Unequal Affections: A Pride and Prejudice Retelling
Page 35
“I do not see any reason you shouldn’t announce it immediately. It will certainly not detract from my satisfaction in my wedding—in fact, it could only enhance it, and I’m convinced that Mr. Darcy will feel the same. What could make us happier than the happiness of those we love? And if it causes our mother to turn her attention to Mr. Bingley instead of Mr. Darcy, I cannot see that as an evil either.”
When the gentlemen arrived the next morning, she was pleased to discover that she had been entirely correct; Mr. Darcy had protested quite as heartily as she against the idea of the other couple’s engagement being kept secret, so the announcement was made immediately, to everyone’s satisfaction. In the furor Darcy and Elizabeth drew together, inconspicuously holding hands as they watched, both thankful that this stage of things was, for them, to end so soon.
Elizabeth found she was not jealous of her sister’s uncomplicated happiness. It was not only that Jane had suffered for months, or that her love would never have allowed her to begrudge her any happiness anyway. The route she and Darcy took had been more torturous, and their marriage would probably contain more challenges since they both were more difficult people than her sister and his friend. Darcy would never have Mr. Bingley’s easy tolerance for her family, and she might meet much opposition from his, but whatever form their happiness took, she wanted it, not Jane’s, because it would be their happiness, forged from their minds and wills and choices, sparked on the tinder of their headstrong, passionate natures. It would be a happiness worth earning, a happiness worth working for. She gripped Darcy’s hand more tightly and felt it return the pressure. “Are you well?” he whispered.
She smiled brilliantly at him. “Yes. Yes, I am very well.”
On Thursday evening they went for a long stroll through the darkening gardens. The next day would bring the colonel, escorting Miss Darcy and Mrs. Annesley. They would stay at Netherfield until after the wedding. A full weekend of parties and picnics lay ahead, but for this moment, it was only the two of them.
Darcy sighed quietly.
“What are you thinking of?” asked Elizabeth immediately.
“Not much. And you?”
“Do you know that it has been seven weeks today since you proposed to me?”
“Strange.” His lips twitched. “I had thought it seven months.”
She laughed lightly. “It does seem longer, doesn’t it?”
“There were times I thought it an eternity, Elizabeth, but looking back now, I believe it was none too long. Neither of us would have been ready for marriage earlier.” He pressed her hand on her arm.
“Yes. I hope . . .” She looked upwards through her lashes at him. “I hope I will be a good wife to you.”
“And I, a good husband to you.”
They came to a bench and sat down on it. Shadows stretched across the grass almost to their feet, but it was still light enough to see. “What are sunsets like at Pemberley?”
“They are lovely, particularly on the western side of the house. To get the best views of the sky, though, you must climb to the top of the hill.”
“Will you show it to me some day?”
“Every day, if you wish.” He gripped her hand, and she brought it up and held it between hers.
A quietness, almost a lassitude, fell over them. Hardly conscious of what she was doing, Elizabeth began to study his hand where it lay in hers, tracing its lines. It was a well-kept, masculine hand, with immaculately trimmed nails and the smooth skin that proclaimed a gentleman, but there was strength in it too. She noticed for the first time faint callouses on certain fingers where he held his pen as he wrote those endless letters, and a hint of darkness around one nail that must be ink that could never scrub off. She wondered if his hand had been like this a month ago, or if it was his time in Hertfordshire while he was waiting for her that had effected these marks.
With increasing interest, but still no self-consciousness, she turned the hand over, opening it and studying the square palm and shapely fingers. His skin was darker than hers, not tanned but tinted differently; the contrast between them looked so interesting. Again she traced the creases across his palm, the lines at his knuckles. His hands were like him—handsome, strong, hardworking, refined.
She had been engaged so for some minutes when she became aware of Darcy sitting very still beside her, his entire body as motionless as the hand that lay passive in her grasp. The ready color would rise in her cheeks, but she found she could not be embarrassed, not now, not so close to their wedding day. She met his eyes calmly, saw his hope, his desire, his vulnerability, and knew without a doubt that she loved him.
The knowledge came in softly, not like a flash, but a gentle, diffused light. She had suspected it, had wondered if this tender, tremulous, protective, longing feeling was indeed love, and the understanding that it was brought only a surge of great joy. She was so happy to love him, so grateful and relieved and pleased for his sake as well as her own. He needed her, as she needed him, and the succor and pleasure and wholeness that her love could bring him made her happy just to think of it.
As always, what she felt most was the hardest to say. She smiled a whimsical wisp of a smile at him and murmured, “You did offer me your hand, did you not?” Darcy nodded. She tightened her grip and breathed deeply. His warm and solid flesh reminded her that all was real—that he was real, and he was hers.
“Fitzwilliam,” she tried again after a moment, her voice husky. “Why do you love me?”
His eyes widened at the question, and he reached out to trace her cheek. “I cannot help it.”
“Then,” said Elizabeth, leaning forward into him until her head dropped against his shoulder, “neither can I.” The hand she still held tightened painfully around her fingers, and she nodded as her other arm slid softly up around his neck. “I’m certain now,” she whispered into his ear. “I’m certain—my love.”
Epilogue
August, 1812
Brighton
Outside a small church in an inconspicuous area of town, a dashing young officer in regimentals glanced anxiously down the street and paced. Presently, an unmarked carriage drew up, and he hastened to assist its occupant out. “My darling Gertrude!” he exclaimed. “How I feared you would not come!”
The lady tittered coquettishly behind her veils. “Of course I came, my pet! Were you quite desperate with anxiety?”
“Nearly mad with it,” he swore. “I could not live if you were to change your mind. Did you bring the license?”
She produced a folded paper from her reticule. “Right here.”
“I have spoken to the minister, and he stands ready to join us. Come at once; I cannot wait a moment longer!”
She tittered again and consented to be led into the church.
The expressionless minister who conducted the short ceremony showed no surprise at any of it. After all, it was none of his concern if the only witnesses were strangers off the street; none of his concern if the bride, once her veils were lifted, appeared to be a good twenty years older than her handsome bridegroom, or if her pearl necklet spoke of wealth while the condition of his uniform suggested the opposite. When the vows had been exchanged and the wedding band slid in place, the happy couple climbed back into their carriage and were never seen by him again.
One day later . . .
“What do you mean, I don’t have control of her money!” demanded Mr. Wickham indignantly. “I’m her husband!”
The man at the desk opposite looked through his spectacles disapprovingly. “True, but under the terms of the late Mr. Fontekin’s will, his widow is entitled to only the income from his fortune. The capital is held in trust and will pass to his nephew upon her death. In the meantime, her allowance is to be paid to her alone. How she chooses to dispense it is entirely her decision, but since I am a family friend as well as her solicitor, I feel it incumbent upon me to warn you, sir, that Mrs. Font—er, Wickham is a very pious lady. Her chief interest is in supporting various charities, a
nd she holds the strongest prejudice against all forms of strong drink, sporting activities, gambling, and other, er, unsavory pastimes. I doubt she could ever be prevailed upon to willingly support such. Furthermore,” he added, glaring, “you should know that Mrs. Wickham is far from unprotected. Though you may have succeeded in luring her to the altar, should it come to the attention of her trustees that she is in any fashion being coerced, I believe I speak for all when I say that we would not hesitate to make other financial arrangements for her. Mr. Fontekin, you see,” he said, allowing himself a small smirk, “was very solicitous of his widow’s welfare.”
At the Same Time in the Lake District
On a verdant slope in the sunshine, a young woman stood gazing over the cerulean waters of Windermere. Her head was bare, and her nose perhaps just slightly sunburnt. Not far off, a young man in boots and a brown frock coat lounged against a tree trunk, hat in hand.
The woman turned her head and found herself being regarded steadily by a pair of deep brown eyes. A feminine eyebrow rose. “And what, pray tell, are you looking at, sir?”
“Elizabeth,” he said. “Looking at the Lakes.”
She walked over to stand at his feet. “And is she all you hoped she would be?”
Darcy took her hand and pulled her forward. She fell against him willingly. Cupping her face, he traced his thumb lingeringly over her jaw, her cheek, her brow. “ ‘Behold,’ ” he murmured, “ ‘thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair; thou hast doves’ eyes within thy locks.’ ”
“And a sunburnt nose,” she murmured back, irrepressibly. He kissed that nose. Her eyes grew knowing and dreamy, and she twined her arms firmly around his neck. “ ‘I found him whom my soul loveth: I held him, and would not let him go.’ ”
One corner of his mouth curled up in satisfaction, and he tightened his hold. “ ‘Thou hast ravished my heart, my sister, my spouse; thou hast ravished my heart with one of thine eyes.’ ”
She threw her head back. “ ‘My beloved is mine, and I am his.’ ”
Lowering his head until their noses brushed together, he spoke in low, fervent tones. “ ‘Many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it: if a man would give all the substance of his house for love, it would utterly be contemned.’ ”
Elizabeth’s eyes misted over; drawing back only far enough to look deeply into his, she gave the last quote of the morning. “ ‘Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth, for thy love is better than wine.’ ”
A minute or two later, the middle-aged couple who came puffing over the crest of the hill were arrested by the sight of a pair of lovers, locked in a shockingly passionate embrace. “Why, bless my soul!” said the lady, mopping her face with a handkerchief.
The gentleman chuckled. “Well, if that doesn’t remind me of old times, Mrs. Brisbane.”
She giggled girlishly. “Why, Mr. Brisbane, how you do go on!”
He mopped his own face. “We shocked a neighbor or two in our day, I daresay, for all you wouldn’t think it to look at us now.” He paused and surveyed the lake for a few moments. “Well, I’ve seen it. Shall we go and leave them to it?”
“By all means, Mr. Brisbane.” They turned and left the lovers to the sun, to the sky, to the lake, and to all the felicity that a marriage of tender, passionate, equal affection may afford its participants.