Most Ardently

by Gabe Cole Novoa

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single boy in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a future wife—unless that boy was Oliver Bennet. Not that Oliver was in possession of a good fortune, mind you, but it seemed impossible to him that having such a fortune would so completely transform his disinterest in one day having a wife. Or, more importantly, being one.

The suggestion was better than the future Charlotte had been alluding to, but the thought of having to pretend to be someone’s wife, even in just “certain public situations,” twisted and soured in his stomach. He supposed he could survive it. But why should he have to compromise and settle for a future that was only half of what he wanted?

“I like to think it means that the people and things I do enjoy are special. I appreciate them more than I would otherwise, I think.” Oliver tilted his head. “You think you would enjoy things less if you enjoyed a larger variety of activities?” “It’s logical, isn’t it?” “Only if you believe yourself to have a limited amount of amusement that can be exhausted.” “Don’t you?”

The two laughed, and the ease of their joy should have made him happy—and it did. But it also hit him in the stomach with an ugly pang. Because the truth was, he wanted that easy camaraderie. He wanted to be able to court someone without fearing how they might react if they knew the full truth about him. He wanted an openness with someone without fear, without worry. He wanted that ease, but it all seemed impossible. What were the odds, truly, that he would ever find someone who knew how to love someone like him? The truth was he didn’t know. And the not knowing hurt more than he wanted to admit.

He let Collins’s and Wickham’s blended words wash over him, as if from a distance, as his mind wandered to kinder places. Like taking a walk with a certain boy in the dark, side by side, so close their hands nearly brushed against each other. Whisper-thin space between them, under the moon and the stars, infinite possibilities laid out ahead of them.

In hindsight, it all made perfect sense. Darcy’s sour mood at the Meryton Ball took on a new light—of course he was unhappy. He was in a space where he had to pretend to be someone he wasn’t. Where he had to flirt with a future that would never—could never—make him happy. Even his not handsome enough comment, rude as it was, took on a new meaning. Of course “handsome” was used to refer to men, women, and everyone else alike, but Darcy had been thinking of a man when he’d said it.

“But if it were allowed,” Oliver pressed. “If we were in a society where our dancing together wasn’t frowned upon, where it was accepted. Unextraordinary.” “I can’t imagine,” Darcy said, “that you could ever be unextraordinary.”

“I can’t accept that,” he said. “I refuse to settle for a future that will deny me the happiness I deserve—the happiness we both deserve.” “Then don’t,” Charlotte said, her voice frosting over. “But if it never comes to pass, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Darcy took a step back, as if struck. “I don’t believe it’s always possible to find happiness, Miss Bennet,” he said. “And I don’t believe we all have the privilege of marrying the person we love. But I do believe I could find some semblance of happiness with you, yes. Perhaps it wouldn’t be love, not today, and perhaps not in a year. But eventually?” He shrugged. Oliver shook his head, fury and hurt and despair swirling in his chest like a hurricane. He’d been so foolish. He’d really believed, even if only for a moment, that there was something between him and Darcy. That Darcy saw something in Oliver that he liked. But how could that be true, when he was here proposing to—as far as he knew—someone else entirely?

He really was so afraid of who he was that he would throw away any future happiness by running from it. “You don’t want this,” Oliver said, his voice shaking. Darcy sighed. “Perhaps not, but all my other realistic options are even less desirable. So believe it or don’t, but this arrangement is enough for me.”

Mrs. Bennet loved him, of course she did, but she loved a version of him that he could never be, not forever. She loved an act, a painting she’d built up in her own mind of who Oliver was.

But was that really what he wanted? To be alone? The truth was that the thought of living here, with his mother, forever was almost as unpleasant as the thought of being someone’s wife. But if neither option was desirable, what was left? Was there any point in hoping for an alternative, a life where someone might take him as a husband, might recognize him as a boy and one day a man? Oliver wanted to believe it was possible. But right now, with the sting of Darcy’s rejection of his true self still smarting, it all felt so hopeless.

Though I think you are probably right that happiness would be elusive should we marry, I hope you know that I meant what I said about your character. I do think if I were ever to find a modicum of happiness with any woman, it would have been with you. I hope that one day we could put this behind us and perhaps even be friends.

“I’d rather be secretly happy with you than openly living a lie.” This made Oliver smile at last. And when Darcy slid his fingers through the grass and touched Oliver’s hand, he didn’t pull away. Emboldened, Darcy eclipsed Oliver’s hand with his own, their fingers twining together. And so they sat, hand in hand, for some time.

“I won’t deny that my desire to make you happy was the strongest of my motivating forces. I thought only of you.” Warmth crept into Oliver’s face as he bit back a smile. Here Darcy was, sitting in the unrelenting rain, declaring the importance of Oliver’s happiness. He didn’t know how to respond, but he didn’t have to because Darcy wasn’t finished.

“I have struggled for some time, and I won’t allow it any longer. If your feelings are still what they were earlier this month, please tell me so, but I can no longer contain my own. I admire you, Oliver Bennet. Your spirit, your wit, your open honesty—I have thought of nothing else since we first met.” Tears blurred Oliver’s vision, spilling hot over his cheeks and cooling in the rain. “Darcy—” “I love you, Oliver,” Darcy said. “Most ardently.”

“I love you, Fitzwilliam Darcy,” Oliver said. “With my whole heart, I love you.” The grin that lit up Darcy’s face in response would live in Oliver’s memory forever. This time, when Darcy closed the distance between them, Oliver was not the first to pull away. He had never been happier.

The two boys sat on the sofa, so close their legs were touching, but neither moved away. Oliver’s heart pounded in his throat at the proximity, but when Darcy handed him the book he’d been reading, he took it with a smile that he hoped didn’t betray the anxiety buzzing in his chest. The two settled with their books, Darcy diving right back into the text while Oliver stared at the page endlessly, too distracted by the warmth of the boy next to him to process the words. Then Darcy shifted ever so slightly closer, and his shoulder leaned against Oliver’s. Oliver barely breathed. He stared at the open page before him, wondering how on earth Darcy was reading anything at all. Between the two of them, was Oliver the only one so affected by their closeness? He dared peek at Darcy out of the corner of his eye and jumped upon realizing Darcy was looking not at his book, but at Oliver. And he was smiling widely.