The Strange Marriage of Anne de Bourgh
Page 6
He dropped her hand in mock offense and tried to appear disillusioned, but her smile soon elicited his own. "Very well then, my dearest Elizabeth. Promise me that the next time we quarrel, we will endeavor to reconcile with greater haste."
"That I can easily promise for myself, but this 'we' you speak of, Fitzwilliam, is plural."
"You have my word, Elizabeth, that I will henceforth obey the apostle's admonition: 'Let not the sun go down upon your wrath.'"
"Then it is a mutual promise. And my answer is here."
"Your answer is where?"
"No, I mean my answer is 'here.'"
"Lizzy, darling, you're not making any sense."
" 'Here' is my answer to your question as to where we should reconcile. A change of scenery is occasionally requisite."
"Oh," he said slowly, letting her implication dawn gradually upon him. "I see."
Mr. Darcy wrapped his arms around her waist and drew her to the edge of her chair, inches from his face.
"Have you anywhere to be this morning?" she asked.
"Nowhere," he replied.
"Then I need not practice temperance? I need not be concerned that my response may detain you?"
"Not at all," he declared huskily, as he leaned in to kiss her.
THE END
A Battle of Wits
Elizabeth Darcy sat before the roaring fireplace in her favorite chaise lounge. She needed the fire’s light more for reading than for heat. For the fourth time that day, she attempted to finish her letter from Mr. Darcy.
Dear Elizabeth,
Please acknowledge your receipt of this letter.
I have recently acquired a bit of land, the income of which I have calculated will, when invested at interest annualized over a period of....
This was the point at which she always stopped reading, but, with hope, she would continue to skim down through the pages, past phrases like “fiduciary responsibility” and “potential risks” and “investment considerations.” Yet always the letter concluded the same way:
And that is a faithful narrative of my business transactions for the day.
Sincerely,
Fitzwilliam Darcy
She sighed. Even that first bitter letter he had written her, after she had rejected his proposal of marriage, had contained more sentiment than this! At least it had ended on a considerate note, with a kind “God bless you.”
Again she began to read the letter, and this time she made it to the end of the second paragraph before muttering in frustration and tossing the missive across the room. It hit one of Mr. Darcy’s happily sleeping dogs, which reacted to the disturbance by rising, bristling, and growling down at the fallen letter.
“Quiet, Ajax!” she ordered.
The dog fell silent and sniffed at the letter, brushing its folds open with his nose. When the print was revealed the animal whimpered pathetically, tucked its tail between its legs, and scampered from the room.
“You think so too?” Elizabeth called out after him. Ajax must have sought out his other mistress for consolation, because Elizabeth heard the pianoforte Georgiana had been playing suddenly stop, and the empty silence was occupied by a distant, friendly bark.
“Well,” said Mrs. Darcy to no one in particular, “this must be redressed.” She rose and walked over to her writing desk, where she sharpened a quill before dipping it into the ink and beginning her assault on the blank page before her.
Dear Fitzwilliam,
As requested, I am duly acknowledging receipt of your first communication. Although I make no claim to any grand skills of logical deduction, I am able to infer, based on the contents of your epistle, that you do not have a great deal of experience writing to women for whom you might entertain romantic sentiments.
That is all well and good, for if you did possess such experience, I would be forced to require a list of names, and I could not then be held responsible for any consequences that might ensue.
Nevertheless, your inexperience is no excuse for such a mundane communiqué. I am sure the details of your business transactions are of the utmost interest to your dutiful steward, but in the event that you are not aware, let me inform you that I am your wife and that I am therefore entitled to a somewhat different treatment.
As your business will keep you from Pemberley for at least a fortnight, I insist that you furnish me with a love letter. I am not asking for the moonstruck wooings of an immature Romeo, but I am requesting some clear signs of affection and regard. I have complete confidence in you, Fitzwilliam, and I am sure you can produce such a letter. I even expect it will exceed a full page.
There is no need, however, for you to digress into idealistic ramblings. Do not think that I desire you to quote me poetry. I will hardly be impressed if you borrow another man’s words, even Shakespeare’s. If you would be so kind, please likewise refrain from hackneyed phrases and romantic comparisons between me and various (I’ll omit the redundancy of sundry) objects.
How do I know that you are capable of rising to this occasion? Because I can say, with absolute sincerity, that you are the most intelligent man of my acquaintance (always excepting Mr. Collins, of course) as well as the most resolute (other than my dear brother Charles Bingley, who never yields to persuasion). With such qualities coupled together, how can you fail me?
Love,
Elizabeth
*
Dear Elizabeth,
I have here before me, resting on my writing desk, a missive from my unassuming, indirect wife. In this epistle she informs me that, because my business draws me from Pemberley for at least a fortnight, I am under an unambiguous obligation to write her a love letter.
Furthermore, she instructs me in no uncertain terms that although the length of this letter should exceed a single page, it should not contain any material that might justifiably be described as quixotic rambling. Finally, she insists on the following exclusions:
One: There is to be no quoting of sentimental verse, including but not limited to the Bard of Avon's sonnets.
Two: No comparisons are to be drawn between the recipient of the letter and any object, whether animal, vegetable, or mineral.
Three: No clichés are to be employed during the course of the aforesaid communication.
Perhaps, Elizabeth, you are at this point asking yourself what sort of severe, fastidious woman would demand of her spouse such a Herculean task. But no, I will not allow you to question her; I will not allow you to dispute her motives. For I myself can assure you that my wife is wholly without fault.
Ergo, I will rise to the challenge she has set before me. Like brave Hector, by all the everlasting gods I’ll go, and no force can prevent me! I will not be defeated by these intricate restrictions my wife has placed upon my words, but rather, like the wrestler Antaeus, I will grow stronger every time I touch the ground. Indeed, like the thousand ships launched by the mere sight of Helen, I will sail on, unfettered by the waves that threaten me. Like Aeneas in the cave of Dido, I will succumb to passion. Though I cannot see my beloved’s face, I, like Pyramus, will whisper out the deepest longings of my heart.
Hah! You did not think to prohibit classical allusions, did you? You were not so cleverly thorough, my dear, as you imagined.
Yet now, Elizabeth, all jest and levity aside, I must confess to you that I am no Casanova. You’ll find no Lord Byron here. In my nearly nine and twenty years on this earth, I have never once penned a love letter.
Yet I entertain some small hope that a woman of your depth and intelligence might possibly be pleased by the words of a man who can say, with simplicity but also with sincerity, that he loves, and that you are, and will forever be, the sole object of that love.
Until I can see you in person and speak with my eyes what I cannot write with my pen, I will remain humbly—nay make that proudly—
Yours,
Fitzwilliam
*
Dear Fitzwilliam,
While I appreciate your valiant effort to pr
oduce a love letter, I must point out that you made my request appear far more arduous than it really was. However, since you have done so, I will hold you to your own high standards. By those standards, it seems you have violated two of my so-called “exclusions.”
Firstly, your use of classical allusions is tantamount to the employment of clichés. Secondly, you drew a large number of comparisons the moment you made those allusions.
Despite these failings, I was not unaffected by the honest expression of your love for me. I do not desire a Casanova, nor certainly a Byron. I want a man who has no less a sense of duty than of passion, however unromantic that may sound. I yearn for a companion whom I can battle with my wit, but who will still respect me when the match is over. I desire a husband whose affections have stood constant and tried, whose regard I can trust to overcome great obstacles, and whose love will endure without alteration.
You alone can be that man for me.
Love,
Elizabeth
*
Dear Elizabeth,
In your last letter, my lovely Elizabeth, you accused me of ignoring certain stipulations you had established. You indicated that my use of classical allusions in paragraph five of my previous missive was in violation of prohibition C, sections two and three. I would like a chance to present my defense.
First, with regard to prohibition C, section two: “No comparisons are to be drawn between the recipient of the letter and any object, whether animal, vegetable, or mineral.”
You will note that all of the comparisons drawn were to myself, the author of the letter, and not to you, the recipient. This, therefore, cannot be held as a violation, unless you liken yourself to Helen; but I did not directly do so, and for you to draw such a conclusion might hint of vanity, a trait which I know you do not possess.
Now, with regard to prohibition C, section three: “No clichés are to be employed during the course of the aforesaid communication.” This matter is somewhat more subjective, and although it is, in a sense, a cliché to use classical allusions at all, the allusions I chose—and the manner in which I presented them—prevent them from being regarded, individually, as clichés themselves. Granted, they have something of a trite ring to them, but in order to be considered legitimate clichés, they must be commonly used. None of these phrases are employed by any of my acquaintances on a day to day basis. When, for instance, was the last time a man said to you, “Like Aeneas in the cave of Dido, I will succumb to passion?” What is his name and where does he live?
No, my love, you cannot fault me. My letter was a full page; it contained no rambling, and it did not violate any of your prohibitions. Consequently, I fully expect to be rewarded upon my return.
Yours,
Fitzwilliam
*
Dear Fitzwilliam,
I have not yet received your response to my last letter, but I have determined to write you daily. You are frequently in my thoughts and this exercise of writing may, I hope, exorcise your constant presence from my mind, so that I can begin to fulfill my duties as mistress of Pemberley.
Upon re-reading your last letter (not that I read it every hour upon the hour; certainly I have better things to do with my time), I have noticed that you make no mention of my compliments to you. In the same letter in which I requested your love letter, I also called you both intelligent and resolute, and I even referred to our marriage as a daily honor. I have said far nicer things in my second letter, which you have not yet received.
I should like to know whether or not my words please you. There is little sense in exerting myself if that effort has no affect on the intended object.
Love,
Elizabeth
*
Dearest Elizabeth,
I like this commitment you have made to write me daily. That way, you may diffuse your mockery over the span of several letters, rather than assaulting me with it all at once.
Your latest complaint? You claim I have overlooked all the very kind things you wrote about me. That is not the case, I assure you. I read each of those accolades with the greatest pleasure, but you know my temperament; I am not a man accustomed to either soliciting or acknowledging flattery. Please do not allow my silence to deceive you into thinking that I therefore do not desire it. Do keep the coals coming to stoke the fire of my ego. I would likewise fuel yours, had you not encumbered me with so many egregious restrictions.
Yet I may have found a loophole.
True, you have forbidden me to show my admiration by quoting Shakespeare's sonnets, but I am determined to make you regret that restriction. As a first step toward inspiring your remorse, I have decided to pen a sonnet of my own. As it will be an original, to share it with you cannot possibly violate your prohibition against “quoting” sentimental verse.
You will be forced to endure this creation with my next letter. Until then, I remain in your thrall and I am—
Yours,
Fitzwilliam
*
Dear Fitzwilliam,
Since last writing, I have received your response to both my second and third letters. I apologize for abandoning my resolution to write you daily. I was distracted by the arrival of your cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam who, upon hearing you would be out of town for a number of weeks, thought it best to serve in your absence as the full guardian of Georgiana.
I assured him that I could suitably accomplish my duties as her guardian, but he has been made wary by the reports you have issued him regarding Miss Darcy’s suitors. I don’t know what you have been telling him, but he now takes it upon himself to be present anytime a gentleman happens to call, and he is forever informing these suitors of his martial skills, always in a cautionary tone.
Not that the poor girl will have much relief when you return. She has, however, at least enjoyed a few days of relative freedom with only her sister Elizabeth to deter her admirers.
Now, to address your letters. I will refrain from commenting on your intention to furnish me with a sonnet, as I consider it an idle threat, but in your previous letter you make some mention of a reward. I do not recall promising you any such thing. I recall asking for a love letter, and I recall making a few minor suggestions as to how you might frame it, but I certainly never offered you a prize should you succeed.
My dear Fitzwilliam, however do you manage to develop such competitive notions? I can’t imagine, especially when I consider what a meek wife you have.
Love,
Elizabeth
*
Dear Elizabeth,
What is this you have written about never promising me a reward? I thought the existence of a prize was inevitably implied by the establishment of a challenge, which, by the by, I successfully met, your arguments to the contrary notwithstanding.
Of course I expect a reward. Surely you don't take me as the sort of man who would play a game “just for fun.” My dear, I always play to win, especially when the prize is worth the earning.
I fear that duty beckons, and I consequently have no time for further persuasion. However, I will write you first thing tomorrow. My threat was not in vain—you shall have a sonnet.
In the meantime, please do consider how best to reward me for my immaculate love letter.
Yours,
Fitzwilliam
*
Dear Fitzwilliam,
Your latest communication seemed to be lacking one sonnet. I thought you should know.
Although I can imagine a thousand delightful ways to reward you, I cannot see why you persist in believing that I ever offered you a reward at all.
Love,
Elizabeth
*
Dearest Elizabeth,
Since you prohibit me from expressing my devotion by quoting the sonnets of Shakespeare, I am forced to produce one of my own. While you read it, please do not forget for an instant that your fastidiousness is ultimately responsible for its existence. Now, please prepare to groan (and then smile despite yourself):
My Lizzy�
�s eyes are nothing less than fine;
They shimmer with a sort of suspect gleam.
And though she’s independent, still she’s mine,
But there are times I fear it’s all a dream.
If that is so, then pray, love, let me sleep
The slumber of the never-waking dead,
For if that vision withers I will weep
Alone inside the prison of my bed.
But if you come to me and hear my heart,
As it beats firmly by your yielding side,
And promise me that you will never part,
Then you will be the object of my pride.
I was a selfish being all my life,
Until the day you deigned to be my wife.
Well, I’m no merchant from Stratford Upon Avon, but I hope you will accept it as it is intended, a sincere expression of my gratitude.
All my love,
Fitzwilliam
*
Dear Fitzwilliam,
Although I thought the image of “the never-waking dead” a particularly jarring choice, I was, all in all, very pleasantly surprised by your sonnet.
The first line began like Shakespeare’s “My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun”—and, given that fact coupled with your recent levity, I thought you would, like the Bard, proceed to mock romantic sentiments. Yet you did not. Instead, you surprised me. I had not thought that you would dare to express in verse such feeling. Thank you, my love.