The Strange Marriage of Anne de Bourgh

by Skylar Hamilton Burris

  As much as I appreciated your sonnet, I cannot allow it to dissuade me from my firm resolution regarding your idea of entitlement. You and I were not engaged in a contest, and no reward was proposed.

  As, however, you seem to think otherwise, I can only say that I have won the match, and therefore no reward is owed you. Although I am never one to shirk my wifely duty, I simply cannot agree that your classical allusions were not clichés.

  Love,

  Elizabeth

  P.S. Even though I vanquished you in that last battle, I am a merciful conqueror. My gifts to you, Fitzwilliam, need not be earned. I grant them because I love you.

  *

  Dear Elizabeth,

  I am heartened to hear that you were touched by my sonnet. However, you apparently were not so deeply affected as to be unable to sustain a few constructive critiques. On the other hand, had you been able to restrain your playful derision entirely, you would no longer be the woman I married, and, as fortune would have it, the woman I married also happens to be the woman I love.

  The seriousness of my sonnet’s contents might have come as a surprise, but I am sure my regard could not. Or have I really kept you so ill informed? If so, I will have to see to your education with greater diligence in the future.

  Now, as for more pressing subjects…Still you refuse to admit that I am entitled to a reward for having risen to your challenge. And then you have the gall to make some feignedly submissive comment about “wifely duty.” You know I cannot tolerate this kind of talk. Your mother may have taught you to close your eyes and think of England, but I hope we have learned better lessons together during these past year of conjugal bliss.

  Yet wait! Before I resign myself to despair, I see you have left a post script. In it, you seem to hint that, although you will not concede me the victory in our last exchange, you will nonetheless condescend to bestow upon me a gift for no other reason than that you love me.

  Oh but, Lizzy, let me win it!

  Yours,

  Fitzwilliam

  *

  Dear Fitzwilliam,

  Darling, must I punish you for your overweening pride? Would it humble you too much to accept something from me without first earning it?

  Very well. If you would win the expressions of my love, let me propose to you an entirely new challenge. If you can fulfill this charge, then I will confess that you have earned your reward, and I will bestow it upon you as a victor. If you cannot fulfill this charge, I will still grant you the same prize, but as a lover and not as a conqueror.

  To win, you must succeed in producing a stereotypical love letter. It must be several pages in duration; it must be full of all the hackneyed sayings I have previously prohibited you, and it must be abounding with the most banal, unoriginal sentiments your mind can conceive.

  This is your challenge should you choose to undertake it. Good luck and Godspeed.

  Love,

  Elizabeth

  *

  Still Dear Elizabeth, despite all,

  Because, like an untrue Protestant, I have insisted on earning my way, you have presented me with a second, truly formidable challenge.

  You think, perhaps, that I will not arise to the occasion. You think I will fail, and that in so failing, I will be forced to accept the proffered free gift and thereby indebt myself to you. You think I will not venture to fulfill the task.

  And you are quite right. Touché. Very clever of you.

  You have lifted all of your restrictions, and you have told me that if I persist in attempting to earn your love, then I must do so through the production of a lengthy, sentimental, saccharine, trite love letter.

  I cannot do it. I will not do it. You could never respect me in the morning.

  Grace it is then. And I'll humbly take it in your arms tomorrow, when I return to Pemberley.

  Your indebted servant,

  Fitzwilliam

  THE END

  Mr. Darcy’s Homecoming

  Mr. Darcy spurred his steed onward as he approached Pemberley. He was so preoccupied with thoughts of his homecoming, and all the sweet pleasures it would entail, that it was almost too late before he noticed the low branch of the great oak tree. He ducked abruptly and was barely spared. The near accident sobered him, and he began to slow the pace of his horse. He would not be of much use to his wife, he supposed, if he were to arrive sans essential body parts, and Elizabeth did rather like his face.

  He later dismounted in the courtyard, and as his groomsmen led his horse away, Mr. Darcy gazed up at the great estate. For the first time since the death of his mother, Pemberley once again felt like a real home. He straightened his coattails and brushed off the dust of the road before mounting those great steps that climbed dramatically to the front door. He hoped he would find his wife alone. He had risen before the sun and after only a few hours of sleep so that he might arrive earlier than expected. He wanted to surprise her.

  He was disappointed, therefore, when the first people to greet him were Georgiana and Colonel Fitzwilliam. It was not that he did not care for his relatives; he dearly enjoyed their company at other times, but they were something of an impediment to him now.

  He had hardly returned their greetings before asking, “Where is Elizabeth?”

  “She is upstairs,” replied his sister, “with her chambermaid, preparing for your arrival, which we did not expect to be until late this afternoon.”

  Mr. Darcy cast a yearning glance up the stairwell, but resigned himself to wait. He would have to sit with his sister and cousin, he supposed, and discuss a score of subjects which, on any other occasion, might have seemed interesting. He was about to speak when Georgiana interrupted him.

  “I have asked my cousin to take me to Lambton this morning. I need to purchase some material for my gown for the ball. Would you mind if we leave now? I do not mean to be rude, I know you have only just arrived—”

  “—By all means, go!” Had that sounded too hasty? From Colonel Fitzwilliam's amused expression, Mr. Darcy could only assume that it had.

  “Fear not, Darcy,” said the Colonel. “We will be out of your way in a matter of seconds.”

  When the two had departed, Darcy hurried up the stairs in a most ungentlemenlike manner, but fortunately there was no one about to witness his ascent.

  When he found her, she was bathing. He had eased unobtrusively into the room just as Henrietta, the chambermaid, was preparing to douse Elizabeth's hair with a pitcher of water. Henrietta saw him and nearly let out a yelp, but he raised a finger to his lips to silence her. The chambermaid blushed as he crept over and took the pitcher from her hands, motioning for her to leave. Henrietta managed to sneak quietly out of the room and make it a short way down the hall—just outside of hearing range—before bursting into laughter at the master’s uncharacteristic behavior. It was then imperative that she find someone with which to gossip. The footman appeared most handy.

  Meanwhile, back at the tub, Elizabeth was growing impatient. “I'm ready, Henrietta,” she told her nonexistent chambermaid. Darcy poured the warm water over his wife's head and stood mesmerized as the drops seeped into her dark curls. When she leaned forward to let the excess water drip away, he kneeled down and reverently kissed her shoulder.

  In an instant she swung around and slapped him hard across the face. He was still massaging the reddened skin when she realized who he was. “I am so sorry, Fitzwilliam…I was confused…I had no idea who was there—”

  “Of course not,” he said, opening and closing his jaw to make sure it was still fully functional. “You hit harder than I would have expected. Yet I might have guessed you were capable.”

  Elizabeth began to reach out to caress his injured cheek when she suddenly remembered to be affronted. “How dare you sneak up on me in this manner! What must my chambermaid think?”

  “I imagine,” replied Mr. Darcy, “that she thinks I am your husband and may do as I please.”

  Elizabeth now modestly drew up her legs against he
r body. “Well, she may think so, but I am of a quite different opinion. Now, if you would be so kind, please leave me to finish my bath, and after I am dressed I will meet you in”—Mr. Darcy raised his lips into an expectant smile—“the library.”

  The smile fell. “Very well,” he consented, rising from his position and heading for the door. Before he could grip the doorknob, however, she exclaimed, “If you leave almost immediately, what will Henrietta think?”

  He laughed. That was his Elizabeth, still unaccustomed to her newfound wealth and her position as mistress of Pemberley, concerned more about the opinions of her chambermaid than she had been about the opinions of his aunt. “I imagine,” he said, “that she will think you are my wife and may do as you please.” He shot her one last burning look before closing the door behind him.

  *

  Fitzwilliam Darcy had lost all ability to calculate time. He could not have left his wife more than eleven minutes ago, but he was certain it had been well-nigh an hour. He slammed shut the book he had not been reading and walked rapidly to his lady's chamber. He placed an ear against the door, and, hearing nothing, he determined to knock, well aware that she would reprimand him for his impatience. There was no answer. “Elizabeth?” Still nothing. Where could she possibly be?

  Darcy instantly began a furious search of the house, walking up and down the halls, opening and closing doors, even looking into closets, when at long last he found her, half an hour later, in, of all places…the library. And she looked rather peeved.

  He smiled tentatively. “How long have you been here?” he asked.

  “Thirty minutes,” she returned, crossing her arms defiantly across her chest and tapping her foot against the floor.

  He said, “You must have come round the other way just as I was leaving—”

  “Leaving? You mean I am not worth waiting ten minutes for?”

  How to handle this delicately? “Elizabeth, dearest—” Merciful God, no, not the eyebrow! Alas, too late, she had raised it. Mr. Darcy threw himself into his favorite armchair and sighed. He was weary of the battle. These exchanges were all well and good on paper and across the dinner table, but he had other interests now. “I was only looking for you. I did not know where you had gone. I only wanted...” He trailed off.

  He looked very tired. Elizabeth's resistance began to soften, and when she considered that he must have ridden through the night to be here at such an early hour, it melted altogether. “You poor thing,” she said, and after glancing to assure herself the door was shut, she came and sat in his lap, laying her head against his shoulder and curling close. “How much did you sleep last night?”

  “Oh, at least three hours.”

  She smiled and kissed his neck.

  It wasn't fair. She new that drove him wild. “If you are serious,” he said, though he was barely breathing, “do that again. And if you are not, kindly refrain from torturing me.”

  She was serious.

  When she desisted from her delightful assault on his neck, he struggled to catch his breath, and his eyes locked fast with her own. “Well then,” he asked, “am I now to enjoy my reward?” Before she could answer, his lips had covered hers.

  When he finally allowed her to speak, she said, “I assume you mean your gift.”

  He kissed her again. “My reward.”

  She returned the kiss. “Your gift.”

  “My reward.”

  And so it went, the pair exchanging both kisses and assertions, until a particularly awkward (though perhaps not entirely unplanned) moment somehow resulted in both tumbling from the chair onto the library floor. The contest was, through mutual consent, entirely abandoned, as husband and wife resolved to allocate their energies to a far more entertaining diversion.

  *

  After a considerable amount of time had passed—we must not venture to say how long—the library door slowly opened and a pair of fine eyes peered out around the door frame. These eyes belonged to a face that also sported a pair of lips, which began to move as the speaker dramatically declared, “All is clear.”

  Upon that pronouncement, a second figure peered around the first, and, satisfied with the speaker's assessment, he emerged from the library and began to run, clothes in hand, toward the stairwell. The woman with the fine eyes followed him, reclaiming a shirt he had dropped along the way.

  At the sound of foreign footsteps, the pair threw themselves against a wall beneath the stairwell, dissolving into the shadows of Pemberley. Once Henrietta and the footman had walked on by, engrossed in their own conversation, the hidden couple emerged and began to ascend the staircase.

  “You know,” said Elizabeth, “it would have been much easier had we dressed before leaving the library.”

  “No, indeed,” replied her companion. “It would have doubled our labors, for once we reached your bedchamber, we would simply have to undress again.”

  “You think so, do you?” she asked. “I thought we were going to discuss estate affairs.”

  “Shhh!” he replied, “No time.” As the sound of voices rose from below, the couple bounded the rest of the way up the stairs and ducked into the first available doorway.

  “Will you settle for my chamber?” Mr. Darcy asked.

  “Well, since we are already here—”

  The door slammed shut. Henrietta heard its echo from a story below. “There they go again,” she said to the footman, and he thought she sounded jealous.

  “Don't worry, Henri,” he said, “that's how it will be when you and I are married.”

  “Richard, whatever are you talking about? You and I married?”

  “Sure, if you will have me.”

  “Well, I never thought about you a day in my life!” When she saw the footman frown she said, “But that's just a statement of fact. Don't take it as a no.”

  “Richard,” said the housekeeper, entering the room and interrupting their conversation. Mrs. Reynolds shook her head. Those two servants were always engaged in hushed conversations. She could not imagine how they ever accomplished any work at all. “I have an assignment for you.”

  The footman departed his lovely Henrietta's company with a knowing look. “Be thinking,” he said, before vanishing down the hall.

  Sometime later—again, we must not venture to say how long—Elizabeth lay contentedly in her husband's arms. “Are you shocked?” she asked.

  “No,” he said, but his face said otherwise.

  “Offended by my initiative?”

  “Not at all. Pleased, rather. Only…surprised. What is it called again?”

  “The Kama Sutra.”

  “And your friend picked this up on a journey to India?” he asked.

  “Yes. Amazing what you can discover in exotic places.” Elizabeth propped herself up on one elbow to look down at her husband. He was having a hard time keeping his eyes open, but he was clearly fighting the temptation to surrender himself to sleep.

  He yawned. “India,” he said sleepily, “cannot be so desolate a place, if its illustrated literature can inspire a man’s wife with such creative ideas.”

  “I have not yet begun to plumb the depths of my creativity.”

  “May I see this book?”

  “No, you may not.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “And why, pray tell?”

  “Because I prefer to keep you guessing.”

  “Hmmm...”

  “Darcy?” Silence. “Fitzwilliam?” Silence.

  Elizabeth sighed and curled up beside her husband as he slept. She had many yet unfulfilled plans for him, but they would have to wait...

  THE END

  About the Author

  Skylar Hamilton Burris is the author of several novels, poems, and essays. Her latest book, When the Heart is Laid Bare, is a contemporary literary romance that explores the theme of male friendship. Her novel-length Pride and Prejudice sequels include Conviction and An Unlikely Missionary. Skylar is also the editor, publisher, and founder
of Ancient Paths Literary Magazine. She holds a B.A. in Economics from the University of Virginia and an M.A. in English from the University of Texas at Brownsville. Learn more about her work on her website at www.editorskylar.com or follow her on Facebook by “liking” her author page.

  When the Heart Is Laid Bare. Double Edge Press. 2015.

  Coach Calder Johnson's wife has, according to the hospital social worker, expired. Expired. Like a credit card. Not like a human being. Calder hasn't had a true friend, other than his wife, in twenty-four years. So if he's going to heal, he'll have to learn to let someone inside. Unfortunately, Calder's catalog of potential friends swells with unlikely candidates. There's Jacoby Reynolds, the blunt Anglican priest who watched his wife die, and Lynn McIntire, the beautiful but strangely efficient single mother next door. Then there's Justin Robinson, an embittered teen Calder wants to recruit for his high school football team. Enter also Connie Myers, the new Calvert High principal, an attractive yet hard-edged woman who's determined to shake up the status quo. Only when Coach Johnson's heart is finally laid bare will he learn that you can find friendship—and love—in the most unexpected places.

  Purchase online from any major retailer of books, or order a new, autographed copy from the author for just $14 (which includes shipping and handling) by e-mailing skylarburris@yahoo.com for details.

  An Unlikely Missionary. Double Edge Press, 2008.

  An Unlikely Missionary shines a spotlight on one of Jane Austen's lesser characters, the practical Charlotte Collins. When she is unexpectedly sent as a missionary to India, Charlotte must learn that security is not the most important value. Join Mrs. Collins as she embarks on her unlikely journey, traversing a path beset with comedy, mystery, tragedy, and joy.