"You are the single great story of my life," said Fitzwilliam honestly. "I am a very boring character otherwise."
"And I an insubstantial one," said Elizabeth. "I bring excitement, you bring depth. We none of us make compelling narratives as isolated creatures."
"You could write a book."
"About our misadventures? Oh, no!" she cried. "I am much too blithe for that. It would require a prodigious amount of unbiased, frank reflection and a good memory more suited to your talents."
"Then the book shall never be written, for I am too private a man to expose our history so."
"It would have been written with so many syllables that the common reader could not have completed it regardless," she giggled. He shot her one of his dry looks, and she composed herself. "We are incorrigible! You will not write, and I will not do the writing justice. Alas, I fear we must learn to be satisfied with never being the object of novels. We remain unremarkable, unknown— nothing more than mundane," she said dramatically, draping herself across him.
"That is well. I should not like much more excitement."
"No ambitious kidnappings, then? Or secret missions for the crown? Perhaps a criminal murder, or long-lost relation with great connexions?"
He shook his head bemusedly, amazed. "From whence do these ideas come? None of that nonsense."
"Nonsense, sir!" Her nostrils flared in mock affront. "This is high literature you speak of!"
"Apologies, madam. Do press on."
Satisfied, she continued, "If grand circumstances made to order are not to your liking, we shall have to produce our folly ourselves. Perhaps a compromise story will tempt you. Assignations in Netherfield, on my walks… hmm, had you been a little too ardent in your proposal."
She delighted in his strangled noise and sat up to look properly into those eyes.
"Oh, no!" she said to what she saw there. "Dearest, I know I am not being realistic. However, you cannot deny the appeal in imagination. Whatever is the fantasy of the pages for, if not to bend reality for our satisfaction?"
"Ah. I thank you for explaining it so fully, for it has been the cause of discovering my argument. I cannot find that satisfaction in pages," said her husband as he leaned in and bestowed her teasing lips with a kiss, "For however beguiling the fantasy, it cannot compare to the real thing."
She blushed at his pretty words, deeply affected by what she knew was his pure earnestness, and tucked into his side, all books forgotten.