Elizabeth shook her head fondly. Her husband was as besotted as ever, and as romantic as ever. She rang for Emma and heard the tub being filled as she ate the breakfast her husband had ordered, with some of her very favourite dishes: shirred eggs with dill cream sauce and bacon crumbles, a Bath bun, and medlars. And, from the lovely smell, she knew before she even reached the bathtub that he had arranged to have dried lavender sachets placed in the warm water.
Elizabeth loved the leisurely feel of this morning, although she had to admit that it was the novelty that made it fun. She generally walked briskly with her husband in the early morning and, after a brief breakfast, she began to bustle around seeing totheir children, tenants, guests, and household, working on her long-term projects, and—yes—consulting her lists.
But this physical comfort was pleasurable, too.
Soon she was dried and dressed in a morning gown and half-boots, with a short pelisse, bonnet, and gloves, and the carriage driver greeted her with an enormous smile. “Mrs Darcy,” he said with something akin to reverence in his voice.
“Mr Thomas,” she responded, “it is a beautiful autumn day!”
“’Tis indeed, ma’am.”
The carriage ride lasted a bit more than a quarter hour, and the moment she exited the vehicle, she spotted the “path.” It was a colourful spattering of flower petals spread onto one of the shredded-bark trails that wound between the trees. Elizabeth laughed at the picture of her wonderful husband tossing out handfuls of blossoms, like a long-ago flower girl at an Elizabethan wedding. She knew him: he would have put in an order for his gardeners to obtain a certain quantity of flower petals, but he would have created the flowery path himself.
She hurried, hungry for the sight of him—and then she halted, surprised.
A small wooden dance floor of sorts had been laid on the flat ground of a meadow. A ring of quaking aspen trees provided a golden glow to the tiny dance floor, and the fluttering leaves made a pleasant susurration with the rhythm of the dancing speckles of sunlight piercing the canopy.
On the dance floor stood her Fitzwilliam, looking just as handsome as he had looked the day they met, almost a decade ago. He was dressed very formally, which was hilarious to Elizabeth, and he held his brand-new beautifully-crafted music box. Apparently he had wound it when he heard her coming, and he swiftly stooped to lay it on a blanket, and then he offered his hand and said, “May I have this dance?”
Just then the tinkly music emerged from the music box. Elizabeth gladly stepped into his arms and enjoyed a waltz, even though they were highly curtailed by the size of the dance floor.
The entirety of the morning, even as she had eaten and bathed and dressed, Elizabeth had wondered about the reasoning for a surprise on this particular date. Her beloved was always celebrating anniversaries of all sorts of things. “The second-year anniversary of our first trip to a beach,” “the four-year anniversary of our first child’s first tooth,” “the anniversary of our first annual Valentine’s Day ball.” She could not think of what had inspired this morning’s romantic gesture, and so, giving up, Elizabeth decided to tease him: “This is very random, husband of mine. How did you manage to conceive of this private autumnal dance on the fifteenth of October?”
“Today is the ten-year anniversary of the day we would have met if Georgiana had not seemed ill and interrupted our journey to Netherfield Park.”
“The Meryton assembly!” Elizabeth said.
“That is correct. I was supposed to go straight to Netherfield that day, and I sent an express telling Bingley that we had to postpone the visit. A few days later, I got a letter from him saying that he would have dragged me to an assembly that night, so he assumed it worked out for the best for me to be delayed. Then he went on and on talking about meeting Jane.” Smiling, he added, “So, if Georgiana had not seemed ill, and we had gone to Meryton instead of London, I would have gone to the assembly, and I would have met you.”
“But I have heard so many tales of you only rarely dancing, and you not really liking even to meet people at balls and other large functions.” Elizabeth laughed, “I imagine, had we met then, you would have stood there glowering at all of the dancers, and I would have gotten the worst first impression ever.”
The beautiful man she loved laughed, too. He bent down to rewind the music box, and as the music started once again, he took her in his arms and danced with a closer clinch, a firmer grip. He whispered, “I can imagine it happening that way, honestly. And I would have been in such a foul mood, at any rate. Georgiana was so dispirited during that journey southward, I cannot tell you how frustrated and melancholy I became.”
“Dearest Fitzwilliam,” Elizabeth breathed into his ear, “the whole terrible experience might have set our courtship back months and months.”
“But not forever,” he assured her. “I am positive that I was meant to worship you, and I am just so grateful that you tolerate me.”
And then he began to kiss her.
Despite all the more vigorous forms of amorous congress they had explored—and, frankly, conquered—despite all the years and years that had passed, despite all the children, Elizabeth still felt that her beloved’s kisses were indescribably heavenly. She lost herself in his arms, in his kisses, in their bubble of mutual love and gratitude and deep-seated happiness.
Then he announced, “I have another list.”
Elizabeth pulled away a bit in order to take the list, written on thick, ivory-coloured paper. There was no heading; the nine and thirty numbered items on the list were all brief descriptions of places located in Pemberley’s huge landholding.
She read aloud the first few items in a soft voice: “The lookout on Prospect Hill, the copse of Scots pine trees, the hot spring….” She looked up sharply, aimed a playful glare at her husband, and asked, “Is this a list of outdoor spots…where we have…well, you know….”
“Do you see how eight and thirty of the spots are marked off as accomplished?”
Indeed, each item had a large check mark, except the last item, which read, “The aspen ring.” Laughing, Elizabeth said, “I do, sir. And there is only one more spot on this entire, enormous estate where we can…?”
“Oh, there are scores more, believe me. Possibly thousands. I shall just have to make a new list. But first—” He picked up the music box and carefully placed it on the dance floor, and then he spread out the blanket carefully. He scooped her up in his arms, saying, “First we have a list to complete.”
The End
