“Come to bed with me,” he whispers.
When I roll onto the tips of my toes, extending my arm for him, I’ve given my answer. We enter the luxurious suite, deciding a path of life.
We disrobe on our way into the bedroom. When we clear the door and I’m twisting, a nervous pit in my belly, I’m captured by hands that grasp me like they lack the ability to let go.
There’s nothing in his movements, in the noises he makes, that suggest he’s rethinking anything. Our usual push and pull is present, and when he brings me onto the bed, careful of our current fragility, I hardly recall the feeling I had that made me not want this.
His weight settles onto me, the pressure sinking me into the mattress, and my air is gone. He’s going to take this slow. I can see it in his eyes, feel it in his caresses.
This is a moment we make as adults. As people who see a future and chase it.
In this moment, we’re not only married. We’re partners, on the same wavelength.
As he sinks into me, both of us aware we lack protection, I vow silently to do my best. I vow to give him a child, to give him the life he was denied.
Our children will never know poverty, something I know a great deal about. But they will be abundant in love…something we both lack experience with. It will heal us in a way nothing can, I’m sure of it.
And I vow that I will love them both from the depths of my soul.
Lost in London, as the sun rises over the surfaces of the bedroom, we pledge life to one another, setting a steady course.
***
Benjamin’s smile widens as I pore over the plaque inside of Jane Austen’s home, my favorite author, glancing at him to see if he’s making fun of my enthusiasm. He purchased a gift for me two Christmases ago, before our lives fell into disrepair, my favorite novel by her. I’m soaking in the chance we’ve gotten to explore my heroine’s home.
I feel the majesty here. It’s a bibliophile’s dream.
There’s a steady flow of visitors, quiet people who marvel as much as I do. Benjamin stands out like a sore thumb, holding my jacket over his forearm…Dimitri even more so. Mostly women are in the room, none of whom can tear their eyes off my husband, who could have fallen right out of one of Austen’s novels.
I don’t blame them for staring.
“I can’t believe I’m here. I can’t believeshewas here. She wroteSense and Sensibility, Pride and Prejudicehere. Masterpieces,” I muse, extending my arms to accentuate the gravity of the situation.
“Your Mr. Darcy.” Benjamin hums and then twists in place, extending his hand out to Dimitri, a cue for something. Peeking around the looming frame of my husband, I catch Dimitri’s hand disappear into his thick coat. He pulls out a book.
He hands Benjamin my copy ofPride and Prejudice, the first edition he purchased for me years ago when our future seemed so uncertain. He sets the hardcover into my palms.
“Now you can set it down. A first edition, right here where she wrote it.”
A number of women who were eavesdropping make loud, disbelieving noises at my husband’s words. They come up beside me, asking to see the copy, worshipping the man before me like Mr. Darcy himself.
I bask in my pride to be married to such a man, who tells Dimitri to remain calm despite the swarming women.
“You are a lucky woman.”
“Theluckiest.”
When asked, I show them the printer’s date, the proof of edition, and they collectively attach themselves to my splendor.
“Well, do what he says,” one of them says, grinning. “Set it down.”
We go silent, like true faithful fans, staring at the object like it will levitate any minute. This goes way past bucket list dreams.
After a few seconds, we disperse to allow others into the room. Hearing the women’s goodbyes, I take the book and spin into Benjamin, laughing, hopping with glee.
I tighten my arms around his neck, more grateful than I can say. “Thank you, Benjamin.”
