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Fitzwilliam Darcy discovers something called a ‘kiss’ when he is 11 years old. It does not sound very pleasant, the way that Harold Montgomery describes it. ‘Pushing your face against a girl’s mouth’ sounds rather like some form of torture; Darcy has never felt a need to push his face up against anyone else’s anything, really. When he says just that to Harold, the boy asks, incredulous, “not even your mum?” Summoning all of his—considerable—dignity and haughtiness, Darcy replies, “my mother is a Lady.”
It is only a few months later when Georgiana enters the world, and nothing seems more natural than kissing her tiny hands, her forehead, and much later, every scrape or bruise she earns following him and George around the park. No one else treats her this way; sometimes Nurse embraces her, when Georgiana—never Georgie, his mother declares in a moment of pique, staring accusingly at his father—cries in the night or when she is sick. It is a strange feeling, the attachment he feels toward the little girl. Fitzwilliam had never been given the opportunity to meet the others, the brothers and sisters who had spent only a few days, weeks at most, in the nursery. The peculiar affection he holds for his sister is beyond what he feels for anyone else in his family, certainly warmer than the awe his father inspires and the quiet devotion owed to his mother.
The first time he kisses someone outside of his family, he is 15. He has kissed another girl, once before, a cousin, when they were all at his uncle’s estate for Christmas, but that hardly counted, first, because she was older, and second because she was Dora, and everyone knew that it had been just practice. Walter had first suggested that he kiss Anne, but Fitzwilliam refused—she had sniffed a little at that, but he was fairly certain that was just because she was ill, not offended—on the grounds that he might have to marry her, and it was ridiculous to think of practicing kissing on someone you might marry one day. In any case, Fitzwilliam was conscious of the fact that if Lady Catherine had caught them kissing—and she would catch them kissing if Anne was involved—they would be married before the end of the winter term and he wanted to at least finish school before marrying Anne. Plus, if kissing Dora was a barometer of sorts, then kissing your cousin was nothing to be too excited over, and definitely worth putting off for a few years.
When his father dies, Fitzwilliam sits in his study and tries to remember the names of the four girls he has kissed—not counting Dora, of course. It seems important to recall these details of his boyhood, now that he has crossed a threshold and people are calling him a man. Now that he is the master of Pemberley, guardian of Georgiana, and head of the Darcy family. He has always worn responsibility well, he feels ready to step into his role, feels nothing of the burden or the fear that settled around Lawrence when the Earl decided to gift him with one of the family properties. He has been managing things for so long, he knows what must be done, what he owes his family and tenants. Still, it is the end of frivolity, and should at least be noted somehow. He shakes his head to ward off distractions and turns to the estate papers. Even if it is the end of his boyhood, it is no time for reminiscing.
He thinks about kissing Elizabeth Bennet the fifth time they meet. Technically, he supposes it is their third, or perhaps their fourth meeting? In any case they are talking, something about Bingley’s opinions and decision-making skills, and the way she says the words ‘affection’ and ‘desire’, though she is speaking of nothing more than friendship and impulsive requests, makes him want to press his lips to hers, to see if the energy that infuses her speech will somehow transfer to him. It is nothing romantic, he assures himself later, when he ponders his quixotic impulse; he does not want to marry her, or seduce her, or even kiss her repeatedly. It is something to do with her straight teeth, and thin lips, and the way her eyes seem to smirk more than her mouth—it always comes back to her eyes. Perhaps it is just that she is clever, and in this house, at this time in his life, he feels such a strong affinity toward this young woman that kissing her is the only proper physical expression of what he feels when he is with her.
By the time he actually proposes to Miss Bennet, affinity has progressed to love, and his desire to kiss her is no longer quixotic. Even as she tilts her head in anger, questions his manners and behavior, he thinks what it might be like to kiss her neck, before realizing that she is refusing him, that these longings will remain unfulfilled. He allows himself to contemplate the prospect of kissing her one final time as he makes the solitary return to Rosings. Then he pushes it out of his mind, lets the cool spring air bank the fire of his anger, and considers her accusations.
When they meet at Pemberley, he does not think of kissing. Embracing her, yes, he thinks of that, of anchoring her to his home somehow, by clasping her small hand in his and refusing to let her go. Of course he cannot actually do this, and instead chooses civility over captivity, which seems just as effective, since he is able to visit her the next day, and she returns to the house the day after that. He rides toward the inn that final morning with no thoughts of kidnap or capture, instead hoping to make a simple request. He takes her hand in his, hears of Wickham’s actions, and cannot contain the surge of energy that propels him to walk about the room and leave without even briefly pressing his lips to the back of her fingers. He curses that moment, along with many other things, on a series of journeys to and from London that month.
They kiss for the first time on a cool autumn morning. He is grateful for the long-ago practice, that this will not be a wholly new experience, but he has never kissed Elizabeth Bennet before, has never kissed a woman he loves, who is going to marry him. But she is laughing, and teasing him, and wants to know how he fell in love with her, and this makes him feel less nervous. He thinks he should plan for the right moment, and resolves to consider it this evening and take action tomorrow, but she stops, and his momentum causes him to pivot, and she tilts her head and then they are kissing. It is not, he thinks, like the kisses they will share once they are married, or even once they work out the mechanics of the process. It is dry, and mainly feels like a delicious pressure, combined with her exuberance, his surprise, her hands trapped in his elbow and wrapped around his wrist; he is not even touching her, though he wants to. It is over quickly, and he thinks that maybe it is better this way, because now she is blushing and uncertain and at least this is a feeling he shares. He decides to try again, taking her face in his hands and leaning down, at the last minute realizing their noses are a bit in the way, and then their lips are touching once more. It is still chaste, but warmer than the first time, there is more than a hint of passion, and when he pulls away, her eyes are sparkling, and she is laughing again, so he smiles too. They walk on, his future spreading out before him, flickering in the colorful leaves that skitter along their path, filled with something beyond the contentment he has known these past few years, and thinks it might be joy.
Elizabeth gives birth to their son on a winter morning, when the snow is spread out like a blanket on the fields, as white and pure as the cloth swaddling this boy who will be the heir, whom he already loves with a fierce and overwhelming emotion. It is afternoon when the letters have been written and Elizabeth has rested and they are together, in her room, the baby cradled in her arms. She kisses his little fingers, his nose, and coos softly at this small person that belongs to them, the prince of this kingdom they have created, before she smiles at Fitzwilliam, and kisses him. He is used to this feeling, no longer surprised at the touch of her lips, though still newly married enough to treasure these expressions of her love, but the happiness that glimmers in her eyes and shimmers in her kiss is different now, radiant and luminous with motherhood. He is proud that he can feel the difference, that the kiss he returns is not the kiss of a fumbling boy, or a young lover, but a husband and father, a kiss of delight and satisfaction, and he laughs with her when they are interrupted by a whimper. They both turn, then, and Fitzwilliam smooths his rough hand over his son’s downy hair and thinks that this child will know what it is to be kissed, to be loved.