreed. A
t last. I’ve waited for weeks now. Both of you! Both been quite backward in arranging matters — not good for the nerves of your parents. I can now understand what your mother has felt all these years.”

  Elizabeth pouted. “How did you guess?”

  “Lizzy. You do not have a future on the stage. That was the happiest frown I have ever seen on a human face. The voice had a bit of a smile too — you had not planned what you would say next. Should have just exclaimed ‘He asked for my hand!’ instead of trying to tease me further — you could maybe fool your mother.”

  “I don’t want to fool my mother,” Elizabeth replied in the happiest annoyed voice she had ever used. And then grinning she clapped her hands happily. “She’ll be delighted! Delighted.”

  “Done her proud, my girl. Done your mother proud.” Mr. Bennet laughed and then embraced Elizabeth. “Ten thousand a year, eh. I suppose I won’t need to save any money now, and they can’t say any longer that my daughters all married poor men.”

  “Is that all you have to say?” Elizabeth said a little annoyed. “Your blessings perhaps?”

  “Lizzy, I am happy for you.” He held her shoulders. “You are my favorite. I am delighted. Very happy. You and Mr. Darcy suit perfectly, and while any father who cares at all of his girl will worry when he sends his daughter off to be married, you are well matched, and you have more than the usual chance for happiness.”

  Elizabeth took a moment to decide that was good enough praise for her choice.

  She grinned so widely, and it took an effort to not happily bounce from side to side. “Isn’t Darcy such a wonderful man? You like him too — everything he says is full of sense. And he can talk so well. And he is even better read than me, and he turns his reading to more profit than you, and—”

  “My reading is perfectly profitable.”

  Elizabeth smiled. “And Darcy’s is even more profitable. And he has an excellent taste in his favorite authors, and—”

  “My dear, I do not believe that his preference for A Gentlewoman’s work is that of an entirely neutral mind — he is driven by a far stronger motive than either aesthetic pleasure, or mere fatherly partiality.”

  Now Elizabeth did stick her tongue out at Papa. “Darcy has the best taste — even Mr. Martin thinks highly of his reading.”

  “And that brings another matter to mind — dare you marry, even though none of your heroines have ever embarked upon the married state. Do you not think that this is a betrayal, a barbarous spurning of your audience, who you have convinced to never marry themselves?”

  “No,” Elizabeth replied smiling archly, “Mr. Darcy has a finer person, of a more noble mien, and a decidedly better carriage than any gentleman my heroines have chanced to meet. And a good and trustworthy character besides. But I can reveal certain facts about the text of my next novel, and—”

  Mr. Bennet laughed. “The deuce! The most hackneyed choice yet — you are making your heroine to marry because you yourself marry. The authoress merely writes her own life. Lizzy, Lizzy, Lizzy — does not your art, your calling deserve more than that?”

  “On the contrary, I reflect the truth of my heart into the text of my novels, and what more can any artist do? What makes Shakespeare great, but that we all can see ourselves in him?”

  “Yes, and we all can see Elizabeth Bennet in her writings. I tease — I look forward now to your next with much more than my usual bated interest as you have made such modification to your normal pattern of writing. I shall also,” Papa added, with a tone that suggested he’d decided this was the best way to tease Elizabeth, “wait for you to embark upon writing the characters of my grandchildren.”

  Elizabeth blushed but replied, “Of certainty, soon as Darcy and I are bound in wedded state.”

  “Yes.” Mr. Bennet coughed. “Best to wait for that… Ah, the parson’s mousetrap — but you’ve been in no hurry to enter it, so you have earned some happiness. My blessings, Lizzy, my blessings. And send your young man to me to ask for my permission if it meets your convenience.”

  “It might.” Elizabeth laughed again, and she was entirely happy.

  She left Papa to find her sister and mother.

  “Mama, Jane,” Elizabeth said when she took them both into the drawing room, “I wish to tell you both that I am to marry Mr. Darcy.”

  “Oh!” Jane leapt up and embraced Elizabeth, before stepping back shyly. “I am so happy! So happy!”

  Elizabeth embraced her sister back in turn, too happy to worry about anything. “‘Twas perfect, the way he made the offer. You must visit us often. Both of you.”

  “Oh, it would be dear if you would let me…” Jane said softly. “I am so happy for you, so delighted! You both look so happy when you talk, though I scarce understand a word you say, the one to the other. Oh Lizzy, my dear Lizzy. It would not be possible for me to be more completely happy than I am to see you happy.”

  Elizabeth and Jane embraced again, and Elizabeth smiled so wide her jaw ached, and she cared no more for that ache in her jaw than the king did for the high price of lace.

  “Good as a Lord!” said Mama, who Elizabeth realized had sat almost in a daze for the past three minutes. “Heavens, good as a Lord! — ten thousand a year! Oh my dear, dear girl! Ten thousand a year!”

  “And,” Elizabeth said with an ironic smirk, “from what information he has given me, very likely more.”

  “Good as a Lord! Think what pin money you shall have! What carriages! What dresses! You will be part of the very best society — none will care there for what reputation you have. Everyone in society behaves just the same.”

  “I cannot bring myself to care how the world sees me, so long as those dear to me, you both, my other sisters, and of course Mr. Darcy, look upon me happily.”

  “I have always liked him!” Mama exclaimed. “From the first time he danced with you.”

  Elizabeth laughed. That had endeared Mr. Darcy to her mother.

  Then Mama looked at her with a smirk. “Sly girl! You insisted Mr. Darcy would never ask when I told you that you must pursue him after that dance — I believed you! But he did! You sly girl, drawing such a man to make an offer for you. My clever girl! How did you do it?”

  “We like each other.” Elizabeth laughed. Then she decided to fight that question with a move that might reduce the happy awe her mother held her in at this moment. “And I endeavored to increase his passion by suspense — you see I refused him the first time he made the offer.”

  Mama gasped, looked at Elizabeth as though she had grown a second head, and then at last she laughed, as though that was the funniest thing she’d ever heard.

  “Like with Mr. Collins,” Mrs. Bennet said slapping her thigh. “Like with him. But of course you did not. But what a joke it would have been. Even you are too sensible for that.”

  “Oh, yes,” Elizabeth replied, deciding that she had teased her mother enough, and there was no need for her to know. “Of course I would never do that!”

  The tone of Elizabeth’s agreement drew another worried studying glance from Mrs. Bennet, but then she laughed again, but a little nervously this time. “You would not! He is worth ten thousand a year!”

  Jane said, knowing full well that Elizabeth had been too scared to accept Mr. Darcy the first time he made an application for her hand, as she had told Jane that in the course of rebuilding their attachment as sisters, “Mama, whatever Elizabeth may have done or not, it is of no worry now as they are agreed to marry.”

  “Yes! Yes! Oh — did she?” Now Mrs. Bennet peered at Jane.

  Elizabeth laughed. “Trust me, I understand the character of my Mr. Darcy excellently, and that anything I did was conspired to draw him deeper into love with me.”

  “Yes…” Mrs. Bennet’s mind then did return, as Jane suggested, to the most profitable point: “Oh, I am so happy! I could die entirely happy now! Ten thousand a year!”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The next morning Mr. Darcy came to call at a ridiculously early hou
r which would have proclaimed him the lover of his Elizabeth had she not already done so.

  He leapt off his horse, and easily handed the reins to the groom who rushed out, the clacking of his horse proclaimed that he was nearing.

  Almost as fast Elizabeth bounded out of the house, wearing a lavender dress that swirled around her stockings and slippers. Her rush made her dress billow about her legs, revealing her prettily shaped legs. She had the happiest smile and Elizabeth’s clever, brilliant eyes shined at him.

  Darcy’s stomach leapt at seeing her again.

  Not caring at all for any audience they might have, Elizabeth leapt into Darcy’s arms and kissed him. He kissed her back sweetly, though slightly embarrassedly, aware of the groom and the windows of the estate looking down on him — Mr. Bennet’s bookroom, Darcy recalled vividly from the times he had called on the gentleman, looked out over the driveway.

  When he set Elizabeth down, she said, almost aggressively, “Kiss me more, I believe Papa can see us.”

  Darcy coughed, laughed, and kissed her again thoroughly, not being a man who could resist Elizabeth when she made such a request in such a manner.

  When he set her down this time, she smiled at him satisfiedly. “Much better. That was a proper kiss, worthy of audience.” She turned back up to her father’s windows and grinned.

  “I expect,” Mr. Darcy said, “if his choices are at all as mine would be in such a situation… I think I would prefer if my daughter did not kiss in front of me.”

  “Too happy to care right now — he teased me.”

  Elizabeth squeezed his hand tightly, and brought it up to her mouth and she kissed the back of his palm and then started to nibble on his knuckles until he fell silent.

  “Let’s take a walk about, before we go in. I am not yet ready to share you with any others.”

  “What did your family say when you told them we were to marry?”

  “The usual — Mama cannot yet determine for herself whether I speak in jest or not when I tell her that I refused your first offer, but—”