[Correspondence between Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth Darcy, several months after their marriage.]p> Posted on Monday, 10 December 2001, at 6:40 p.m.
[From Elizabeth Darcy]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 case 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?
Abandoning all facetiousness for a moment, let me say that I really do believe in you. And I want you to know that I am daily grateful for the honor you have bestowed upon me by making me your wife.
Love,
Elizabeth
[From Fitzwilliam Darcy]
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 insist on the following exclusions:
(1) There is to be no quoting of sentimental verse, including but not limited to the bard's sonnets.
(2) No comparisons are to be drawn between the recipient of the letter and any object, whether animal, vegetable, or mineral.
(3) 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.
But 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
[From Elizabeth Darcy]Dear Fitzwilliam,
While I appreciate your valiant effort to produce a love letter, I must point out that you made my request appear far more arduous than it really was. But 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 indeed 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
Letter 2: In My Defense
[From Fitzwilliam Darcy.]
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, can not 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
[From Elizabeth Darcy]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
Inspiring Your Remorse ~ Letter #3
[From Fitzwilliam Darcy]
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 nice 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
[From Elizabeth Darcy]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 minimum of weeks, thought it best to serve in your absence as the full guardian of Georgiana. I assured him that I could manage her, 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. But she has at least enjoyed a few days of relative freedom with only her sister Elizabeth to deter her admirers.
Now, back to your letters. I won't comment 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
No Reward ~ Letter #4
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 will have a sonnet.
In the meantime, please do consider how best to reward me for my pristine love letter.
Yours,
Fitzwilliam
[From Elizabeth Darcy]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
A Sonnet of His Own ~ Letter #5
[From Fitzwilliam Darcy.]
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
[From Elizabeth Darcy]Dear Fitzwilliam,
I thought the image of "the never-waking dead" to be a particularly jarring choice, but 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 for sure you would, like the Bard, proceed to mock romantic sentiments. But you did not. Instead, you amazed me. I had no idea you could write like that, or that you would dare to express in verse such passionate feeling. Thank you, my love.
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. But since 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 eager to evade my wifely duty, I simply cannot agree that your classical allusions were not clichés.
Love,
ElizabethPs. 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.
Let Me Win It! ~ Letter #6
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 muster a few constructive critiques. But then again, if you were able to wholly restrain your playful derision I suppose 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.
Yes, I will confess that the first line of my sonnet was a barely veiled imitation of Shakespeare's "My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun." And I can understand how that fact might have lead you to expect my poem would likewise be a light parody. The seriousness of its contents must therefore have come as a shock. 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, onto more pressing subjects. Still you refuse to admit that I am entitled to a reward for having met 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 few months 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
[From Elizabeth Darcy]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, I will still provide you with a sign of my affection upon your return, but as a gift and not as a prize.
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 mission should you choose to pursue it. Good luck and Godspeed.
Love,
Elizabeth
Grace ~ Final Letter
[From Fitzwilliam Darcy]
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
Darcy's Homecoming
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, 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 enormous steps to the front door. He hoped he would find his wife alone. He had ridden through much of the night so that he might arrive several hours earlier than expected. He wanted to surprise her.
He was disappointed, therefore, when the first people to greet him were Georgiana and Colonel Fitzwilliam. 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, with her chambermaid, getting ready for your arrival, which we did not expect to be until late this afternoon."
He 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."
"You are going then?" her brother asked, knowing that she was shy about such entertainments, despite all the time she had recently spent fielding suitors.
"Yes. Would you mind if we leave now? I don't 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'll be out of your way in a matter of seconds."
When the two had departed, Darcy hurried up the stairs in a most ungentlemen-like 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. 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'm 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. But 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 her 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" -- she tried to think of a neutral place -- "the library."
"Very well," he consented, rising from his position and heading for the door. Before he could grip the doorknob, however, she exclaimed, "But 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, still concerned with appearances, even before the servants. "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?"
Uh oh. How to handle this delicately? "Elizabeth, love, dearest--" Merciful God, no, not the eyebrow! Alas, too late, she had raised it.
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 didn't 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, as 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 two hours."
She smiled and kissed his neck.
It wasn't fair. She new that drove him wild. "If you're serious," he said, though he was barely breathing, "do that again. And if you're 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. "So," 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--I will 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, "The coast 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 room?" 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."
"James, 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."
"James," 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.
Some time later--again, I will not venture to say how long--Elizabeth lay contentedly in her husband's arms.
"What's it called again?" Darcy asked.
"The Kama Sutra."
"And the Collins's picked this up on their missionary journey in India?"
"Yes. Mr. Collins has been very much regretting the absence of Rosings, and the natives thought the gift might cheer him up. When he saw what the book contained, he reacted as if it were live ammunition and immediately tossed it into the air. His wife caught it, and she, in turn, sent it on to me."
"She probably thought you'd have more use for it."
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.
"You are my only use for it," she replied, and kissed each of his tired eyelids.
"May I see this book?" he asked.
"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