Shall my reappearance be proof of a particular attachment? Have I any right to such a claim? My coming here shall be either a confirmation or a relinquishment of any bond.
Providence, impervious to Lady Catherine’s schemes, impelled me to return to Hertfordshire and thereby to the scene of my initial asinine impropriety. I say initial asinine impropriety, for last autumn’s infelicity was merely the first of several since my introduction here. ‘Tis poetic justice, I suppose, for such a pivotal outcome to hang in the balance at the very venue of social chasm in which our awkward association began. Dear God, please do not allow me to mishandle this crucial encounter as I did so very thoroughly our first.
In my defense, I must offer some excuse for incivility … if I was uncivil. Simply put, I just had to utter that fatuous comment about Elizabeth Bennet. How else could I deny an immediate and intense attraction to a woman beneath my station and unworthy of attention? Good principles, engrained under my father’s tutelage, prevented interference with lower-class females; though I have been sorely tempted on more than one occasion.
In retrospect, I was in a fit of pique that night; yet such an admission does not pardon petulance, arrogance, and conceit. I am ashamed to confess excessive vanity and hauteur have been my old friends these twenty odd years at least. Attempts are, even now, being made to amend my defective demeanor; but such long-entrenched companions as vainglory and hubris can neither be easily disregarded nor ousted. A full half year has passed since April 9th, the day I was taken to task for presumptuous meddling and disdainful pride. I trust there has been some state of improvement to my civility since Elizabeth’s acrimonious and humbling censure at Hunsford.
Now I have returned to this humble place. All hope for future felicity hinges on her reaction to my presence here tonight as well as on my own, God willing, impeccable comportment. I am reasonably sanguine about my prospects, but let me first see how she behaves. It will then be early enough for expectation.
Early enough? Bah! I swear time elapses this evening as if regulated by a broken timepiece. Suspicious of the assembly room’s sluggish clock, I consult my reliable fob-watch, which confirms it is, indeed, eighteen minutes past the hour. I grow increasingly impatient with this unendurable vigilance.
Next to me, Bingley is conversing with Miss Maria Lucas. Their mundane chitchat about the shire’s extraordinarily clear weather interests me not in the least… until my friend impresses me with a well-wrought, nonchalant inquiry about the Bennet family. My ears perk up, and now I cannot help but eavesdrop. Miss Lucas’s supposition is the Bennets are tardy because they have many females to prepare and only one lady’s maid. I would gladly hire an abigail apiece for the sisters if it would just bring the second eldest one here sooner.
Elizabeth will look exquisite should she arrive wearing sackcloth. Oh, God. If she has read my letter and given any credit to its contents, I fear she will deem sackcloth and ashes appropriate apparel. The woman is beyond reproach and must suffer no shame on my account; and I will tell her so … if she would just arrive already!
I had entertained hopes of receiving no inconsiderable pleasure from the sight of Longbourn’s young ladies attractively arrayed here by their mother in anticipation of our coming. Instead I see only the neighbours. In this confined and unvarying society, rumours of Netherfield’s occupation undoubtedly reached Mrs. Bennet’s thirsty ears three days ago. Our presence must be common knowledge by now. So, where are they? Where is Elizab … OOF!
“There, Darcy, look! The Bennets are finally arriving. Smashing!”
Neither Bingley’s jovial announcement nor his impudent and powerful elbow-jab to my ribs was remotely necessary. Apart from the occasional and, I daresay, compulsive glance at a timepiece, my hungry eyes have been riveted on the assembly room’s entryway since the moment I discovered her absence and strategically planted myself in this position. I had momentarily considered standing by a window to have advance intelligence of the Bennet carriage’s arrival; but, thanks to quickness of mind, I realized such standoffish behaviour might be misconstrued as unsociable.
Oh. It has just occurred to me I should have employed my time much better by interacting with the locals instead of standing here in this stupid manner. What an awkward, artless arse! Well, there is nothing to be done for it now. Henceforth I shall be diligent and demonstrate only improved conduct. The tide of my unpopularity must be turned. ‘Tis easier said than done, though, in this sea, a cursed crush of exuberant Merytonites. The insipidity and yet the noise, the nothingness and yet the self-importance of all these people! Furrowing my brow, I contemplate oddly familiar words and wonder whether I have uttered or heard them before.
“Did you hear me before, Darcy? I said the Bennets have arrived. Shake a leg, man!”
As we inch our way into the crowd, I well-nigh retch from the miasma of stale, cloying perfume and unwashed bodies. Certain members of this herd could benefit from an introduction to soap and water and a subsequent application. Even Queen Elizabeth apparently took a bath once a fortnight, whether it was necessary or not.
In a trice, an image of Elizabeth (definitely not good old Queen Bess) in a tub of soapy water has pervaded my susceptive mind. Delightful daydreams of the winsome woman are a weakness; but this concupiscent vision must be regulated … at least until later when it can be elaborated upon and fully appreciated privately in my chambers at Netherfield. Here and now is neither the time nor place for prurient thoughts whilst wearing snug breeches and a cutaway coat. Begone, sweet torment!
For a moment, I dread the emphatic behest actually exited this untoward mind via an untrustworthy mouth. Although inured to constant scrutiny at such assemblies, an abnormal number of looks are presently being cast in my direction. I prepare to return the glowers but realize I am already scowling. Ah, that would explain the cringeworthy looks. Good. I have neither the time for an apology nor a ready and reasonable rationale regarding sweet torment and its banishment.
As yet to lay eyes on the woman, and already I have resorted to ungentlemanly behaviour. Clodpole! This does not bode well as an auspicious beginning to our reunion. What can I offer in my defense? From the very beginning, from the first moment, I may almost say, of my acquaintance with Elizabeth Bennet, I have been at her mercy and out of my wits. I would not wish it generally known Fitzwilliam Darcy, man of the world, is held in the absolute thrall of a young country miss.
Haughty expression established and blinders firmly in place over my wicked mind’s eye, I pay heed to our snail’s-pace progress through the throng. As usual, hail-fellow-well-met Bingley is being greeted cheerfully by his neighbours; but few dare address me. I avoid eye contact with anyone who might impede forward movement. Oh, blast it all! Yes, in my eagerness and haste to reach Elizabeth, I have again forgotten my determination to be more personable. Smile, you sap-skull.
Egads, what is this? That reeky apothecary has apparently misinterpreted my smile as approachability and appears hellbent on renewing our acquaintance. My apologies, Jones, but I must plead ignorance of your presence.
Too late. See? This is precisely what comes from presenting a convivial countenance. Now I am obliged to swallow my pride and make the supreme sacrifice of stooping … I mean stopping to chat with a merchant. Not that it matters he is a lowly tradesman. I am, after all, above such prejudice since being on good terms with the Gardiners. It is, however, unfortunate Elizabeth cannot witness my forthcoming sociability.
“Good evening, Mr. Jones.” Affability could be my middle name.
“Mr. Darcy, I am honoured you remember me, sir.”
“Of course. You were of invaluable assistance to both Miss Jane Bennet and myself on separate occasions at Netherfield last year.”
He ponders for a moment, tapping his chin with stained fingertips. “Ah, yes. Tinctura Lavandula composite for your griping guts, was it not?”
Confound it! I am not inclined to engage in time-wasting prattle about medicinal substances with this mammering, hedge-born minnow. Ah, but lavender! Her scent. I would change Shakespeare’s wording from civet to, ‘Give me an ounce of lavender, good apothecary, to sweeten my imagination.’ … not that my imagination needs further embellishment where Elizabeth is concerned. It does exceedingly well on its own, thank you. The woman possesses the only healing properties I require at this juncture. Nevertheless, I will keep your remedies in mind, good apothecary. Should my heart be broken later this night, I may find myself in need of a potent purgative potion.
“You will excuse me, please, Mr. Jones. I was just on my way to greet the Bennet family.” I nod to the man, forge forward, and console myself with the fact Affability would be a foolish middle name for Fitzwilliam Darcy.
Anticipation of Elizabeth’s appearance lures me forth like a siren call, and I pray my hopes shall not be dashed upon the rocks. Biddable Bingley has managed to clear a path for us, and I wonder if he employed those lethal elbows to do so. No doubt it was his disarming smile that charmed the masses into doing his bidding.
On second thought, I fear the parting of the sea may have been due to a certain person’s haughty scowl. Really, I must remember to smile more. It is a grievous disadvantage such an unnatural expression causes facial muscle fatigue. Then again, I suppose it is my own fault, because I do not take the trouble of practicing. Fondly I recall Elizabeth teasing me in Kent with a similar admonishment. Pleasant remembrances of her banter never fail to educe good humour. Although I may not be of a disposition in which happiness overflows in mirth, I am suddenly smiling without any effort whatsoever. In the event she is looking in this direction, I force the smile to remain in place as we press on toward the entrance.
OOF! The forced smile is wiped from my face. “For God’s sake, Bingley! Could you not provide adequate warning when you are about to halt so abruptly?”
Rooted to the spot like an inconvenient tree, my dizzy-eyed, tickle-brained friend heaves a lovesick sigh. He has this rather nauseating habit of metamorphosing into either a tree or a mooncalf in the presence of the eldest Bennet sister.
“Look at her, Darcy! I swear, by the beauty of Venus, Miss Bennet has grown even more lovely; and she was already the most beautiful creature I ever beheld. Have you ever seen such …”
Bingley’s praise will, undoubtedly, continue ad nauseum once he has begun to laud the lady’s disposition and comeliness. I once made the clay-brained pronouncement that Jane Bennet smiles too much. Good God! Honestly, at times I do not even want to admit that I know Fitzwilliam Darcy let alone that I inhabit the man’s skin. How, in the name of all that is good and holy, can anyone smile too much? One thing is certain; no one shall ever say the same about me.
One of my supposed motives for being in Hertfordshire is observation of the woman. There is no need. If Elizabeth believes her elder sister cares deeply for Bingley, further convincing is not required. Had I demanded proof, the look on her face now would be confirmation enough.
Her admirer winds up his accolades in a predictable manner. “ … a veritable angel!”
Behind my friend’s back I roll my eyes. “Yes, yes, yes. I see your angel. I daresay she looks much the same as ever.”
Bingley’s paragon of virtue is unarguably fair enough, but where is my angel? Angel? Hah! Elizabeth Bennet is certainly no angel. I swear that irreverent mouth of hers was, on several occasions, possessed by demons … and what I wouldn’t give to exorcise those impish lips.
Why can I not yet see her? Where is she? Has she not come? Perhaps her lithe frame is merely obstructed from this angle. Please, Lord, let Elizabeth be behind her parents; and I will promise to more faithfully regulate my use of explicit expletives and insolent insults.
Oh, bloody hell. What if she has heard of my spur-galled return and decided to remain at home rather than face me here? Pig-widgeon that I am, I will indubitably hie off to Longbourn, ostensibly to determine her state of health, and blurt something asinine. God save me from myself.
We step up and present ourselves to the principal inhabitants of the village of Longbourn. Although I am in no humour for conversation with anyone but Elizabeth, gentlemen that we are, Bingley and I first swap civil whiskers with Mr. and Mrs. Bennet. The cold politeness of the woman’s address to me, in contrast to the degree of civility extended to my friend, is understandable. Yet I cannot resist the thought that I am the person to whom the family is indebted for the preservation of Lydia’s reputation from irremediable infamy. Such ill-applied smugness is unworthy, and I really should attend the conversation.
As Mrs. Bennet continues to gush all over my friend, I wisely sidle away before becoming befouled by the effusion. That subtle evasive maneuver enables me to catch sight of Hertfordshire’s brightest jewel. One glimpse and my breath is taken away. By Jove and by the might of Mars, I swear Elizabeth has grown more endearing than when I last beheld her pulchritude in Derbyshire. I stare in dizzy-eyed, tickle-brained wonder.
So, it is official. I am now as folly-fallen as my infatuated friend. Yet how can I be otherwise? Elizabeth is all radiance, sparkling eyes, and bedazzling smile. Although that smile is directed toward her elder sister and Bingley, I am, nevertheless, captured and enraptured by its warmth.
I am also speechless … an unfortunate circumstance, since ceremonious bows and small talk have been exchanged and exhausted with her parents. Some social intercourse is now expected with the daughters, but I am at a loss. Say something, you lumpish, idle-headed malt-worm!
I bow and clear my throat. “Good evening, Miss Bennet, Miss Elizabeth, Miss Mary, and Miss Catherine. I hope you have all been in good health since last we met.” Absolutely boil-brained brilliant. Nevertheless, I do believe I have greeted the entire Bennet family with tolerable ease and with a propriety of behaviour free from any symptom of unnecessary condescension or pride.
Ah, yes, pride, my alleged downfall. Human nature is particularly prone to it, and I am no exception. If I have a high opinion of myself, there is an excellent excuse for it. A favourable situation in society, the Darcy family name, and my considerable wealth demand pride. I contest anyone in this room to deny me that right. Even Elizabeth. Especially Elizabeth. My dearest hope is that one day she will share in that pride.
The Bennet sisters curtsey and assure me of their well-being before the two youngest take their leave. Undoubtedly, Mother Mary and Catty scamper away in awe of my sophisticated colloquy. Fatigued by the raptures of his wife, Mr. Bennet is also slyly wandering off. Bingley’s attention has been duly captured by his paragon of virtue and her virtual gorgon of a mother. The latter is currently babbling about the Wickham wedding, but I have done my part in that sordid affair and cannot rejoice in it. That leaves a lovely lady and a mammering, milk-livered mumble-news standing in awkward silence; and we are both avoiding direct eye contact. Thankful Elizabeth cannot read minds, I have just realized how uncharitable have been my thoughts toward her family.
Having said as little as civility allows, I venture another peek. Elizabeth is stunning, not only visually but also in the stupefying sense. I might as well have suffered a blow to the head, such is my inability to think or speak. Regrettably, she has been struck dumb by the same dread-bolted affliction; and during my summary scrutinies, fleeting impressions of surprise, pleasure, and embarrassment have all crossed her expressive face. She must wonder why I have returned if only to be tongue-tied, grave, cork-brained, and indifferent.
I force myself to not fidget with my signet ring as I stare at the floor. Gleaning no inspiration from the wood’s pockmarked patina, I find myself, in truth, at variance with its age and polish. I would not normally describe Fitzwilliam Darcy as immature and unsophisticated, but at this very moment I feel as green as a fresh sprout in a garden. Eureka! I clear my throat unnecessarily and say, “I trust Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner are faring well, Miss Elizabeth.”
“I thank you, yes, my aunt and uncle are very well.”
Her quick, confused glance and answer do nothing to quell the earth-vexing unease. I dearly wish the Gardiners were here now to act as intermediaries in this problematic reunion. The endearing couple make conversation virtually effortless, and I shall be very reluctant to sever our acquaintance should I be rejected yet again by their niece.
Will you forsake me, Elizabeth? Will you not, at the very least, raise those beloved eyes, beneath lashes so remarkably fine, and look upon me?
Apparently not. Reasonably certain she is embarrassed, I do not entirely trust my own instincts. Past success in discerning her expressions and emotions has been abysmal. Sadly, I am only a true proficient at misconstruing the woman’s reactions. You, my dear Elizabeth, are a glorious mixture of bounteousness, intelligence, and mettle. What justification can there possibly be for shamefacedness?
Fie upon it! Has my forcing Wickham down the throat of her family ruined the slim chance I visualized at Pemberley? I hold fast to the conviction those tender looks we exchanged were real and not another figment of my fecund fancy. I simply shall not permit that villainous, dissembling, motley-minded blackguard to come between us again. All I have accomplished regarding that rump-fed rats-bane was done with good intention. Of course, the road to hell is paved with good intentions; and I regret Lydia, that fool-born strumpet, had to become leg-shackled to a bawdy, bat-fowling codpiece.
Several droning, dismal-dreaming, fen-sucked moments elapse; and I curse my inability to think of anything inventive to say. I admit I am disappointed and angry with both of us for being so uncomfortable. My eagerness to please and surprise her with an improved manner has not been cast aside; I am simply reluctant to cause a display in front of her mother. Yet this turmoil and uncertainty must be conquered. Why else have I come here? Irresolution is not to be borne! Sudden recollection of Aunt Catherine’s interference and information give me renewed hope and a tentative voice.
“You must allow me to tell you how… nice you look this evening.”
Those magnificent brown eyes finally look into mine, and I stifle a gasp. There it is! That devilish twinkle I so adore. A frisson of excitement tingles my spine and other regions of my body. Beware, Darcy, here there be mischief.
“Very well, Mr. Darcy, you have my permission and may proceed.”
What… proceed? “I beg your pardon?”
“I am allowing you to say how nice I look this evening. You may continue to do so, sir.”
Nice? Did I truly just say she looks nice? By God, I am ninny-hammer! For clarity’s sake, why not just reiterate that ghastly utterance about being tolerable but not handsome enough for temptation? I wish to say something sensible but know not how. Care must be taken since there is, apparently, no viable connection between my brain and my unruly tongue whenever I deign to speak in her presence.
I wonder what would be Elizabeth’s reaction, though, if I spoke the truth aloud? Good God, woman, you look luscious enough to eat; and I am absolutely ravenous. Come, let me sample the delicious feel of you in my arms and the succulent flavour of your lips. Let me taste your flawless skin as I lick my way…
“… and Mr. Darcy, any friend of Mr. Bingley’s will always be welcome at Longbourn to be sure.”
Yow! Her mother’s voice, like a bucket of frigid water poured over my head, douses wayward thoughts. Thank you, madam, for successfully diverting a perilous proclivity.
“Thank you, madam. It would be my pleasure to visit Longbourn again.”
While Mrs. Bennet claims my divided attention, some dog-hearted rattle-pate slinks in and claims Elizabeth for the upcoming set. Gah! I am left to helplessly gawk as the currish, fly-bitten lout leads her away. What a gorbellied dunderhead! Whether I am referring to Elizabeth’s partner or myself, I cannot say.
As they take their place in line, I notice with satirical eye that Bingley and his angel amuse themselves by, respectively, making mooncalf and cow eyes at one another. Speaking of eyes, the gimlet variety is presently being cast in my direction by Mrs. Bennet. Oh. Perhaps now would be a good time to give consequence to young ladies who are being slighted by other men. It would certainly demonstrate to Elizabeth my lack of selfish disdain for the feelings of others. Yes, excellent stratagem. Miss Catty, the younger Bennet chit, is presently engaged with a partner; however, I doubt anyone has offered to stand up with her dowdy, priggish sister. I chide myself for such uncharitable judgments of Elizabeth’s beloved siblings. Woe betide any surly scut with the effrontery to disparage my own precious Georgiana.
Just as I step forward in search of Mary Bennet, Elizabeth turns and looks directly at me. It is a steady, contemplative gaze, eloquent and powerful enough to stop me mid-stride. We stare yearningly at one another, at least that is the way I regard her, until the rattle-pate reclaims her attention. As the dancers wait in line for the music to begin, I walk past with a pronounced bounce in my step. Recognition of a beknighted voice collapses the short-lived ebullience.
“What a handsome couple you and Miss Eliza make, Mr. Robinson. Oh, capital, capital! Then again, when so much beauty is before a man, how could he possibly resist the inducement of such a desirable partner?”
It still gets my goat to hear him refer to Elizabeth as a desirable partner. He speaks, of course, of dancing rather than any other sort of congress; but, gag a maggot, the goatish coxcomb exhibits an unhealthy fascination with Elizabeth. I must not, under any circumstance, give in to the temptation of planting the man a facer. I am trying to garner Elizabeth’s regard, not prove pugilistic prowess. Although pugilism has the advantage of being in vogue amongst polished societies, every savage can punch. I am not a barbarian. I close my eyes for a second of civilized respite before acknowledging the man.
“Good evening, Sir William.”
“Mr. Darcy, what a pleasure it is to see you again at our little assembly. Allow me to introduce to you Mr. and Mrs. Cornelius Linville and their lovely daughter Elinor.”
I have already been introduced to more than enough countrified … more than enough strange … more than enough new people than I care for this evening. Whilst in the midst of a crucial judgment, it is not so pleasant to be making new acquaintances every minute. Yet I am here to exhibit improved manners; and for Elizabeth’s sake, I would do anything. I grit my teeth, smile, and wonder why Miss Linville flinches… until I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the pier glass between the windows. Bloody hell! My smile obviously requires a bit more practice. It will not do to be scaring away women and children (and perhaps even faint-hearted men) with such an onion-eyed, unchin-snouted grimace.
Polite chitchat, the former bane of my existence, and having to watch Elizabeth dance with Mr. Robinson, my life’s current canker-blossom, continue for a tedious, mind-numbing half hour during which I should have been seeking Mary Bennet. Provoked by Miss Linville’s myriad subtle hints, I am struck with spontaneous ingenuity.
“Would you do the honour of standing up with me for the next set, Miss Linville?”
She thanks me and takes my proffered arm. I smile, or grimace, at her again and then look to see if Elizabeth has noticed my gallantry. It shall be an insupportable punishment to stand up with this young woman, with whom I do not wish to be particularly acquainted, unless Elizabeth is aware of such chivalrousness. It is, after all, done solely for her benefit.
The Robinson fellow escorts Elizabeth to a seat; and I gape, as it soon becomes evident she has no partner for this set. With astonishment and dismay, I realize the aforementioned ingenuity has, instead, turned out to be badly-timed foolhardiness. Fobbing, hasty-witted gudgeon! Obviously there will be no further offers this evening to young ladies other than Elizabeth. I shall not be making the same mistake twice.
As the music begins, I gristbite my teeth and try to pay heed to Miss Linville. She is, I suppose, comely, light-footed, and elegant; yet I do not enjoy her company. The woman has, without warning, become an unmuzzled, flap-mouthed flirt-gill. While we move through the steps of the dance, I halfheartedly listen to her prattle on, with great energy, about tonight’s wondrously romantic moon.
Am I crying for the moon? Is Elizabeth Bennet as unattainable as that celestial body?My mind is preoccupied with awareness of her. I swear she is sitting in the exact position, next to her sister Mary, as when I uttered my initial asinine impropriety. I dearly wish I could turn back the hands of time and regulate that churlish, ill-nurtured clack-dish of a mouth that spoke within her hearing that night… or, at least, back to when I could ask her to stand up with me for this set instead of Miss Creant.
I gaze in admiration as Elizabeth lovingly tucks a stray curl behind her sister’s ear and tenderly coaxes a smile from her. My reaction mirrors Mary’s. Dearest, sweetest Elizabeth! She would be a caring and supportive sister for Georgiana and an accomplished, lively wife for any man. Not for any man, for me! If I can but see Elizabeth Bennet, no, Elizabeth Darcy happily settled at Pemberley, I shall have nothing for which to wish.
All my life I have been spoiled, granted whatever suits my fancy, and given everything my heart desires. Until Elizabeth. My younger self might have pouted at such deprivation; but I am, after all, a grown man. Instead of childishly protruding my lower lip, I tauten my already stiff upper one in a gentlemanlike manner… which makes it rather difficult to smile … which is what I am supposed to be doing. Gah! Why can I not be inherently amiable like Bingley? I mean, really, how hard can it be if he has it down to a fine art?
The dance brings me back into Elizabeth’s line of vision, and… Blast! I was under the impression Meryton suffered from a dearth of eligible men since the departure of the militia. Apparently not. From perdition’s pit a plethora of slavering young bucks has suddenly appeared and congregated around her. Elizabeth smiles and chats with both of them but is taking an eager interest in and, I daresay, giving undue attention to one of the spleeny, elf-skinned measles. No doubt he will be her next partner. Why does she not notice me? I have, many times over, the consequence of those plebeian clod-poles.
The two toad-spotted foot-lickers look at my heart’s desire with great admiration. Although their appreciation of her allure does not surprise me, it nettles me most ruthlessly. Elizabeth is the most enticing woman of my acquaintance and five, nay, ten times as tempting as every other woman in this room.
Be that as it may, the woman’s physical attributes are, honestly, of secondary importance. Fine eyes may have first captured my attention, but … Oh, fie upon it! I hereby confess her eyes were not truthfully my primary focus, but I swear they were the second. Nevertheless, as I became better acquainted with Elizabeth, her exceptional qualities of conviction, dedication, intelligence, and liveliness of mind soon totally and unconditionally enthralled me. Oh, bloody hell and very well! It was not totally unconditional. I struggled mightily against the attraction. I am … I was pond-scum.
The set ends; and I have, except for a few rather painful confessions, survived it relatively unscathed. Elizabeth appears to be enjoying herself, which should be all that matters. Perhaps this charitable feeling is due to the fact I caught her eye twice during the half-hour ordeal. Although her glance flitted away far too quickly, I am satisfied she has, at least, observed my gallantry.
This evening simply must allow us an opportunity to enter into something more of conversation than the mere ceremonious salutation attending her family’s arrival. Every expectation of pleasure has thus far been snatched away, and my frustration is reaching a degree that threatens to make me uncivil. My well-being, not only during this evening but for a lifetime, depends on her regard. I shall not surrender without a valiant struggle.
I escort my atrociously ignored partner, Miss Linville, back to her parents and valiantly struggle through the reeking rabble. Pertinacity leads me toward Elizabeth. I will not be gainsaid. She will stand up with me for this next set, or I shall surely lose what is left of my gleeking, beef-witted mind. OOF! But first I must apologize profusely to Mrs. Phillips, with whom I have just collided. Can people not watch where I am going?
I remind myself to smile pleasantly at Elizabeth’s aunt and to unclench my jaw whilst doing so. This time I shall put forth a concentrated effort. Certain ladies of the ton have practically swooned upon receipt of my dimple-bracketed smile. It is only fair to caution you, madam, the full force of my beam is about to be unleashed.
“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Phillips, my sincerest apologies. I was obviously not attending. Have you been injured?” I am all solicitousness. Perhaps she will put in a good word about me to her niece.
The stupefied woman staggers slightly, adjusts the feathered contraption upon her head, and says, “I am fine.” Still a bit unsteady, she looks up at me in confusion. “But you, sir … You are unwell?”
“I am quite well, thank you, madam.”
“Oh. Well, good. I assumed you were grimacing in pain.”
It is blatantly evident Mrs. Bennet’s poor sister is in desperate straits and cannot afford a blasted pair of blasted spectacles. I politely bow, make my escape, and helplessly watch as Elizabeth accepts Mr. Morris for the blasted upcoming set. The temptation to stomp my blasted foot in frustration is great, but I stoically resist exposing myself to ridicule. Bloody, bloody, bloody hell! Must she stand up with every puking, pottle-pocked pumpion that bloody-well asks her?
Retreating to a corner where I can smooth ruffled feathers, I wonder why Elizabeth has to be so bloody agreeable and, oh, so totally charming, not to mention absolutely ravishing in that fetching blue frock. I heave a lovesick sigh, reminiscent of Bingley, and wander off in his direction.
I really should be engaged in a more sociable activity, such as reacquainting myself with all the principal people in the room; but my heart is not in it. My heart is either somewhere in my shoes or in Elizabeth’s possession out on the dance floor. Either way, it is certainly being trampled underfoot. I hover close at hand to Bingley but withstand the impulse to speak only with him. I did that almost exclusively the last time we were here. There is not much likelihood of doing so now anyway; he is, of course, preoccupied with his blessed angel and chatting up a group of locals. Bah! I nod at them, take a stance with the other wallflowers, and wallow in self-pity.
Bitterness of spirit, petulant pouting, and boorish brooding are not to be borne. Nevertheless, it is a dreadful injustice I can arrange neither a dance nor a private moment with Elizabeth. I simply must determine whether I have the slightest chance of earning her regard. The woman has captivated my heart and holds the power to either break it or grant its every wish. My personal preference would be the latter.
I close my eyes against the sight of her enjoying another man’s company. Good God, am I jealous? … of a countrified, base-court, fat-kidneyed scut? I am one of the wealthiest men in England and could bloody-well have any woman I bloody-well desire. In truth, I am pathetically envious of said scut. He is the fortunate recipient of Elizabeth’s radiant smiles, unaffected airs, and witty banter. She is the only woman in the country who would have the audacity to devalue money and rank… and with the good sense to have refused my arrogant offer.
Shall I be capable of simply walking away if she spurns me a second time? What are my available options? Other than abduction and elopement! Listen, you mewling, plume-plucked mammet, should the worst happen, you will hold your head high, walk out that door, never look back, resign yourself to an empty, passionless existence, and accept your fate like a man.
A Darcy’s lot in life is not unenviable. I have Pemberley and all the advantages of wealth and prestige. I have the company of Georgiana, my Fitzwilliam relatives, and friends like Bingley. Perhaps I shall enter a loveless marriage with cousin Anne or some other equally dull prospect. Forgetting Elizabeth will never be possible; but I have lived eight and twenty years already without her. Surely I can continue to do so, although it pains me even to think of it. Gah! Who needs love when it hurts like Hades?
If my vanity had taken a literary turn, this lovesickness would have been invaluable. Stabs have been made at poetry, but I have not the talent which some gentlemen possess of composing pretty verses on their ladies.
Speaking of stabs, would it sway Elizabeth if I eloquently articulated how her arrow has transpierced my psyche and how I am equal parts pessimism and optimism? Such sentiment could, no doubt, be worded beautifully; but I am incapable of expressing my emotions adequately. I certainly proved that at Hunsford.
Although Mrs. Bennet might be delighted with any attempt made at poetry, my stab at verse would surely have Elizabeth heading for the hills. Hold on … the hills. Is it not my fondest wish she settle in the Peak District? Perhaps a lighthearted love sonnet would send her running off toward Derbyshire.
Obviously, that weedy, slime-sucked gruel does not come close to the charming love sonnet I intended to compose. Even a fine, stout, and healthy love would choke on such vomitus. Bingley is right; I study too much for words of four syllables. It matters not. Since I do not perform to strangers, I shall never expose myself to ridicule by reciting my rhyme aloud. Thunder and turf, what would people think? Fitzwilliam Darcy… gentleman, master of the grand estate of Pemberley, nephew of both the Earl of Matlock and Lady Catherine de Bourgh of Rosings Park, member of the ton, and, now, author of a puking, plebeian limerick.
“Darcy?… Darcy… DARCY!”
“What?”
“Whatever has gotten into you, man?”
“Whatever do you mean, Bingley?”
“The harvest moon truly must spawn lunacy, for I swear you were chortling to yourself just now as I approached.”
“I most certainly was not! And what if I was?”
“Your doing so was illy timed.” Bingley glances over his shoulder, raises his voice a notch, and says, “Were you not listening while Mrs. Long lamented the loss of her beloved canary?”
I turn to see if the woman is following our conversation. Before she can identify the guilty expression on my face, I pull my friend aside and speak so only he can hear. “You did not tell her?”
“Well now, what do you suppose?”
“I suppose not. Thank you. Still and all, the woman had no business permitting her pet to escape its bloody cage and fly willy-nilly about the neighbourhood … especially when there are gentlemen in the area allegedly returned to enjoy some sport.”
“I regret we allowed our pretense to last three whole days, Darcy, and that our activity resulted in calamity.”
“While unfortunate, I would hardly categorize the loss of a hen-witted canary as a calamity; and it was your idea we wait that long before making an appearance.”
“Mrs. Long absolutely considers the loss of her fine-feathered friend calamitous, and it was certainly your idea we wait three days.”
“Bingley, I will not stand here debating these issues with you. I have a much, much more important matter to settle. Nevertheless, I fully intend to inquire as to where one might procure a canary. Where does one get hold of such a creature?”
“Perhaps you should ask Herne. Your faithful hunting dog simply fetches them as they fall from the sky.”
There are times I question why I have chosen to befriend Charles Bingley, and this is one of those times. Despite our easy camaraderie, we are definitely not birds of a feather; and the man has a well-hidden cruel streak.
Yesterday morning a very obliging grouse was perfectly lined up in the sights of my trusty Manton. It was game, unlike a certain canary. Mrs. Long’s ill-fated pet may have escaped its cage, but it could not escape the path of lead fired from a wildly flailing fowling-piece. How could one’s shot not swing wide when one’s so-called friend suddenly calls out, “Darcy! Is that not Elizabeth Bennet scampering about in yonder field?” Bah!
I excuse myself, walk away, realize the music and set have ended, and begin to panic when I cannot catch sight of Elizabeth. Has that countrified, chaw-bacon scut of a partner absconded with her? The unmistakable and welcome sound of her laughter reaches my ears, and I breath again. She is safely ensconced nearby, chatting with Sir William and Lady Lucas. Catching Elizabeth’s eye, I nod and smile with all the charm I can muster. She does not flinch but warmly returns my gesture, and it is all the invitation I need.
Oh, dear Lord! Does Sir William really think my overture was meant for him? Yes, he is heading in this direction, leaving the ladies behind. For a split second I consider turning tail and escaping.
“Ah! Mr. Darcy! A moment, sir.”
I am again accosted, nay, ambushed by Sir William Lucas and diverted away from both Elizabeth and escape. Our pompous host is signaling for me to follow, and my heartstrings are painfully yanked away from Elizabeth. I glance in her direction, but she is already being escorted by another beslubbering, hedge-born miscreant. Are these swag-bellied, motley-minded beasts crawling out of the woodwork tonight?
Did I mention I am in no humour at present to give consequence to young men who dare ask Elizabeth to stand up with them? Why is she not being slighted tonight, of all nights? I understand her fondness for dancing, but does she not realize such activity is a certain step towards falling in love? For God’s sake, Elizabeth! No more partners, except me! Oh, that the fie-fickle fiends had all sprained their hell-hated ankles in the first place! My lively hopes of winning her heart are not being entertained as planned. If only I had played my cards right…
“Mr. Darcy, I have just recollected your aversion to a certain amusement. With Miss Linville’s exception, none of our local beauties has been asked to stand up with you this evening. Your objection to dancing has not changed during the past year, I assume. So, may I encourage you to visit our card room? There are a number of tables set up for the enjoyment of gentlemen such as yourself who do not wish to participate in the dance… albeit the others are mostly the older, infirm, or married gents. Nevertheless, I am sure they will welcome you and your money. We do not play high here, and you shall only risk a few coin tonight.”
I am not a savage. I must not wring Sir William’s neck. I am supposed to be putting my best foot forward. I must not put my best foot up Sir William’s … never mind. I thank him for his kind consideration but decline the offer. What is a rousing game of cards compared to having the privilege of watching Elizabeth dance with a prancing profusion of pribbling, pox-marked pignuts?
Yes, I am being severe on her partners; yes, I am growing increasingly testy; and, yes, I fear I am also in danger of reverting to the same unacceptable behaviour exhibited last time I was in this reeking, roughhewn room. I take a deep breath, hold it, count to ten, slowly exhale, and remind myself to calm down and relax … and smile, dammit, even if it kills me… or, what’s worse, causes facial muscle fatigue.
I shrug my shoulders, rub the back of my neck, and try to exude good humour. My manners must not give a disgust. I am neither above this company nor above being pleased. Agreeable countenance in place, I fixate on a certain raven-haired, brown-eyed beauty in a fetching blue frock as she dances with yet another bootless, boil-brained boar-pig. Said gown has a rather daring decolletage, and that pleasing part of her figure has my undivided attention as she lightly skips around her partner.
“I can guess the subject of your reverie.”
Please, God. Be merciful. Tell me the voice behind does not belong to Mr. Bennet. I turn around; and it is, of course, Elizabeth’s father. I swallow audibly and reply in an unusually high-pitched voice, “I should imagine not, sir.”
“Perhaps you would care to inspect them more closely. We are quite proud to have such a fine pair on display here.”
I trust my explicit oath was only mentally expressed; but the traitorous flush flooding my face must be a glaring testimony of guilt. What is the man about? I will neither be toyed with nor taken to task here in the midst of a country assembly.
I tug at my cravat and say, “I beg your pardon, sir?”
“I believe you have been agreeably engaged in meditating on the very great pleasure of staring at a pair of fine …”
“Mr. Bennet, I must protest, sir!”
The man’s glance is one of perplexity. “ … landscapes, handsomely framed, and displayed upon our humble assembly room wall. I would appreciate hearing your learned opinion of our recently acquired paintings.”
I pick up my long-lost heart from my shoes and my jaw from the floor. I follow the man’s line of vision, finally notice a couple large Constables hung upon the far wall, and pretend the paintings have left me speechless. John Constable’s artwork may be capable of inspiring in-depth and protracted reflection, but my interest is feigned. Mr. Bennet shakes his head at my affectation and walks away.
Dear Lord, could this night be any more frustrating? Oh. One should never tempt fate.