Mary Simonsen - A Wife for Mr Darcy

Before climbing into bed, Jane watched as Lizzy reread Mr. Darcy’s note. It wasn’t the brevity of the note that was so distressing; it was the signature, “Yours, F. Darcy,” that was the source of her unhappiness.

“Jane, I do not know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this. That is how someone would sign a business letter.”

“Are you concerned about the depth of his regard for you?” Jane asked.

“I don’t know. What I do know is that his moods change as quickly as the weather in the Peak. And this matter with Lydia. Is there anything that better illustrates the shortcomings of our family than his having to travel all that distance to save our sister from ruin? He must be asking himself, where was her mother? Where was her father? More importantly, does the possibility exist of another scandal in the family?”

“Lizzy, I understand your concerns, but despite the failings of our family, which Mr. Darcy was well aware of, he surrendered all when he fell in love with you.”

“Did he?”

“Yes, I am sure he did. It is just that he is methodical—no false starts. He wants everything just so before he will proceed.”

“Yes, I agree. Mr. Darcy is a cautious man—one who takes only small steps.” As Lizzy lay there in the dark, she thought, so much for spanning a chasm in one giant leap of love.

Darcy stared at the writing paper hoping for a bolt of inspiration to hit him as he was bereft of ideas. He was not a man of words—either verbal or written. He said what needed to be said, and no more, and there were times when his taciturn nature had worked to his advantage. On the afternoon when he had gone to Longbourn to apologize to Elizabeth for his rudeness at the assembly, the conversation had turned to his intolerance for idle discourse. If it had not been for that, he would have quickly left her parlor, and possibly, just as quickly returned to London. So a case could be made for the employment of an economy of words, although he doubted Elizabeth would see it that way.

Out of the corner of his eye, Darcy caught sight of his cousin, Lord Fitzwilliam, dressed in all his sartorial splendor in a peacock blue coat with an embossed design, matching blue breeches, and a gold waistcoat. There were few in London society who could successfully get away with dressing as their fathers had, but Antony was one of them.

“Greetings, my dear cousin!” he said as he dangled a calling card in front of Darcy. “I dined at my club this afternoon, and guess who was there? Never mind. You do not have to guess. Sir John Montford. If you look at the back of the card, you will see it is his intention to call tomorrow afternoon at 4:00. Why so late, you ask? It is because the rotund gentleman does not miss a meal, and any time sooner would have interfered with his two-hour midday dinner.”

4:00? So much for setting out for Hertfordshire tomorrow, Darcy thought.

“What are you doing there—writing a love letter?” Antony asked, while peering over Darcy’s shoulder. “All you have is the salutation.”

“Yes, I know it needs work,” Darcy said, only partly in jest.

Antony pulled a chair over so that he was sitting right next to his cousin and offered his help. “I have lots of experience in this area, and I can assist you.” Since Darcy was suffering from a severe case of writer’s block, he accepted Antony’s offer. “It should be easy to compliment someone as beautiful as Elizabeth Bennet. For example, you might say that her dark eyes hold the secrets of the universe.”

“What the devil does that mean?”

“That she is mysterious.”

“But she is not mysterious. She is open and honest—something I greatly admire.”

“Is that what you want to write?”

Dear Elizabeth,

Allow me to compliment you on your openness and honesty.

Sincerely, Fitzwilliam Darcy, Esq.

“Don’t be ridiculous. But I have never understood why someone would write a letter telling another person what they look like. Elizabeth does own a mirror.”

“Oh, this is going to be harder than I thought,” Antony said, groaning. “It is not what she looks like in the mirror; it is what she looks like in your eyes.”

Darcy thought about her dark eyes, and if they did not hold the secrets of the universe, they certainly held the secrets of his heart.

After watching Darcy jot down a few of his thoughts, Antony asked, “Have you kissed her?”

“Why?”

“Because if you have, you may write of how you felt when your lips met hers—the heat, the passion, all thoughts deserting you, except those of her, and how at that moment, the two of you became one—inseparable and complete.”

“That is very nice, Antony. I can see how that would be a pleasing sentiment.”

“Sarah Compton loved it.”

“Good God. I am not going to write to Elizabeth using words you have written to your mistress.”

“Former mistress. And what is the difference between using my words or copying out one of Will Shakespeare’s sonnets?

Shall I compare thee to a Summer’s day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate:

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May.”

“That is a beautiful sonnet,” Darcy said defensively. He had been thinking about copying out that very poem.

“It is beautiful, and if you want, I can go down to the park and some talented person will have already copied out Sonnet Eighteen for you in a beautiful hand, and for a few pence more, you can get a sketch to go with it of some artist’s concept of Summer personified.” Despite his excellent advice, Antony could see that the man was still struggling. “For goodness’ sake, Darcy, all you have to do is think about that lovely creature during your most romantic moment together. Then pick up the pen and write.”

“Well, you have given me some ideas, so I thank you.”

“Before I go, I want you to know I will be leaving shortly. I have taken rooms in Kensington to be nearer to a dear friend.”

There was no doubt Madame Antonia Konig, lately of Vienna, was the dear friend he wanted to be nearer to, and Darcy’s expression said it all.

“Darcy, I know what you are thinking. Kensington! Ugh!”

Darcy just shook his head in disbelief. Only Antony would consider his move from Mayfair to Kensington to be the greater evil than the reason for the move—his mistress.

“I can see you do not approve. I had hoped that since your heart has so recently been touched, you might understand. But since you do not, please allow me to explain. I am deeply in love with Antonia, but because I am bound to the Evil Eleanor, I cannot marry her—which I would do if I did not have this millstone of a marriage around my neck. And there are other reasons. Because Antonia lives near Kensington Park, I was able to introduce Emmy and Sophie to her, and they got along famously. It is nice for my children to see a man and woman together in the same room without furniture being thrown about.”

“I am happy for you, Antony,” Darcy said, surprised at his own change of heart. “I know you never wanted to marry Eleanor, and it has been a disaster for you from the beginning. And you are right. Love does change you.”

Antony came over and put his arms around his cousin and hugged him.

“For God’s sake, Antony, you are not French.”

“I know. If I was, I would have kissed you.”

After Antony left, Darcy returned to the task at hand: writing a love letter to Elizabeth. But with his cousin’s advice fresh in his mind, he had no difficulty in choosing the moment to inspire him. It was in the study at Pemberley when Elizabeth had come to him seeking his help. When she came into the room, her hair was flowing over her shoulders, and her robe, obviously thrown on in haste, had fallen open, revealing the nightgown beneath. For a mere second, with the glow of the fire behind her, he had seen the outline of her body, and he had to fight his desire to pick her up, take her to the sofa, and make love to her. With such a glorious image in the forefront of his mind, Darcy picked up the pen and began to write.