Page 41 of London Holiday (Sweet Escapes Collection #2)
FOREWORD
Twenty years ago today, the impossible happened.
I awoke early this morning, a thing that is not so common as it once was, and spent a pleasant half-hour gazing at the sleeping form of my husband. He is as handsome as ever—more so, perhaps, because his shockingly blue eyes are now set off by laugh lines. His hair is as thick and infuriatingly perfect as when he was seven and twenty, save for a few specks of wisdom at his temples. He speaks more softly now, especially to me, but he is still firm of thought and deed... and his “informally attired” figure is still something to behold as well.
Indeed, I am the luckiest woman alive, but it is nothing short of a miracle that we ever married. I consider it yet another minor phenomenon that we did not kill each other that first year. We are identical opposites, I sometimes say—perfectly suited in character but woefully mismatched in personality. Perhaps that is precisely why we get on so well, for he is the earth to my feet and I the light in his sky. Oh, no, I am not at all humble about our felicity, for I feel anything so dearly fought for is worth crowing about. At least a bit.
It was then, as I lovingly traced the outline of my husband’s face in the dusky morning light, that I had an inspiration.
Not one to ponder idly in my musings, I set about awakening him to inform him exactly how we were going to mark the momentous occasion of our anniversary. There is a particular way to wake Fitzwilliam when I especially want him to rouse in the best of humors, and he never fails to oblige me. Later, wrapped in his arms with my face tucked under his chin, I told him my idea.
“A memoir? Whatever for?” were his precise words.
“Why, to keep for all posterity, so that when our great-grandchildren someday wish to know how we arrived at this point, they will have the pleasure of reading all the particulars.”
“They shall have the family lineage books in the library.”
“Those dry and dusty tomes? I would rather chew wood than force myself to read them. Besides, no one cares about who begat whom. They want to know how and why.”
“Well, the ‘how’ is a rather simple answer, and the why… I think they can figure out on their own.”
I tickled him into silence, the cheeky rascal, then I said, “Come, my love, surely we have a tale worth telling. Would you not have your descendants, who will no doubt share your… shall I say, ‘self-confidence,’ know your path to happiness?”
“If you are to throw my flaws in my face, perhaps you will not forget to mention your own impudence,” he growled… but it was a pleasant growl.
“Oh, naturally. Why, I can hardly pick up a pen without putting down something very tart indeed.”
“In that case, the thing will hardly be fit for polite company by the time we are finished writing it.”
I kissed him rather thoroughly and whispered, “I certainly hope not.”
Eventually, he did agree, though only after making me promise not to read what he has written until we have both finished. However, since he extracted that promise under duress—refer to my aforementioned reference to tickling—I do not feel particularly bound to it.
I hope our sons for generations will find our writings “useful”, and our daughters will be… enlightened .
Elizabeth Darcy
28 December 1831