copyright 2002, Skylar Hamilton Burris

This is a short story via epistle, and focuses on an exchange of wits between Elizabeth and Fitzwilliam Darcy. As a sequel to this piece, read "Darcy's Homecoming."

________

[From Elizabeth Darcy]

Dear Fitzwilliam,

As requested, I am duly acknowledging receipt of your first communication. Although I make no claim to any grand skills of logical deduction, I am able to infer, based on the contents of your epistle, that you do not have a great deal of experience writing to women for whom you might entertain romantic sentiments.

That is all well and good, for if you did possess such experience, I would be forced to require a list of names, and I could not then be held responsible for any consequences that might ensue.

Nevertheless, your inexperience is no excuse for such a mundane communiqué. I am sure the details of your business transactions are of the utmost interest to your dutiful steward, but in case you are not aware, let me inform you that I am your wife, and that I am therefore entitled to a somewhat different treatment.

As your business will keep you from Pemberley for at least a fortnight, I insist that you furnish me with a love letter. I am not asking for the moonstruck wooings of an immature Romeo, but I am requesting some clear signs of affection and regard. I have complete confidence in you, Fitzwilliam, and I am sure you can produce such a letter. I even expect it will exceed a full page.

There is no need, however, for you to digress into idealistic ramblings. Do not think that I desire you to quote me poetry. I will hardly be impressed if you borrow another man's words, even Shakespeare's. If you would be so kind, please likewise refrain from hackneyed phrases and romantic comparisons between me and various (I'll omit the redundancy of sundry) objects.

How do I know that you are capable of rising to this occasion? Because I can say, with absolute sincerity, that you are the most intelligent man of my acquaintance (always excepting Mr. Collins, of course) as well as the most resolute (other than my dear brother Charles Bingley, who never yields to persuasion). With such qualities coupled together, how can you fail me?

Abandoning all facetiousness for a moment, let me say that I really do believe in you. And I want you to know that I am daily grateful for the honor you have bestowed upon me by making me your wife.

Love, Elizabeth

--------

[From Fitzwilliam Darcy]

Dear Elizabeth,

I have here before me, resting on my writing desk, a missive from my unassuming, indirect wife. In this epistle she informs me that, because my business draws me from Pemberley for at least a fortnight, I am under an unambiguous obligation to write her a love letter. Furthermore, she instructs me in no uncertain terms that although the length of this letter should exceed a single page, it should not contain any material that might justifiably be described as quixotic rambling. Finally, she insist on the following exclusions:

(1) There is to be no quoting of sentimental verse, including but not limited to the Bard of Avon's sonnets.

(2) No comparisons are to be drawn between the recipient of the letter and any object, whether animal, vegetable, or mineral.

(3) No clichés are to be employed during the course of the aforesaid communication.

Perhaps, Elizabeth, you are at this point asking yourself what sort of severe, fastidious woman would demand of her spouse such a Herculean task. But no, I will not allow you to question her; I will not allow you to dispute her motives. For I myself can assure you that my wife is wholly without fault. Ergo, I will rise to the challenge she has set before me. Like brave Hector, by all the everlasting gods I'll go, and no force can prevent me! I will not be defeated by these intricate restrictions my wife has placed upon my words, but rather, like the wrestler Antaeus, I will grow stronger every time I touch the ground. Indeed, like the thousand ships launched by the mere sight of Helen, I will sail on, unfettered by the waves that threaten me. Like Aeneas in the cave of Dido, I will succumb to passion. Though I cannot see my beloved's face, I, like Pyramus, will whisper out the deepest longings of my heart. Hah! You did not think to prohibit classical allusions, did you? You were not so cleverly thorough, my dear, as you imagined.

But now, Elizabeth, all jest and levity aside, I must confess to you that I am no Casanova. You'll find no Lord Byron here. In my nearly nine and twenty years on this earth, I have never once penned a love letter. Yet I entertain some small hope that a woman of your depth and intelligence might possibly be pleased by the words of a man who can say, with simplicity but also with sincerity, that he loves, and that you are, and will forever be, the sole object of that love. Until I can see you in person and speak with my eyes what I cannot write with my pen, I will remain humbly - nay make that proudly --

Yours,

Fitzwilliam

----

[From Elizabeth Darcy]

Dear Fitzwilliam,

While I appreciate your valiant effort to produce a love letter, I must point out that you made my request appear far more arduous than it really was. But since you have done so, I will hold you to your own high standards. By those standards, it seems you have violated two of my so- called "exclusions."

Firstly, your use of classical allusions is tantamount to the employment of clichés. Secondly, you drew a large number of comparisons the moment you made those allusions.

Despite these failings, I was not unaffected by the honest expression of your love for me. I do not desire a Casanova, nor indeed a Byron. I want a man who has no less a sense of duty than of passion, however unromantic that may sound. I yearn for a companion whom I can battle with my wit, but who will still respect me when the match is over. I desire a husband whose affections have stood constant and tried, whose regard I can trust to overcome great obstacles, and whose love will endure without alteration.

You alone can be that man for me.

Love, Elizabeth

---

[From Fitzwilliam Darcy]

Dear Elizabeth,

In your last letter, my lovely Elizabeth, you accused me of ignoring certain stipulations you had established. You indicated that my use of classical allusions in paragraph five of my previous missive was in violation of prohibition C, sections two and three. I would like a chance to present my defense.

First, with regard to prohibition C, section two: "No comparisons are to be drawn between the recipient of the letter and any object, whether animal, vegetable, or mineral." You will note that all of the comparisons drawn were to myself, the author of the letter, and not to you, the recipient. This, therefore, can not be held as a violation, unless you liken yourself to Helen; but I did not directly do so, and for you to draw such a conclusion might hint of vanity, a trait which I know you do not possess.

Now, with regard to prohibition C, section three: "No clichés are to be employed during the course of the aforesaid communication." This matter is somewhat more subjective. And although it is, in a sense, a cliché to use classical allusions at all, the allusions I chose-and the manner in which I presented them-prevent them from being regarded, individually, as clichés themselves. Granted, they have something of a trite ring to them, but in order to be considered legitimate clichés, they must be commonly used. None of these phrases are employed by any of my acquaintances on a day to day basis. When, for instance, was the last time a man said to you, "Like Aeneas in the cave of Dido, I will succumb to passion?" What is his name and where does he live?

No, my love, you cannot fault me. My letter was a full page; it contained no rambling, and it did not violate any of your prohibitions. Consequently, I fully expect to be rewarded upon my return. Yours, Fitzwilliam

-----

[From Elizabeth Darcy.]

Dear Fitzwilliam,

I have not yet received your response to my last letter, but I have determined to write you daily. You are frequently in my thoughts and this exercise of writing may, I hope, exorcise your constant presence from my mind, so that I can begin to fulfill my duties as mistress of Pemberley.

Upon re-reading your last letter (not that I read it every hour upon the hour; certainly I have better things to do with my time), I have noticed that you make no mention of my compliments to you. In the same letter in which I requested your love letter, I also called you both intelligent and resolute, and I even referred to our marriage as a daily honor. I have said far nicer things in my second letter, which you have not yet received.

I should like to know whether or not my words please you. There is little sense in exerting myself if that effort has no affect on the intended object.

Love, Elizabeth

---

[From Fitzwilliam Darcy]

Dearest Elizabeth,

I like this commitment you have made to write me daily. That way, you may diffuse your mockery over the span of several letters, rather than assaulting me with it all at once. Your latest complaint? You claim I have overlooked all the very nice things you wrote about me. That is not the case, I assure you. I read each of those accolades with the greatest pleasure. But you know my temperament; I am not a man accustomed to either soliciting or acknowledging flattery. Please do not allow my silence to deceive you into thinking that I therefore do not desire it. Do keep the coals coming to stoke the fire of my ego. I would likewise fuel yours, had you not encumbered me with so many egregious restrictions. Yet I may have found a loophole.

True, you have forbidden me to show my admiration by quoting Shakespeare's sonnets, but I am determined to make you regret that restriction. As a first step toward inspiring your remorse, I have decided to pen a sonnet of my own. As it will be an original, to share it with you cannot possibly violate your prohibition against "quoting" sentimental verse. You will be forced to endure this creation with my next letter. Until then, I remain in your thrall and I am -

Yours,

Fitzwilliam

-----

[From Elizabeth Darcy]

Dear Fitzwilliam,

Since last writing, I have received your response to both my second and third letters. I apologize for abandoning my resolution to write you daily. I was distracted by the arrival of your cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam who, upon hearing you would be out of town for a minimum of weeks, thought it best to serve in your absence as the full guardian of Georgiana. I assured him that I could manage her, but he has been made wary by the reports you have issued him regarding Miss Darcy's suitors. I don't know what you have been telling him, but he now takes it upon himself to be present anytime a gentleman happens to call, and he is forever informing these suitors of his martial skills, always in a cautionary tone. Not that the poor girl will have much relief when you return. But she has at least enjoyed a few days of relative freedom with only her sister Elizabeth to deter her admirers.

Now, back to your letters. I won't comment on your intention to furnish me with a sonnet, as I consider it an idle threat. But in your previous letter you make some mention of a reward. I do not recall promising you any such thing. I recall asking for a love letter, and I recall making a few minor suggestions as to how you might frame it, but I certainly never offered you a prize should you succeed. My dear Fitzwilliam, however do you manage to develop such competitive notions? I can't imagine, especially when I consider what a meek wife you have.

Love, Elizabeth

----

[From Fitzwilliam Darcy]

Dear Elizabeth,

What is this you have written about never promising me a reward? I thought the existence of a prize was inevitably implied by the establishment of a challenge, which, by the by, I successfully met, your arguments to the contrary notwithstanding. Of course I expect a reward. Surely you don't take me as the sort of man who would play a game "just for fun." My dear, I always play to win, especially when the prize is worth the earning.

I fear that duty beckons, and I consequently have no time for further persuasion. However, I will write you first thing tomorrow. My threat was not in vain-you will have a sonnet. In the meantime, please do consider how best to reward me for my pristine love letter.

Yours,

Fitzwilliam

----

[From Elizabeth Darcy]

Dear Fitzwilliam,

Your latest communication seemed to be lacking one sonnet. I thought you should know. Although I can imagine a thousand delightful ways to reward you, I cannot see why you persist in believing that I ever offered you a reward at all.

Love, Elizabeth

---

[From Fitzwilliam Darcy]

Dearest Elizabeth,

Since you prohibit me from expressing my devotion by quoting the sonnets of Shakespeare, I am forced to produce one of my own. While you read it, please do not forget for an instant that your fastidiousness is ultimately responsible for its existence. Now, please prepare to groan (and then smile despite yourself):

My Lizzy's eyes are nothing less than fine;

They shimmer with a sort of suspect gleam.

And though she's independent, still she's mine,

But there are times I fear it's all a dream.

If that is so, then pray, love, let me sleep

The slumber of the never-waking dead,

For if that vision withers I will weep

Alone inside the prison of my bed.

But if you come to me and hear my heart,

As it beats firmly by your yielding side,

And promise me that you will never part,

Then you will be the object of my pride.

I was a selfish being all my life,

Until the day you deigned to be my wife.

Well, I'm no merchant from Stratford Upon Avon, but I hope you will accept it as it is intended, a sincere expression of my gratitude.

All my love,

Fitzwilliam

---

[From Elizabeth Darcy]

Dear Fitzwilliam,

Although I thought the image of "the never-waking dead" a particularly jarring choice, I was, all in all, very pleasantly surprised by your sonnet. The first line began like Shakespeare's "My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun" - and, given that fact coupled with your recent levity, I thought for sure you would, like the Bard, proceed to mock romantic sentiments. But you did not. Instead, you amazed me. I had no idea you could write like that, or that you would dare to express in verse such passionate feeling. Thank you, my love.

As much as I appreciated your sonnet, I cannot allow it to dissuade me from my firm resolution regarding your idea of entitlement. You and I were not engaged in a contest, and no reward was proposed. But since you seem to think otherwise, I can only say that I have won the match, and therefore no reward is owed you. Although I am never one to shirk my wifely duty, I simply cannot agree that your classical allusions were not clichés.

Love,

Elizabeth

Ps. Even though I vanquished you in that last battle, I am a merciful conqueror. My gifts to you, Fitzwilliam, need not be earned. I grant them because I love you.

----

[From Fitzwilliam Darcy]

Dear Elizabeth,

I am heartened to hear that you were touched by my sonnet. However, you apparently were not so deeply affected as to be unable to muster a few constructive critiques. But then again, if you were able to wholly restrain your playful derision I suppose you would no longer be the woman I married, and, as fortune would have it, the woman I married also happens to be the woman I love.

Yes, I will confess that the first line of my sonnet was a barely veiled imitation of Shakespeare's "My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun." And I can understand how that fact might have lead you to expect my poem would likewise be a light parody. The seriousness of its contents must therefore have come as a shock. But I am sure my regard could not. Or have I really kept you so ill informed? If so, I will have to see to your education with greater diligence in the future.

Now, onto more pressing subjects. Still you refuse to admit that I am entitled to a reward for having met your challenge. And then you have the gall to make some feignedly submissive comment about "wifely duty." You know I cannot tolerate this kind of talk. Your mother may have taught you to close your eyes and think of England, but I hope we have learned better lessons together during these past few months of conjugal bliss. Yet wait! Before I resign myself to despair, I see you have left a post script. In it, you seem to hint that, although you will not concede me the victory in our last exchange, you will nonetheless condescend to bestow upon me a gift for no other reason than that you love me.

Oh but, Lizzy, let me win it!

Yours,

Fitzwilliam

---

[From Elizabeth Darcy]

Dear Fitzwilliam,

Darling, must I punish you for your overweening pride? Would it humble you too much to accept something from me without first earning it? Very well. If you would win the expressions of my love, let me propose to you an entirely new challenge. If you can fulfill this charge, then I will confess that you have earned your reward, and I will bestow it upon you as a victor. If you cannot fulfill this charge, I will still grant you the same prize, but as a lover and not as a conqueror. To win, you must succeed in producing a stereotypical love letter. It must be several pages in duration; it must be full of all the hackneyed sayings I have previously prohibited you, and it must be abounding with the most banal, unoriginal sentiments your mind can conceive. This is your mission should you choose to pursue it. Good luck and Godspeed.

Love,

Elizabeth

----

[From Fitzwilliam Darcy]

Still Dear Elizabeth, despite all,

Because, like an untrue Protestant, I have insisted on earning my way, you have presented me with a second, truly formidable challenge. You think, perhaps, that I will not arise to the occasion. You think I will fail, and that in so failing, I will be forced to accept the proffered free gift and thereby indebt myself to you. You think I will not venture to fulfill the task. And you are quite right. Touché. Very clever of you. You have lifted all of your restrictions, and you have told me that if I persist in attempting to earn your love, then I must do so through the production of a lengthy, sentimental, saccharine, trite love letter. I cannot do it. I will not do it. You could never respect me in the morning.

Grace it is then. And I'll humbly take it in your arms tomorrow, when I return to Pemberley.

Your indebted servant,

Fitzwilliam