Page 49 of You Willfully Misunderstand Me

"Your letters were very good, sir. I do not fault them. Only a letter, however well written, is not quite the same as hearing a thing said aloud, in a voice one may watch as well as read, and I find I missed that particular pleasure rather more than I expected to, for a woman who has always prided herself on needing very little from anyone."

"Then I am sorry for every day of the six weeks, and sorrier still that duty required them of us both." He lifted her hand, then surprised her by turning it over and pressing his lips to her wrist in that same unhurried way that had, on the island, first taught her that his reserve concealed rather more feeling than his manner ever let show. "I promise you I do not intend to test that particular patience again, if it is within my power to prevent it. I found Kent a good deal harder to endure for the wanting of you in it, and I have no wish to discover whether absence grows easier with practice. I suspect, from what these six weeks have taught me, that it does not."

"No," Elizabeth agreed, low. "I do not think it does."

"Then we are agreed on one point of our marriage already, before it is even a full day old." A faint smile touched his mouth. "We shall simply decline to be parted, so far as it lies within our power to arrange it, and leave Kent and its mysteries to men with rather less to lose by their travels than I have."

"That," said Elizabeth, "is very possibly the most sensible thing you have said all day, Mr. Darcy, and I have heard you say a great many sensible things today, given that you have also somehow contrived to say them all while looking at me as though you had never seen me before."

"I find I have not," he said simply. "Not quite like this. Not as my wife."

He crossed the small distance between them, and Elizabeth found that whatever composure she had gathered in the looking glass had entirely deserted her, though she found she did not want it back. He reached for her hand first, as he had so many times these past months, in a fevered sickroom, in a sunlit yard, in a hundred small unremarked moments that had taught her, by slow degrees, to trust the particular gravity with which he touched anything he cared for, and then, when she did not draw back, his hand rose to rest against her cheek, and he studied her face a long moment, as though memorizing it anew now that he had the right to.

"May I?" he asked, low, and something in the asking, so entirely unlike the presumption she might once have feared from a man of his rank and consequence, and it undid the last of her nerves more thoroughly than any declaration could have.

"You may," she said, and found her own voice unsteady with a feeling she had never before had cause to name.

When he kissed her, it was nothing like the careless gallantries she had watched other women receive and privately thought little of; it was unhurried, searching and asking rather than taking. He drew back only far enough to look at her again, some question still lingering in his face despite everything he must have read as answer already in hers.

"Elizabeth," he said, and it was not quite a question, though it asked one nonetheless.

"Fitzwilliam." She had never once called him by that name before, and felt the whole of the year's distance close somewhere behind the word.

Whatever remained of his restraint yielded at last, and he drew her into another kiss, deeper than the first and no longer tempered by uncertainty. The candle between them burned low and unremarked as the little house at the edge of Meryton settled into a new and sacred intimacy around the freshly married couple. Together they discovered, with wonder and delight, the joys of belonging wholly to one another, each moment deepening the affection that had brought them to this night. Beyond its walls, the world remained exactly as it had always been, with its expectations, its uncertainties, and its endless occasions for misjudgment. But within that room, where husband and wife began the first night of the life they would henceforth share, neither pride nor prejudice had any claim.

CHAPTER 26

Autumn had long since yielded to winter, winter in its turn had softened into the first hopeful signs of spring, and spring, faithful to its own appointed course, had at last surrendered to the fullness of summer.

The events upon the Isle of Man had become the subject of quiet conversation among only a very few. The men responsible for the forged invitation and attempted abduction had been apprehended before they could flee the island, owing in no small measure to the testimony of the villagers and the swift cooperation of the island's magistrates. Their scheme, conceived in greed and sustained by deception, had ended not in fortune but in justice.

Anne de Bourgh, once the truth had been discovered, had written to Elizabeth with heartfelt sorrow. The new Mrs. Darcy, had replied immediately, assuring Anne that neither affection nor confidence had been diminished by a deceit for which she bore no blame. Their friendship, born so unexpectedly, survived the trial and became stronger for it.

As for Lady Catherine, her indignation upon learning every particular of the affair had been so complete that evenDarcy admitted it had, on that singular occasion, been directed toward entirely deserving persons.

Elizabeth laughed whenever she recalled the account, "I cannot imagine," she said one evening, "that the gentlemen responsible anticipated becoming the object of your aunt's disapproval."

"No," Darcy replied gravely. "It is an experience I would not recommend."

She smiled, "Not even to Mr. Wickham?"

Darcy considered the question, "Perhaps to Mr. Wickham."

Their eyes met, and then both laughed.

***

Marriage, Elizabeth had discovered, had not altered Mr. Darcy nearly so much as it had revealed him. The reserve that others mistook for coldness concealed a constancy she had once been too prejudiced to perceive. His generosity was no longer expressed only in great acts of sacrifice, but in a thousand daily attentions so quietly offered that many passed unnoticed by everyone except the person for whom they were intended.

For his part, Darcy often reflected that he had once admired Elizabeth chiefly for her wit and liveliness. He had not understood that these qualities were merely the brightest expressions of a character whose greatest strength lay elsewhere. Her compassion knew no distinction of rank, and her loyalty did not falter. He found that her courage revealed itself most plainly when others required it, and Darcy believed himself repeatedly the most fortunate man in the world.

When the first anniversary of their extraordinary adventure approached, Elizabeth proposed something that surprised even herself, "Shall we return?"

Darcy looked up from the letter he had been reading, “Return where?”

"Why, to the Isle of Man. Wouldn’t you like to visit the Kewley’s, Fitzwilliam, properly as true husband and wife?"

He studied her for a moment, and then something that quite surprised her, "I wondered how long it would be before you asked."