Painting Corners #2
“I suppose we have already spent far more words about each other than courting couples commonly exchange—double or treble, at least, and possibly more.”
“I admit it is unconventional, but I would definitely call that a courtship.”
“I suppose so. That does mean we need to… well—”
“Something holds you back, Elizabeth,” he said gently. “By your own admission, you find me at least adequate husbandly material, perhaps requiring some polish, but no more than is common to my sex… no?”
“You have polished yourself until there is hardly anything left, Fitzwilliam. There is nothing wrong with you,” she replied with a nervous laugh.
Darcy studied the ground. “I hope you do not feel a confidence has been broken, but I have learnt that you found Mr Oakley admirable as well, and almost immediately redirected him to your best friend.”
“That is no broken confidence. It is common gossip, and I do not object to your knowing. It saves me the trouble of telling you.”
“So, what holds you back?”
Elizabeth stared, her nervousness plain only in her hands.
Darcy still held one hand, and he noticed it and the other clench into fists.
Foregoing propriety entirely, he took the other hand and started rubbing small circles over both with his thumbs. Elizabeth hardly seemed to notice, but she calmed a little.
“Are you uncertain of my affections, or my constancy?”
“Heavens, no!” she exclaimed. “If I were, we would not be here.”
“Then I must presume you are uncertain of your own affections, your own constancy?”
“Now we are getting closer.”
“How so?”
“It is difficult to say.”
“You need not say it. We need not resolve it today. No one else knows of my rather unorthodox request to court you, and there would be no shame or loss of reputation if we courted and decided against each other anyway.”
Elizabeth sighed. “No, we need to resolve… something… today… I—”
Darcy waited, his attention fixed on her. “It seems to me you have a particular talent for resolving everyone’s problems but your own. You even helped me. The only one who seems lost inside one of your little boxes is yourself.”
“Do I have any family unwilling to tell you everything they know about me?”
The sally was plain enough; she meant to steady herself.
“Perhaps, though I know of none. You do know they do it out of love and concern?”
“Of course.”
He stopped rubbing her hands and pressed them tighter. “Give yourself time. Or tell me now. I think you want to let it out. That is why you manipulated the situation to put us together right here and now.”
“You think me capable of such manipulation?” she asked in consternation.
“Do not speak as though it were a fault.”
“I suppose I should tell you, then. Do you remember, back in Hunsford, what I said just after I told you about my childhood?”
“You asserted—what was it—there is something not quite right in your head.”
“Thank you for remembering. It was difficult enough to admit it the first time. You probably recall I said I would like to marry for the deepest love.”
“I remember well.”
“I wonder if I am even capable of it.”
Darcy gasped, but got himself under better regulation almost instantly. “What do you mean? Walk me through it… in detail.”
“Of every person I know, I am the only one who has never once been carried away by infatuation. Everyone else has had some secret or not-so-secret pang of longing for someone, but I have not—not ever. I sailed through my formative years without so much as a twitch of infatuation. Even my friend Charlotte—ever-sensible Charlotte Lucas, who thinks you should know as little as possible about the man you will marry—suffered two nearly soul-crushing infatuations before she became so cynical after a few seasons. I alone seem immune!”
Darcy considered. “You mean—”
“Let me say it plainly. I esteem you. I respect you. I like you. I prefer your company to all others… but… but… but—”
A tear escaped her eye, and she did not brush it away. “But I do not know if I can love you. I just do not know if it is in me. You see, I am not certain all is right in my head.”
Darcy released one of her hands and lifted her chin. “Let me be very clear, Elizabeth. The only thing wrong with that pretty head of yours is that it holds a face I cannot look away from. I love that head and all it contains with enough force for both of us.”
Elizabeth startled at the strength of the statement. She smiled nervously, at a loss for words.
“Let us be analytical about it, shall we?” he added.
She giggled, thinking she must be careful around him since he was learning all her tricks at an alarming rate.
“I know you usually make a scale, but that is overreach. I will simply ask this. Estimate, on whatever terms you like, your affection, or infatuation, or whatever you wish to call it, over your lifetime. Pick the apex—you do know what that means?”
Elizabeth laughed openly. He knew perfectly well she knew it was the highest point of a curve, and she would ordinarily be offended he even asked. She nodded, grateful he used his humour to make her less nervous.
“When in your life were you closest to what you think a wife should feel for her husband? At what point was your infatuation at its highest level? You need not define the delta between that feeling and the goal; just tell me the point in time.”
“That is not fair.”
“I agree. Was it fair to stick the present Mr and Mrs Jameson into a tiny little box in a public park in London, or ambush Mr Collins with a ledger during a proposal, or spirit my cousin away from Rosings to Longbourn.?”
“Do you know all my secrets?”
“Not yet.”
She smiled ruefully. “I suppose I must answer. The point is easy clear enough. It was 29 words into your proposal.”
He continued relentlessly. “All right. Let us put that feeling aside, since by your own admission, I am as close as you have ever come to the goal. I assume you could easily estimate your feelings of esteem, respect, and so forth. Have any of them changed since then?”
“To be honest, all have improved considerably. Between Georgie, Lady Catherine, Anne, the colonel… well, I can say all my other feelings for you improved a great deal.”
“Suppose we made a chart with a line denoting the minimum levels of each of these attributes that a couple should have to ensure a happy life together, would you say I meet the mark on all the others except your affection for me?”
Elizabeth hesitated, unwilling to give a slapdash answer. “I will ask you to answer the same question, but for my part, a decided yes. You meet—nay, greatly exceed—the minimum. In almost all ways, we are the perfect match.”
Darcy cupped her cheek. “You have the right of it. I can say that you exceed my wildest dreams on all axes. So, what are you afraid of? Do not pretend you fear we will not get along together. Do not pretend you fear we will not have a happy household full of talented and mischievous, if slightly unorthodox, children. Let us get to the heart of the matter. What are you really afraid of?”
With difficulty, she drew her attention from his hand on her cheek and met his eyes.
“I am afraid I will hurt you. I am afraid I will never love you the way a woman should love her husband, and your love is so obvious, so implacable, so persistent, so intense… I fear I will destroy the best part of you. I am afraid we might find ourselves with unequal affection. It would be corrosive. It would eventually destroy us both, worse than my own parents’ marriage. ”
“I cannot remember which ancient said it, but there is a common definition: Love is the condition in which another’s happiness is more important than your own,” Darcy said with a slight smile.
Elizabeth’s mouth hung open. She had never considered such a thing. Everything she had ever read or discussed about love concerned the lover’s feelings, not the lover’s concern for another. As usually described, it was frankly selfish.
“If you will allow me the free use of your analogy, you are masterful at seeing the truth of someone else’s feelings from outside their little box. You did that for me, and I hope I am returning the favour.”
She stared at him a moment. "Please be clear, Fitzwilliam. What is it you want? What do you really want?"
He smiled. “At the risk of sounding mad, I want exactly the same thing I wanted in Hunsford, while simultaneously wanting the exact opposite.”
“Why would that sound mad? My thoughts usually turn that way. Perhaps you might add some nuance?”
“When I entered the parsonage, I thought I knew both of us, and I wanted you. I wanted you to accept me—or rather, I wanted my idea of you to accept my idea of myself. Since then, I have learned that neither of us knew the other at all, and at the time, I did not even know myself. Now—”
Words failed him, so she squeezed his hand.
“Now, I wish to openly acknowledge that I know myself a little better and you a little better, but neither of us truly knows the other. I wish for us to spend a lifetime learning about each other, growing, learning some more, and growing some more, so we can both die slightly less ignorant.”
Elizabeth laughed at his impertinence. “I can applaud reducing the world’s ignorance. Since we are likely to continue upsetting the total level of hubris in the wrong way, I suppose we must compensate by reducing ignorance.”
They laughed uproariously, and sat in silence.
“Just this once, Fitzwilliam, I suppose we should speak our hearts and minds plainly, and in English.”
“I suppose it would be a useful experiment, just to see what happens.”
“I can say without fear of error or contradiction that I like you. I esteem you. I wish to spend my time in your company. I miss you when you are away. I wish to have you for a father to my children, and based on your definition, I almost certainly love you. I also—”
He squeezed her hands.
“I also suspect that, based on what I was told, a kiss or two might help resolve the ambiguity of whether I feel for you the way a bride should.”
She smiled sheepishly, and moved her head exactly 40% of the distance that presently separated them.
“I have no qualms about saying I love you with all my heart,” he said with a sheepish smile, “and I am confident you will love me with the same vigour in the appropriate time. I admire you. I esteem you. I want you to be the mother of my children, and I wish to spend the rest of my life getting to know you.”
He moved his head most of the remaining distance between them, so they were nearly touching. By mutual agreement, they closed the final gap until their lips gently touched.
Elizabeth had not known what to expect. She had heard or read of everything from a bit of revulsion at the close contact to lightning falling from the sky to smite her. Truth lay between those extremes.
It was awkward and uncomfortable at first, but after a moment or two of clumsy fumbling, the kiss came much closer to lightning than she had expected.
One moment her heart threatened to beat out of her chest, and the next she might close her eyes and take a nap in perfect contentment.
It went from purring kitten to screaming jaguar.
They remained so for some minutes, revelling in the contact, until only pleasure remained, and fear and awkwardness fell behind, at least partially. That happy ease came after Darcy picked her up and set her down on his lap, so she could wrap her arms around his shoulders.
At long last, they released the kiss, and she moved her arms down from his shoulders to tuck them against his chest and snuggle into his embrace.
This comfort was unexpected. Novels talked of strong, raging emotions, euphoria, excitement, and impatience. Never had she read of comfort, calmness, rightness.
“Is it wrong that I feel like I am sitting at home, near a roaring fire in my most comfortable chair, with a good book on my lap?”
“Welcome home, my lovely bride. Welcome home.”
“Welcome home, Milo!”