by Iris Lim
“She shall end you, Fitzwilliam,” Aunt Catherine warned, seemingly oblivious to the fact that the woman she spoke of still stood in the very room, beside him. “And with it, your legacy and home.”
Or, perhaps, it was Elizabeth’s presence beside him that spurred his aunt’s unceasing fury.
“I am no perfect man, Aunt Catherine,” he replied. “I have never professed to be – and I ought truly to be grateful if a woman of character as beautiful as hers deems me worthy of her affections and esteem.”
“And what of Anne?”
Darcy frowned. The confrontation was inevitable.
“She and I have never matched.”
“Your consequences of birth, your families and bloodlines – shall it all be for naught?”
“The freedom and privilege of seeking and finding a woman whose temperament, beauty, and character correspond so wholly with mine is, in and of themselves, the greatest gifts one’s heritage may offer.”
“Beauty, you say?” He could hear Aunt Catherine preen. “And what if all reports of her guile have been a carefully-constructed falsehood? God knows how easily your sister is fooled.”
“Enough, Aunt Catherine!” It was his turn to bellow. “You shall not remain in my house if you insist in insulting its every occupant.”
Elizabeth rubbed his arm gently, as one would the back of a sick child.
After an entire minute, he heard his aunt stand at last.
“I wash my hands from the entire affair. Salvage, I have tried – yet irresolute, you remain.”
He heard her and her entourage stalk out the room, and the building, with little to no regret.
• • •
Many moments later, he sat upon the seat he had found soon after his aunt’s exit – and listened, gingerly, to any sound of Elizabeth moving elsewhere. It both calmed and riveted his heart that he found no such noises. Georgiana had graciously left them alone – and Darcy’s mind barely considered that any staff member of the household could be keeping them under watchful eyes.
For all intents and purposes, he was alone – with the woman he loved.
He cleared his throat, for the second time since finding himself in his current predicament. He felt her skirts rustle – knew she seated herself a mere two steps away. If his aimless staggering had landed himself upon a chaise instead of an upright chair, she might have chosen to share his sitting place.
The thought thrilled him, and he struggled to remain calm.
“Elizabeth,” he ventured, when no other sounds came.
“Yes – Mr. Darcy.”
Her ready reply implied that she had been observing him as keenly as he had been observing her.
He cleared his throat, yet again.
He felt her lean closer – a whiff of her scent drifting just that much nearer.
“I am afraid that I owe you an apology.”
“Sir, on the contrary – it is I who owe you every thanks.”
Darcy lowered his head, feeling slightly wretched for being so unhappy with her gratitude. It was a sentiment of an entirely different sort that he sought.
“I’m afraid I had exhausted my patience – and wit – with our lovely guest. It was most fortunate that you entered when you did,” she spoke gently, a smile in her voice.
Darcy felt himself smiling as well.
Dared he try again? Dared he venture into uncharted territory – once more, for her?
“You stated to my aunt, not long before I arrived, that you loved whom you loved – and could not promise that you would cease what there was no law to govern.” He timed his words carefully, sensitive to her every breath and movement. She offered nearly none of either. “I agree with you, Miss Elizabeth – that there exist no human reasons to thwart the love between a single man and a single woman when God has instilled none Himself. Death alone can divide two people who care deeply for each other – distance cannot, age cannot, social differences – physical differences could not pose a threat to those destined to share their hearts and lives.”
He felt her remain where she did.
“And so I hope, Miss Elizabeth,” he continued, heart in his throat, “that you would not dissuade – nay, that you might even encourage me – if I were to launch into pursuit of a woman whose feelings I have cause to believe mirror my own. My movement is finite. Where other men can gallantly ride to court their brides-to-be, I can only sit – in my home – a helpless, awkward heap of a man as I struggle to make out the words I dearly wish to express. Yet, still, I try.
“Elizabeth, forgive me, for the haphazard proposal I had previously offered. You did not deserve my pride – nor my assumptions. You should not have been presented with my detachment, when the heart that beats for you thrives so vividly underneath. Elizabeth, please, if you have but half the kindness I know you possess, consider once more my –”
“Mr. Darcy.” He felt her kneel by his feet, felt her gathering his hands between her own bare fingers. Her touch was heaven itself. “Fitzwilliam.”
He leaned down, hungry for her presence.
“What do you ask, sir?” Her plea was crisp, clear – unwavering.
“Will you marry me, Elizabeth?”
“Yes, yes, Fitzwilliam – the honor –”
Her lingering words remained unspoken as she pulled herself against his chest in a dear, tight embrace. He held her closely, nose buried against her hair. The pains of the past melted away, in rapid succession, in the light of this beautiful spring.
“Elizabeth,” he whispered, and she pulled herself closer still.
A few more moments in warm embrace gave way quickly to his pressing a gentle, timid kiss against her cheek. She responded immediately, doing likewise to his cheek. He turned his head slowly, feeling her actions meet him muscle for muscle. Their first kiss was sweet, gentle, a promise of many, many joys to come.
It took a squealing Georgiana to break the spell.
• • •
The following days, as far as Elizabeth was concerned, were spent hoping and dreaming even as her hands busied themselves with helping and packing. Dreams, so vague before – took on a distinctive color now, a vibrancy they had never had before. Departing from Pemberley was no longer an act of finality; visiting Longbourn was no longer truly going home.
Georgiana, despite her expressive discovery of their betrothal, remained the best of confidantes and did everything she could to loosely chaperone her brother and his bride-to-be. The mutual agreement that they would keep news of their engagement quiet until Fitzwilliam could speak to her father after Jane and Bingley’s wedding fostered a sweet intimacy gained only by the tender thrill of a shared secret.
“Lizzy,” her dear fiancée would call her, whenever he stood close to her by the fire.
“Fitzwilliam,” she would coo back at him, whenever Georgiana lingered slightly farther away for their sakes.
The trip to Hertfordshire buoyed itself the entire way with optimism and cheer. The Darcy siblings spoke openly and happily – one lightened by her escape from the shadow of heartbreak, the other brightened by his own newfound foray into romance. Elizabeth herself drank it all in, with a heart swelling twice its size every passing day.
Jane’s wedding was beautiful – as joyful as it had always been meant to be. The groom beamed with pride; the bride blushed with a strong, quiet delight. Even Miss Bingley’s surly faces did not spoil the day too much – and Mama’s effusions were, for once, of the warranted sort.
“Have you ever seen a bride so lovely as my Jane?” Mama declared, as the guests piled into Longbourn.
Elizabeth smiled and agreed that she had never – nor will ever – meet an English bride as radiant as her sister. Georgiana cleared her throat slightly, perhaps suppressing a chuckle, before slipping away to assist her brother towards a particular part of the house.
Elizabeth smiled, despite the tremors in her heart.
Papa’s summoning happened soon enough – and she was promptly questioned over the
sincerity of her choice. It took little effort to convince Papa that she loved Mr. Darcy dearly, that she longed to spend her life with a man as resilient and caring as he. Papa watched with a glint in his eyes as she took her fiancé’s hand. She wondered if it was bemusement or tears.
Mama took the news the very next day with as theatrical of a response as was to be expected. Even Kitty and Lydia, for all their silliness, seemed heartfelt in their shared wonder over their sister’s good fortune. Georgiana called every day she could, a welcome new sister among Longbourn’s ranks. Miss Bingley, who was already a sister, received much less enthusiastic reception whenever she did deign to appear.
Having spent all she could on Jane’s wedding, Mama had no choice but to offer Elizabeth the much subtler, simpler wedding the latter had preferred all along. A short engagement – the bare minimum for the bans to be read, really – ensured that Elizabeth was soon handed to her tall, handsome groom on a crisp autumn day, her skirts ruffling around her just that much louder to apprise him of her every movement.
The wedding breakfast flitted by in a happy blur, and Elizabeth admittedly enjoyed her final gathering in the neighborhood she had always called home.
Still, nothing compared, quite naturally, to her vigil beside her new husband – her hand on his arm, and his voice by her ear. His need for physical aid created an entirely unexpected, though welcome, aspect to their newlywed bliss – for who could blame a dutiful wife for supporting her husband in public, her arm and body securely anchored against his own?
With the London season still lurking rather far beneath the horizon, Mr. and Mrs. Darcy enjoyed a few precious months on their own – basking in the comforts of Derbyshire in place of the more popular choice of touring the continent. Richard and Charlotte visited once, and Jane and Bingley did their own round as well. Elizabeth Darcy corresponded faithfully with her family and friends – and soon learned to be her husband’s most dedicated scribe as well.
Marriage and its wonders – from the quiet moments by the fire, to the frosty morning garden trails, to the tenderness of sharing the family’s favorite dishes, to the passion and ardor of the bedroom – unfolded themselves each day, illuminating Elizabeth’s life in angles she had previously never considered as ever having existed.
Her husband had his own brand of stubbornness – as did she. Poor Georgiana had her share of moments when she either had to urge her fellow residents to simply stop and talk – or simply give up and desert the drawing room for the night. The process of searching, identifying, and condemning Lady Catherine’s spies in the household proved to be a taxing, painful process. There was tenderness, then there were tears. There was silliness, then there was gravity and tension of the most compelling sort.
What her husband could not see, she saw for him. What she had never noticed, he directed her to see.
Why had she ever doubted, even for a moment, that true love would ever come?
• • •
Eighteen Months Later
• • •
“And what if I fail to secure him?” he asked – uncertain if he ought to do the very thing he longed to do most at the time.
He felt Elizabeth’s hand on his shoulder. She must have been holding the babe – his son, their son – in her other arm.
There were limitless new ways to love her still.
“You can feel him. You would not drop him,” she assured.
Then she leaned down, a heavy womanly scent gracing her person now, with her confinement having barred her from her garden rambles in recent days – and she slid the shifting bundle into his large, awkward arms.
The effect was immediate, his heart brimming with so much wonder and awe that he barely knew how his chest remained intact. The bundle shuffled, moving as if it were a sac of water with the occasional firmer curve. He felt his wife guide his arms closer to one another, encasing the infant in a safe human cradle.
Young Bennie murmured gently. His mother patted his side until he settled once more.
Darcy tried, in incremental movements, to ply his hands until they molded more naturally against the shifting babe’s body.
“He looks like you,” said Elizabeth, ten long heartbeats later.
“He smells like you,” he replied.
His wife chuckled softly. Darcy momentarily forgot every fear he had ever had when she had first informed him that she was most certainly with child, with his child. He feared many things – many shortcomings that both his character and lack of eyesight would inevitably create. He wondered at how her body changed under his hands, and he mapped her figure hungrily throughout many a ravenous night. Then her time had come – and he nearly hurt himself at the sounds of her anguish.
“You shall be the best of fathers, Fitzwilliam.”
His wife knew him well enough to reply without his asking.
Darcy felt himself smile, a thousand words failing to create one coherent thought upon his tongue.
“You are a wonderful mother.”
“And we shall teach him so many things.”
Bennie wiggled in his arms as if he concurred as well.
I hope you enjoyed this book. If you have a moment, please leave a review!
Other works by Iris Lim:
– Mothers Know Best
– Real
– Oh Brother
– Switched
– Armed Robbery
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