The entire world was filled with a soft breezy glow for Elizabeth. She was so happy!
This emotion of love, of hope, of happiness, this glow of early love, when all the world is perfect and a life is becoming different and entirely changed as it entwines, like a vine growing around a trellis, with another life — this glow filled all of Elizabeth's capacious soul.
Elizabeth Bennet did what she always did when there was a strong emotion in her heart: She wrote.
She wrote quickly and easily, the words falling from her pen. She wrote chiefly in the evenings by candlelight after she had dined or walked with Mr. Darcy, or in the mornings before she went to a dinner where she hoped to encounter her suitor.
This novel was not as the others — it was impossible for her to leave the heroine heartbroken and dependent upon only herself when the authoress was filled with a glow of hope and love.
Elizabeth kept the moment she had already written where Miss Honorius refused Mr. Hamilton. If Elizabeth, the protagonist of her own life, if she was her own heroine, she had suffered, and she had, out of policy and caution, refused the hero when he asked and the situation was not yet propitious.
And so Elizabeth took her heroine, for the first time, through that valley of devastated unhappiness into something else — fate tossed Miss Honorius into the path of Mr. Hamilton again when Miss Honorius took a trip through the north with her uncle and aunt, and by chance visited the estate of Mr. Hamilton's dearest friend.
Two years had passed.
And he was independent once more. The woman who he had been intended to marry had… had… well he didn't marry her or she died. Elizabeth could determine that detail later. Mr. Hamilton loved Miss Honorius still. When they saw each other once more, there was that in their eyes, they were drawn together once more, and they both knew that it would never be enough. Never be enough to just talk, to just smile, and there would never be a better chance for them to let a seed of love blossom in the fertile ground of their hearts.
Each had been changed by time into better versions of themselves, the versions of themselves worthy of each other.
And so Elizabeth wrote a scene that was so beautiful, it made her cry.
Miss Honorius proposed to him, not waiting upon the silly conventions that gave the man all the power — since after all, a woman could not rely without any reserve on a man, not even if she was choosing to bind her heart to him, she must keep some modicum of independence and capability for herself.
And then, Elizabeth wrote her epilogue, and she found one morning, shortly after Charlotte had left, that she had written an entire book. It had taken her longer to write than Matthew Lewis took to write The Monk, but she still had completed this book far more quickly than any other novel she had ever written.
And when she glanced over the scrawled and corrected working copy she had made, she liked what she read, and she hoped it would sell even though this book did not follow the pattern — that of the rake who nearly ruined the woman, followed by her despising him and establishing a life for herself in which she could earn her honorable daily bread and her modest clothes through difficult but independent employment.
Instead this time, she ended married, and was delightedly happy to be so.
The scene where the heroine and the hero determined they would marry left Elizabeth smiling happily the entire time she wrote it. And when she recopied the scene from pencil into the working copy in pen, Elizabeth's eyes teared up at the echoed happiness.
So one December morning Elizabeth finished the last epilogue of the book and copied it out immediately into the working copy. She considered that to be the end of the writing, as she now merely needed to copy the whole text out clean and mail it to her publisher.
While she smiled to herself in a quiet celebration, she saw from the desk in her room Mr. Darcy ride up the drive to Longbourn to call. Her eyes followed him, his features were barely visible in the distance, but he was still handsome and tall, with a perfect carriage and seat, a fine horseman. Much superior to Mr. Bingley who rode next to him.
Much superior in fact, in Elizabeth's opinion, to everyone.
He wore his coat well, and after he dismounted, he looked at her window and smiled.
Elizabeth rose from her seat and twisted and stretched, feeling a certain stiffness from having sat for so long finishing the novel.
She bounded down the stairs to meet their callers, soon as they entered the drawing room.
"I finished!" she exclaimed, before Mr. Darcy could make his polite, How do you do. "The novel, my new novel, I have finished it!"
Elizabeth had a girlish desire to jump up and down and then embrace Darcy. There was something in his eye that made Elizabeth think he wished to pick her up and swing her round and round while kissing her.
Mrs. Bennet shuddered. "Don't brag about such strange employments."
"My dear friend!" Darcy exclaimed. "Congratulations. Congratulations, and congratulations!"
Jane embraced Elizabeth, having the right to, unlike Mr. Darcy. "Oh, Lizzy, I am so proud of you — you have spent so much time these past weeks upon it. I am delighted to hear!"
"It is so very different from my others. But excellent, I hope."
"You could not write anything which lacked every brilliance," Darcy affirmed.
Bingley shook her hand. "To my friend the great author. You know me though, no great reader — can you forgive me if I only buy a copy, but never read it?"
Elizabeth laughed. "No, no, by no means — an author's greatest delight is in being read, you must buy at least… three copies to gain forgiveness."
"Ah, excellent — Darcy, I'll give one to you as a gift. I am certain, you shall read it. And Mrs. Hawdry, would you like a copy of your sister's novel?"
"No, no, by no means. You cannot give Mr. Darcy a copy, as I consider him a sure sale—"
"I am," he replied smiling brilliantly at Elizabeth, in that way of his that made everything seem lighter and made her feel as safe as a child in her father's arms.
"Then I expect you to buy a copy of your own, no matter how many you are given."
Darcy laughed. "A demanding literary friend. It seems almost as though you write as much for the money as for the joy of the thing, and eternal fame and glory — I hesitate to mention this, but Miss Bennet, you ought be made aware, it is considered in many places not quite the thing to ever admit you care about money. Not good form."
"Lizzy, don't run on so," Mrs. Bennet begged again. "You can see you offend Mr. Darcy."
Elizabeth laughed, and resisted the strong desire to stick her tongue out at Mr. Darcy — which she would have if they were on a walk, just the two of them — but from the way she smirked and met his eyes, he understood. He winked back at her, and it made her stomach leap again.
She was quite a different creature in the presence of Mr. Darcy.
And she liked that.
The group of them soon made an agreement that the day was not nearly cold enough to keep them inside — Elizabeth thought she and Mr. Darcy would make such an agreement if the pond had frozen through solid. They were both determined walkers.
"What is the plan of this new book?" Mr. Darcy asked as the two of them briskly went ahead of Jane and Bingley. "Will it be worth my time to read?"
"Oh, are you so very busy?"
"Very — as you know, I must speak endlessly to women such as yourself, demanding women who wish intellectual conversation, in the countryside — but really, I ask for my sister. She will want to know."
"You both must wait for my publisher to prepare the manuscript, and then print it, and then ship it to your bookseller, and only then can you read it — I dare say, I shall read it with you, for by then I will have forgotten all the principal elements of the plot."
Darcy looked her with such a disappointed voice and eyes that it made Elizabeth laugh and want to hug him. "But… so long? How long shall this take?"
"Oh, the best part of a year, or maybe more if they become particularly busy, or someone dies at the publisher. Such things happen — I put out my own money with theirs for much of the price of printing, so they will do the job eventually."
"That… that is a long time."
"You are desperate to read another of my novels?" Elizabeth smiled at him.
"I confess I am — you are, without any exception, by far my favorite authoress — or writer of any sex."
Elizabeth smiled at him. "Truly? And have you no personal bias?"
"I have. And my sister — I told her you have been at work with great dedication upon your next novel. She will be disappointed for how long it shall take — what makes the process run to such a long duration?"
Elizabeth laughed. "My dear, Mr. Darcy."
"No truly, why does this take so long?"
"I have to first prepare a fair copy of the manuscript."
Darcy looked quite quizzically at her, clearly unfamiliar with the term.
"When I write my book, I copy it onto many pages writing cross lines, and pinning notes and changed words everywhere, having notes that specify that I insert a new paragraph written on a different page, placing things in all sorts of arrangements that are quite difficult to use. For my publisher I must send a clean text, in my prettiest handwriting, and with as few corrections as can be managed. That will take two weeks at least to prepare, and—"
"Aha! We can hire someone to make the copy from your manuscript. And then they can work ceaselessly and it will be done quicker."
Elizabeth laughed.
"In truth—" Darcy grinned at her. "Not as the petulant infant who is desperate for the next book. I shall ask my sister to play that part when you meet. For while she does have patience, it will come natural to her to beg, and beg for you to read the story out to her from whatever copy you keep for yourself. And you will when she is done with you."
"You think so little of my firmness?"
"I think so highly of your desire to please those who you like."
"So then you are certain I shall like your sister?"
"Yes."
Elizabeth blushed.
Darcy then asked, "Why do you not employ someone to make the copy from your manuscript? It seems you would have a greater span of time to begin your own next book." He smiled rather satisfiedly. "Would that not be a profitable idea?"
"Now you wish to help me in the pursuit of filthy lucre? Very much the great gentleman, to concern himself with the profits of an author of modest means."
Darcy inclined his head.
"No, no. I would make no more if I did that. In the first place, it is not so cheap to hire a man who can make a good copy. That would be at least some four or five pounds, I would guess, for the service. But that is not the real objection which I have. I like making a final copy. It allows me to ensure that I have done a decent go of the whole thing. I find more felicitous selections of words, more euphonious fragments of text. The whole becomes better for this final copy. So do not take that from me."
"I will not — but I have another question."
"Another? You speak quite like you mean to interview me for some position of importance."
"Perhaps," Mr. Darcy said, with a meaningful look into her eyes, "perhaps I do."
Elizabeth took in a deep breath. She could not look away from his face and his eyes.
He smiled at her, and then they walked further. She saw the footprints of a family of doves in the snow, and there those of a fox.
"However," Darcy added, "were we at present in the course of an appointment where I sought to know your character to decide on whether to make you a significant offer" — Elizabeth almost jumped at the emphasis he placed on that word — "any question I asked at present would merely be pro forma, for my decision would be entirely made already, and the only decision of importance left would be yours."
"You mean to say, you would make this… offer to me? — and it would be for me to refuse. But, would you do so upon an impulse to be repented from, or as a matter of considered decision?"
"I am at present quite considered, and in my full good mind. Do I not appear so?"
He grinned at her, his white teeth flashing. A fringe of hair fell over his brow. He wore a tall black beaver hat. Mr. Darcy was so perfectly handsome. He was framed by two of the bare trees, and the perfect white field of the fallen snow. Tall, lean, with a powerful jaw, and the kindest eyes. He smiled with those eyes at her, with just a hint of nervousness, but mostly the happiness that had infused them both for the past weeks.
"Maybe…" Elizabeth drawled out. "Maybe you look far too handsome to also be determined."
"I assure you, when I am determined, I determine."
"What does that even mean?" Elizabeth laughed. "Nay, do not answer — what other question did you have about my writing?"
Darcy blinked and laughed himself. "I have quite forgotten. Quite entirely."
Elizabeth huffed with mock annoyance. "Well now I must talk upon my own brilliance."
"No, no — never fear that fate. I shall always be entirely at your service when you need a bard to sing your praise."
"But I am the storyteller, the one who ought sing my own praise. You are the great aristocrat who wishes to hire a bard to while away the boredom of late nights in your cold drafty castle, as you await the attack of the besieging peasants outside."
"I would have you know that my peasants are well treated."
"The peasants of these late days, I am given to understand, prefer not to be called 'peasants'."
"My tenant farmers, and their laboring hands, all good and solid English stock — they will rally to my side, when a horde of… Vikings come to besiege our walls. I believe the Norsemen reached Derbyshire. And, I wish you there, in my hilly halls, to sing tales that will make the night warm and filled with brightness — no matter that the halls be drafty, no matter that they lack every modern convenience of stove and tight construction."
"I'd willingly be your bard — though I confess, my pen works with greater skill than my tongue."
"Ah! I must dispute — for I have experienced both your tongue and your pen, and they are equally sharp and cutting. Like a sword — do you have a sword?"
"A sword?" Elizabeth laughed. "Do you? Besides a fencing sword?"
"There is an excellent heirloom. When you come to Pemberley I'll show you — That would be a new facet of your character, if you had a sword — would you kill the villainous rogues you meet upon highway and byway with it? Or would you join them upon the high toby, belaying the travelers as the prettiest highwaywoman ever to haunt the pike roads of England — and the crowds would weep mighty tears when they hung you — except…"
"Except?" Elizabeth could not help but smile happily at Mr. Darcy's nonsense.
"Perhaps some fellow gentleman of the road — a man besotted by your beauty, a man who though they may kill him, this man must venture all to save the lady he loves, though she be also a thief and a robber, though she commit any crime."
"You know," Elizabeth said with a sudden frown, as Darcy's conceit brought to her an unpleasant memory of those days when she was driven to London, "an added reason to prefer city to country. Here they will believe anything about you — I don't commit crimes."
Darcy stopped her in the path and took her hand. "I always believe you — though you be accused by a thousand others, I will trust you."
Elizabeth smiled tremulously at him. "Will you?"
"What makes you anxious?"
Elizabeth's heart sped still faster. Suddenly she wondered at the moment. Their gazes, as the French would say, kissed. "Do… do you promise to trust me… always?"
"Elizabeth, I will always trust what you tell me. What your eyes tell me."
"What do my eyes tell you now?"
He brushed his hand against her cheek. He smiled. "I think they speak what I most wish to hear. But — ah, it is difficult to speak for you are scared."
It seemed to Elizabeth as though the entire world was narrowed down to just include them. The air around her was become hazy and indistinct, as though seen through water.
Her stomach was flipping in tight catapulting circles.
"What," she breathed out, "would you wish to say? If I promised… promised to… to not be scared. To… to only reply from my heart."
He took her gloved hand and pressed his soft warm lips against the back of her knuckles. He smiled at her again.
"You already once told me… told me nay. I hope — Elizabeth, I spoke those weeks ago from a realization that I only fully understood in that moment, when you seemed to need me — my heart and my soul spoke then. My heart spoke rightly, and my soul spoke rightly. For I need you. I want you. Every consideration which does not claim you are for me, and I am for you, every item upon my list which you do not meet with perfection — oh Jove, I can barely speak. My heart runs away with me so."
She took his hands and squeezed them between hers, and then pressed his palm against her heart, half on her breast. "Fitzwilliam…"
"I have thought. I seem to have done almost nothing but think upon what… what truly matters to me. What I truly want, in marriage, in my home, in my future, where my happiness lies, where my true duty lies, what would be right for me to do — I love you, Elizabeth Bennet. You are not the woman I imagined I would fall in love with. But you have seized me, heart and soul, and shaken me so that all my pretenses, and all my foolishnesses, and all my habits and expectations have become of no worth next to my hope that you might take me into your heart and your soul, and come to live with me."
Elizabeth breathed out, her heart in her eyes. She was trembling, but smiling also. "Fitzwilliam… I… I…" She could not look at his eye. He glowed with passion and intentness.
"Elizabeth, I beg you answer. I beg you say that you are mine. My heart cannot stand such anxiety. I fear that I may explode if you do not answer me."
She took his hands, and she kissed them. The back of one hand, and then the other. And she turned them over, and kissed his palms. She still could not look up at him, but her heart was filled with love for him, and for his beautiful character, and his care for her, and with the realization that somehow he had become the man she could depend upon.
And she was glad for it.
"Elizabeth." His voice was filled with smiles and tears and happiness and passion, and it was as though the brightest summer day had dawned in her heart, the gleams of sun warming everything in her that had ever been cold, sad or unhappy.
"Mr. Darcy. My Mr. Darcy, I will… you must know… I can no more resist you than you me. And… and, I love thee so. I love thee dear. I love you with my toes, love you with my fingers and I love you heart and soul, with all my heart. We are bound together tight, by something neither of us can describe nor control but which we both feel, feel in everything—"
"Yes."
"Promise me. Swear, swear that I can always depend upon you."
"Always."
"You know how dear my independence is to me, my ability to protect myself, I can scarce — though I feel so full in my heart, I can scarce trust myself to you. To let you take care of me, to… rely upon you. I do not wish to lose my strength."
"Elizabeth — you will always have that strength in you. I adore your strength. You can care for yourself, but you do not need to, for I shall be there, always, and forever. No matter what, no matter how we change, no matter that we be despised by the whole world or adored by it, we shall support each other, rely on each other. You shall support my strength, and I yours. And we shall love, love intently and intelligently, and passionately."
"Well then, Mr. Darcy, then, I—"
"Call me Fitzwilliam."
"Fitzwilliam, you make me the happiest of women, and I hope, I hope desperately I can make you, strange habits and all, the happiest of men."
"You have, you already have."
Elizabeth grinned at him. "No, that is a matter of the future — as we build our happy life together. You cannot speak to how happy a marriage shall be in the moment of a proposal, but I think, you and I, I think we have more, much, much more than the average hope for great happiness."
Darcy laughed. "Only you would respond in such a way to such a statement."
"And that is why you ask me to marry you."
"I could never find, no matter that I looked a thousand years, and danced every dance in that great span of time at Almack's, find another woman such as you — that is why I wish to marry you. Elizabeth, will you marry me?"
"Oh, I will! Yes. Yes, and yes."