Page 19 of Searching for Elizabeth (A Pride and Prejudice Variation)

—the next morning—

Darcy had worked hard, long into the night. His small estate in Scotland, which he did not lease out, but rather continued to keep as a family vacation spot, needed an investment for structural repairs against the constant chilly humidity, and the steward reported that the gardeners had allowed more overgrowth than was best for the manor and outbuildings.

Chuckling at the irony of overgrowth once again claiming his attention, Darcy had written a letter promising the necessary funds to make the repairs, as well as agreeing that the steward ought to make a change in the gardening staff. He then had to write to the bank in Scotland where he had a profitable account, apprising them of the fact that the steward would be applying for an additional sum of money in the coming months.

Calling for Smithson to arrange to have the letters expressed at once, Darcy had worked on all of the other issues his correspondence laid before him.

Now, waking up a bit later than usual, Darcy considered the day ahead. He had accomplished so much, he felt certain that the only pressing activity was to continue his pursuit of one Miss Elizabeth Bennet.

He was happy that the task of analyzing her cottage had brought up the future in a natural way. Hopefully their future, together. Elizabeth still seemed a bit unsure of him, or of her feelings for him, but he felt an increasing assurance that she would soon be ready to hear his addresses. He sensed her responses, not just to his words and smiles, not just to his chaste kisses, but to his entire person. Darcy was familiar with self-control; it had been his way of life for a decade, and he felt her self-control as if it was a palpable force. But that force now seemed to be diminishing when he stood close to her.

Darcy hoped that Elizabeth would share with him whose correspondence she maintained whilst living alone in a cottage that nobody seemed to know about. Certainly he imagined that she wrote with some regularity to her aunt and uncle in London, and he wondered if she had alerted them to her banishment. If she did, he would expect—or, at least, hope—that Elizabeth’s beloved uncle would stir himself to provide his support against her parents.

Somehow, Darcy was certain that Elizabeth was not thinking of the Gardiners when she spoke of important correspondence. Indeed, there was a way in which she spoke that made him certain that she was involved in…some business? It was beyond belief, was it not, that a gentlewoman who was not even of age, as yet, would have business concerns….

Darcy was determined to remain supportive of whatever it was. He did not want to lose his chance to live with her sparkling conversation, her steadfast loyalty, her unparalleled beauty…. So he could not be stupid about holding to old-fashioned ideas about “a woman’s place”

or about “the stench of trade.”

Hurrying through breakfast and dressing, he packed up more food and the rest of the items he had purchased for Blackthorn Cottage. He aimed to get to the cottage, and Elizabeth, as soon as possible.

Once he was again in the presence of his beloved, Darcy felt like he could relax and allow their relationship to grow and deepen without pressure or timelines. But when he spied a thick packet made up for mailing, on a table by the door, he felt a welling up of delight. The direction carefully printed on the package was a Mr. Briggs at Mortimer Press.

It looked to be a manuscript. Of course! The important correspondence between an author and her publisher would be the sort of “business”

that exactly suited the brilliant and imaginative Elizabeth Bennet. Although some men might disallow their wives to be published writers, Darcy saw no reason to hold to such an outdated stricture.

He wondered very much about her writing. Long essays about the delights of nature? A novel? Poetry?

Was she already published, or was she working hard to become so?

Elizabeth had been wiping the tiny counter of her miniature kitchen but now seemed to be done. She walked to the little table and saw the direction of his gaze, and she blushed prettily.

“I see it is time to share with you another secret. This is perhaps not as exciting as a hidden cottage, and it certainly is not as earth-shaking as a secret handshake, but I see that you have discovered my important correspondent.”

“Mr. Briggs, at Mortimer Press,”

Darcy stated.

“Yes.”

He said, “I am hoping that my theory—that you are an author of some sort—proves to be correct?”

Elizabeth’s shoulders visibly relaxed.

“Yes. I do not even know what sort of author I can claim to be, other than the relatively rare female-sort-of author.”

Darcy chuckled and said, “Yes, women who are authors are still somewhat rare, but quickly becoming less rare. Also, not an incredibly new phenomenon; in my library at Pemberley, I have a copy of Julian of Norwich’s book, and she wrote it back in the 1300s, many centuries ago.”

“I am not familiar with her name. I should love to see that book someday.”

“I should love to show it to you, as soon as may be.”

Elizabeth blushed at his reference to a possible future together. But he asked, “So, if you do not know what sort of author you are, perhaps you dabble in multiple formats? Poetry, histories, novels, essays? Are you already published?”

Elizabeth eagerly explained about her children’s tales, published under the name Bennet Bethel, her poetry, as yet not published nor even submitted, and her essays, occasionally published anonymously as “Views from a Lady.”

Darcy was thrilled that she had already published so many works. A part of him was grateful that, like many female authors, she had published anonymously and with a pseudonym.

“I aim to purchase everything you have so far published. Might I have a piece of paper, so that I can write to Hatchards to order your two books and three essays?”

Elizabeth supplied the paper, and he quickly wrote out the order. She made a coy remark about his beautiful handwriting and the evenness of his lines, and they both laughed. She said, “Actually, although I will not repeat my praise twenty-three times per hour, as Miss Bingley does, I do mean it. You have a remarkably beautiful hand.”

“Thank you,”

Darcy said.

“I am looking forward to getting to know you even better through your written words.”

Elizabeth looked delighted.

“Does your family know about your success as an author?”

Elizabeth’s smile disappeared, and Darcy felt sorry to have made it so. But she answered his question directly.

“Mary knows, of course. Also, my Uncle Edward and Aunt Maddie know.”

“The Gardiners?”

Darcy asked.

“Yes! How did you….Did Mary tell you their names?”

“She did. I have yet to meet them, of course. So…your father does not know about your publications? Does he at least know that you write?”

Elizabeth shook her head no.

Treading carefully, Darcy said, “I know that your father dearly loves to read. And you said before that you are your father’s favored daughter.”

Elizabeth nodded, “My father was pretty frank about his favoritism. I did not quite know how to respond to his stated preference for me, because he insulted the others. He seemed to be teasing, but I know they felt disparaged.”

Darcy watched Elizabeth intently as she continued, “But I so appreciated his regard and care. I truly needed all the hours he allowed me to escape Mama, to sit in his book room and read. We also played chess together, and the most important thing was that my father would challenge me about whatever the newspapers were reporting about current events, and about themes and settings in literature, and about authors’ biases in histories.”

Darcy gazed at her steadily, nodding as she wound down.

“He was a substitute for the governess he never hired.”

“Yes,”

Elizabeth said.

“But for me alone.”

“But still you have not told him about your writing?”

Elizabeth shrugged.

“All of that teasing….He can be so sarcastic. So dismissive. I…I suppose I did not want to take a chance with what he would say about me sending off my work to strangers.”

Darcy felt a pang. He remembered being afraid of disappointing his own father a few times, and their relationship seemed rock steady compared to Elizabeth’s relationship to her indolent father.

“Well, I am sorry for it. I would say that I hope you would feel confident to tell your father someday soon, but…I imagine his defection now…his willingness to back your mother’s ideas that you should be forced to marry a man you cannot respect, his allowing her to banish you, hurt your relationship badly. Possibly dismantling even the chance that you would ever share your works with him?”

Darcy saw tears gather in her eyes. She said, “He demonstrated such preference for me, and then he just turned on me. It was…I saw him coming, and I knew he was going to defend me, and then he just sent me away. It was….”

A few of Elizabeth’s tears finally escaped her eyes and trickled down her face. She turned her face upwards, apparently unwilling to relent to her emotions, but Darcy stepped closer and enfolded her in a comforting embrace.

“You have been so strong, Miss Elizabeth,”

he said.

“But you can let your feelings out. I think it might be healthier to do so.”

Having been given permission to cry, Elizabeth sobbed into his clothing. He had never seen her cry even a little bit, before, and now she could not seem to stop.

When she was finally spent, Darcy still held her close. He never wanted to let go. Her hands had been clutching the lapels of his coat but now moved to encircle his neck; she looked up into face, and he could not resist kissing her.

Elizabeth’s responses were tentative, and he wondered if his was her first kiss. As his lips moved over hers, she went from holding her mouth still to moving it with his, and she seemed to learn very quickly. Still, when his tongue traced the seam between her lips, she paused, possibly shocked, before her mouth opened; his tongue entered her mouth, stroking hers, and he tasted her as he had alluded to not long ago. Suddenly, Elizabeth seemed to catch fire, and her shyness was overwhelmed. She responded more than he could have imagined.

She moaned into his mouth, and Darcy moaned in response as he felt Elizabeth pressing her body against his. He was aware that his arousal must have become evident, pressing into her, but she did not pull away or gasp in horror. Instead, she began to play with his hair and stroked his cheeks and tried to touch the skin under his cravat.

Darcy had to stop. He broke the kiss and stepped back, breathing raggedly and watching her carefully.

Elizabeth’s breathing was quick and uneven, but it started to slow.

“Mr. Darcy…?”

she whispered, as if she was pleading for something.

“Elizabeth,”

he answered.

“Are you well?”

“I am…happy?”

she hazarded.

“I am ecstatic to hear that,”

he replied.

“I love you so.”

She caught her breath.

“You called me Elizabeth.”

“Apologies.”

“No, I liked it. I would like to call you something other than Mr. Darcy.”

“I should love that.”

“But I do not know your given name,”

she said. She gave a little hiccup, and he smiled at her, realizing for the first time that a hiccup could be adorable.

“My Christian name is Fitzwilliam,”

he said. He lightly held her elbows, and he laughed when she pulled back in surprise.

“Fitzwilliam?”

He nodded. Elizabeth said, “Well, that is a mouthful!”

He cocked an eyebrow and one corner of his mouth quirked upward as he reasoned, “It is four syllables, just like the four syllables of Elizabeth.”

“Oh,”

she chuckled.

“I suppose you are right.”

“People have called me Fitz and Fitzy,”

he said, and she smiled, probably at the silliness of the name Fitzy. “But,”

he continued, “I hate that. Could you call me William?”

“I will do so, William.”

She blushed and smiled, and he was elated that she looked so happy..