The set has finally ended, and the boar-pig is escorting Elizabeth to the tea room. I make haste in the same direction; but, alas, by the time I arrive, a gaggle of ladies has crowded around. Her sisters and friends are forming so close a confederacy that there is not a single vacancy near her which could admit another body. As I approach, one of the girls moves even closer to Elizabeth; and I hear the peagoose say, “The men shan’t come and part us, I am determined. We want none of them, do we?”
A girlish voice in my head sneeringly repeats her vexatious words.
Is it wishful thinking, or was that a wistful look Elizabeth just cast in my direction? Off I go to another part of the room and station myself so as to command a full view of her fair countenance. I watch every move she makes, envy everyone with whom she speaks, and take an ironic measure of comfort from the fact that if I cannot approach her, neither can other men.
I am pathetic.
Once refused, how can I be so cabbage-headed as to expect her acceptance of a renewal of my suit? Is there one among my sex who would not protest against such a weakness as a second proposal to the same woman? There is no indignity so abhorrent to a man’s feelings. Yet I am resolute and will persevere through all pathos, cabbage-headedness, protestations, weaknesses, indignities, and abhorrences.
Surreptitiously I draw a deep draught of resolution and perseverance from the slender flask of brandy carried within my coat. As the young ladies disperse, anxious curiosity and hesitant steps carry me toward Elizabeth’s table. The colour is momentarily driven from her face as I approach, but it returns for half a minute with an additional glow. I stand staring intently, as is my habit in her resplendent presence.
Now Elizabeth is also staring intently, not at me but at the hands clasped in her lap. I compose my thoughts while willing her to spare me one of hers and to lift her gaze. Tilting my head, I bend slightly so I can peer at her face and am finally rewarded. She looks up, and a smile of delight adds lustre to those fine eyes. I think for a space of time that her affection and wishes might match my own, yet I cannot feel totally secure. I stand tall again, and my heart skips a beat as Elizabeth speaks.
“Is your sister at Pemberley still?”
“Yes,” I answer. “She will remain there till Christmas.”
I dearly love Georgiana but do not wish to talk about her now, although Elizabeth apparently does.
“And quite alone? Have all her friends left her?”
“Mrs. Annesley is with her. The others have been gone on to Scarborough these three weeks,” I reply.
I do not wish to talk about Mrs. Annesley or any others now. I want to talk about your coming away to Derbyshire as my bride. Should I have the misfortune of returning to Pemberley bereft of you, despair shall be my life’s companion. Save me, Elizabeth, from such a destiny. Lay claim to your rightful place in my home as well as in my heart. There can be no other woman in the world for me, no other more deserving of the Darcy name, and none more worthy of bearing Pemberley’s heir. The estate and its future generation will flourish under your love, good guidance, and care; and with you by my side, I shall be happy and whole. You, and you alone, deserve the wealth of love and worldly goods I can bestow. I want … I need to spend my lifetime providing for you, protecting you, loving you, and, hopefully, earning your affection in return. Will you not accept all I have to offer, Elizabeth?
During my silent declaration, the tea room has cleared except for a few hirelings. I would dearly love to remain here, alone with her, but know it would be scandalously improper. I ask if I may escort her to the main room; Elizabeth readily agrees and slips her gloved hand onto my arm. It tingles from her gentle touch, and I never want her to let go; yet I resist the urge to place my hand over hers to secure it there. We walk in silence. This taciturnity, while not quite as awkward as our first amble at Pemberley, is unnatural, even for me.
“Miss Bennet, I would …” Neither my empty brain nor my parched throat agree to cooperate. I fill the first with curses, attempt to lubricate the latter, and quell my itching fingers from reaching for the flask. “Would you … “
The opportunity for which I have been waiting all night has finally presented itself; yet I, a man of sense and education, am suddenly ill qualified to formulate even one coherent sentence. There is, of course, in every disposition a tendency to some particular deficiency — a cockered, shard-borne, pottle-deep deficit — which not even the best education can overcome.
“All evening, I have strived to have you… stand up with me for a set. Every attempt has been frustratingly forestalled, for one reason or another. I would ask for the honour now. But, in truth, I would… rather not.” Oh, brilliant.
“I see.”
She will not look at me. Still I know, beyond a shadow of doubt, her brow is furrowed, her lips pursed, and her opinion skewed.
“No, Miss Bennet, you do not understand. I would gladly embrace … I would be more than happy to stand up with you, and perhaps there may still be a chance to do so before the assembly concludes. For now, I would rather propose … I mean … what I would prefer … that is, would you be agreeable to sitting out this next set?”
“You are correct, sir; I do not understand. Are you actually asking me not to stand up with you?”
We have reached the main room… and the end of my rope, with which I am forming a noose, apparently with which to hang myself. Ever mindful my mouth is capable, at times, of operating independently of my brain, I compress my lips so thoughts cannot haphazardly escape. The precaution is taken not a moment too soon, as my mind immediately begins to rant. I do not want to bloody-well dance with you now, woman! I just want to get you alone, in public, so we can converse in a meaningful manner instead of resorting to pribbling, pottle-deep, piffling prattle!
An explanation of my motives is due, and I have not the smallest objection to explaining them calmly. “Miss Bennet, as much as I do not care to give credence to the opinions of a particular person of our mutual acquaintance, I must agree with her in this instance and say I should like tonight’s ball infinitely better if it was conducted differently. It would surely be much more convenient if conversation, rather than dance, was the order of this assembly.” Bloody-well right. That calmly explains everything.
Elizabeth arches a brow and says, “Much less lively as well; and it would not be near so much like a ball, nor near so enjoyable. I do dearly love to dance.”
“Yes. I noticed.” I cannot but sniff with disdain.
“Well, sir, may I persuade you to take a turn about the room? I assure you it is very refreshing after not dancing. I shall leave you now to either take my advice or continue to stand there inhaling whatever it is you find so disagreeable about our Hertfordshire air. You will excuse me, please.”
She curtly curtsies then flounces away, and I barely restrain myself from grabbing the irascible little minx by the arm. As she heads toward her sisters, who are sitting and chatting with Bingley, I trail behind in the wake of her lavender scent. I bow to Miss Bennet, Miss Mary, Miss Catherine, and nod at my friend but pay them scant consideration. As they acknowledge my arrival, Elizabeth turns around and is obviously astounded to discover I have had the audacity to follow her here.
“Please, Miss Elizabeth, may I have a moment of your time?” I gesture toward a nearby corner, trusting she will accompany me there.
She hesitates, exhales a mighty gust of frustration, paces, runs fingers through her hair, and dislodges several carefully coiffed curls.
In what I hope is an endearing manner, I smile and say, “Please?”
Please, do not make me fall to my knees and beg. It would be most undignified. Yet if she insisted, I would willingly oblige. I would crawl on hands and knees across the length of this room if Elizabeth asked. Safe in the knowledge she would never make such a ludicrous request, I wait for her compliance.
What in blue blazes is she doing? She is not even paying attention to me! Has she lost her mind? Elizabeth frantically searches the floor for something, and I am fairly certain it is not her mind. She backs away toward the wall and raises her hem slightly. I follow and am awarded a glimpse of well-turned ankles. Caught staring in appreciation, I attempt to wipe the smirk from my face.
“You appear to have lost something. May I be of assistance?”
She shakes out the skirts of her dress and, to my dismay, drops the hem down to its proper position. Elizabeth then surreptitiously glances at her bosom while I blatantly do the same. I know what I am about. What is she after?
“I am missing one of my pearl earrings. Do you happen to see it anywhere?”
Most eager to come to her aid, I say, “Can you describe it?”
Casting me an impertinent look, she answers, “My pearl earring is a pearl, one of a pair; and it looks remarkably similar to its mate… the one presently clinging to my left earlobe.”
She is a minx, and I obviously have more hair than wit. But she is not the only brazen one, and I prove it by stepping closer. A fleet survey of the room’s occupants indicates, rather surprisingly, no one is paying particular attention to my position, a singularly odd but most welcome circumstance. I inch even nearer. Standing now almost toe-to-toe with Elizabeth, I am not unaffected by our closeness. Definitely not unaffected. I plainly see the pearl on her delectable lobe; and although disguise of every sort is my abhorrence, I pretend her hair is an obstruction.
“May I?” I tentatively reach toward her. She blushes prettily but, to my amazement, nods consent. I tenderly lift a curl away from her ear and can scarcely believe the unmitigated joy I receive from such a simple but totally unnecessary and highly improper deed. Elizabeth responds with a slight gasp and higher colour on her cheeks, and my heart throbs wildly.
“Exquisite,” I whisper.
“Thank you. They were a gift from my Aunt Gardiner and are quite precious to me.”
I do not amend Elizabeth’s misunderstanding of the compliment. All the while, I am enthralled, transported beyond the room, oblivious to the noise and presence of others. There is, after all, only dearest, loveliest Elizabeth and …
“Mr. Darcy?” she murmurs.
Preoccupied by her beguilement of my senses, I absentmindedly answer, “Yes, my love?”
Her hitched breath and widened eyes slam me back into reality. Thanks to quickness of mind, I am able to salvage the slip of tongue. “Yes, my love of the hunt has been engaged; and I shall immediately run down the crafty, artful jewelry. It may be elusive, but I am resourceful.” By God, am I ever!
Elizabeth looks away, and the nervousness in her voice is evident. “I had heard you and Mr. Bingley were back in Hertfordshire in pursuit of game. You enjoy sport, do you?”
My friend and I had rather halfheartedly ventured out around nine o’clock each morning for a bit of sport, mostly to keep up our pretense. Of course, the true purpose of our return is pursuit of the two eldest Bennet sisters; and we dearly hope the ladies will be game. Bingley appears well on his way to capturing his bird, but I am still wary about Elizabeth taking flight.
“Yes, Bingley invited me to Netherfield to do some hunting.” My throat is still dry, and I long to take another draught of brandy. I audibly swallow before saying, “Birds are in season now.” The image of a little yellow one in Herne’s jaws reminds me of some unfinished business I must attend before leaving the county. “I enjoy shooting but do not much care for the new fidddle-faddle of running down foxes. I have hosted such a hunt at Pemberley, but I … “
“You were outfoxed?”
“No. Actually, I… insisted the fox be allowed to escape.” You, on the other hand, my crafty little vixen, shall not be slipping away quite so easily. “Although I thoroughly enjoyed the thrill of the two-hour chase over almost twenty miles, I found I did not care for the treeing, brushing, and capping aspect of such a lovely creature.”
Embarrassed by the admission of unmanly softheartedness, I clear my parched throat and continue. “But, rest assured, I do not sanction the escape of errant earrings. In fact, I believe I can quite effectively trace the culprit’s disappearance to a particular time and place. From there it should be a simple matter of projecting its trajectory. If you will accompany me back to your position when I requested a moment of your time, our search radius may be determined. I distinctly remember your frustration; and I suspect your earring fell away as a result of your running fingers through your hair.
“Very impressive, sir. Are you also able to pinpoint the source of that frustration?”
Cheeky chit. “I am afraid not. More complex than Pythagoreanism, a woman’s thoughts are neither within my sphere of understanding nor an area with which I am familiar. I suspect your mind has more angles than I ever learned while studying Euclid’s Elements of Geometry. Ergo, I would merely be going in circles trying to pinpoint the derivation of your aggravation.”
I begin to retrace our steps, with Elizabeth in tow, and arrive at the specified position.
“Come now, Mr. Darcy. You are being irrational. Can you truly not get to the root of the problem?”
I was not joking when I mentioned going in circles. My head is spinning in an attempt to keep up with the minx. I quickly survey the surrounding area, and espy the pearl earring on the floor under a table beyond the row of chairs previously occupied by her sisters and my friend. I had not noticed Bingley’s, Miss Bennet’s, and Miss Catherine’s departure but now observe them participating in a Scottish reel. Miss Mary remains seated, nose buried in a book. It is probably Fordyce’s Sermons, but I cannot talk of books in this ballroom. Elizabeth fills my head; it spins and reels, not unlike those engaged in the dance.
“I have, at least, solved one problem.” I point to where the piece of jewelry rests, and she looks at me expectantly.
What? Does she expect me to retrieve it? Is there not a footman about? Oh, bloody hell. It would be a most undignified maneuver. Yet, if she insists, I will unwillingly oblige and crawl on hands and knees to recover the confounded earring. Elizabeth does not even attempt such a request; she just patiently waits for me to volunteer. I sigh, lower myself, and retrieve her puny, pox-marked pearl.
Her delighted, delightful smile makes my effort worthwhile. She fastens the earring to her right lobe, which, at least in my imagination, begs to be nibbled upon by my teeth. I am lost in the reverie and hardly attending as Elizabeth thanks me, again and again, for fetching the item. Wait. That is not the only assistance of which she is speaking. Oh, please, dear Lord, tell me she is not acknowledging that which I dread!
“… for your unexampled kindness to my poor sister. Ever since I have known it, I have been most anxious to acknowledge to you how gratefully I feel it. Were it known to the rest of the family, I should not have merely my own gratitude to express.”
Oh, God! She does know! Elizabeth was never supposed to discover my spur-galled interference. Having previously intervened in her elder sister’s attachment to my friend, I am well aware of her objection to such a violation. Yet I have been caught meddling once again, this time in her youngest sister’s attachment to a former friend. Hold your horses, Darcy. She is not voicing an objection; she is expressing her thanks.
I rake fingers through my hair, silently groan, and start pacing. One glance at her face confirms the suspicion I have held all night. She is embarrassed. Undoubtedly, Elizabeth considers herself deeply and hopelessly in my debt. I preserved the Bennet family’s reputation for her, and perhaps my own, future happiness. It was never meant to make her feel beholden to me. Gah! Why can I do nothing right when it comes to Miss Elizabeth Bennet? I am such a vainglorious yet idle-headed hedge-pig!
Outwardly calm, my mind is in turmoil while apologizing and expressing surprise over her aunt’s perfidy. Elizabeth explains it was, instead, Lydia’s betrayal that revealed my involvement. Of course, Lydia. She then thanks me profusely, on behalf of all her family, for my compassion and assistance.
It is all or nothing now; I might as well confess the lot and have done with this vexing irresolution. I take a deep breath before saying, “If you will thank me, let it be for yourself alone. That the wish of giving happiness to you might add force to the other inducements which led me on, I shall not attempt to deny. But your family owe me nothing. Much as I respect them, I believe, I thought only of you.”
She is silent, and I am overwrought. My mind races and forms a desperate resolution. My reckless tongue moves apace and blurts the admission sooner than intended.
“You are too generous to trifle with me. If your feelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. My affections and wishes are unchanged, but one word from you will silence me on this subject forever.”
Fie upon another asininity! Such a blunt avowal, blurted in a room teaming with people, has to be the epitome of dunderheaded forethought. Why could I neither control my temerarious tongue nor deny my yearning heart? Now I shall probably have the honour of crumpling to the floor in an undignified, beslubbering heap when she rejects me yet again. Of course, my other option is to storm from the room in an ignominious snit as I previously chose at Hunsford. I carefully gauge the distance to the nearest exit.
“Well then, sir, I have but one word for you.”
Oh, God. This cannot be good. I steel myself for rejection and, perhaps, apoplexy. Where is that apothecary? I fear I shall very soon have need of his services.
Yet I see no trace of chagrin on her winsome face, only higher colour… and a distinctive, wondrous twinkle in her eye. My heart is in my throat, and my future is in her hands. But where is her answer? Gah! What does ‘I have one word for you‘ mean? I gulp and ask, “Yes?”
Cheekily, she smiles and says, “No.”
No? No, what? God’s teeth, woman! Noticing Elizabeth’s arched eyebrow, I remember to unfurl my knitted brow. “Miss Bennet, is that ‘no’ as in ‘no, your feelings are not still what they were last April’ or ‘no’ as in ‘no, a thousand times no and, once and for all, be silent on this subject forever’?”
She looks away and says, “I apologize, sir, for being ungenerous. I must learn not to trifle with you.”
Minx! I begin to apprehend and appreciate her mother’s nerves. Never would I harm one hair on Elizabeth’s head, but I just may have to start pulling out that on my own if she continues to run on in this manner. Since I have more hair than wit, I can spare a few strands.
In danger of losing not only hair but my mind, I use the scant intelligence remaining before it abandons me. A glimmer of hope begins to shine within as I rationalize what she has just said. If Elizabeth must learn not to trifle with me, does that not imply we have some sort of future? I am all awkwardness and anxiety as I breathlessly wait for her to finish trifling with me.
Rather diffidently she says, “My sentiments have undergone so material a change, since the period to which you allude, as to make me receive with gratitude and pleasure your present assurances.”
Momentarily stunned, I am unable to think, speak, or feel properly. Then the profound delight which her reply has produced is such as I have truly never felt before. My heart swells. I am euphoric … and somewhat embarrassed to find unmanly tears welling in my eyes. I am also tongue-tied and hamstrung, wishing to express myself on the occasion as sensibly and as warmly as a man violently in love can be supposed to do in a room teaming with the lady’s family, friends, and neighbours.
Moving as close to her ear as I dare, I softly speak with the reverence and respect such an avowal deserves. “You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you … still and always.”
When I last uttered such words to her, I was undeserving. To now have the prerogative to make this affirmation fills me with triumph. I have earned her regard, and my reward is the bestowal of a heartwarming smile. Moments ago I thought I did not have a prayer; now I close my eyes and thank God for second chances.
Elizabeth responds to my declaration. “You are evermore allowed to tell me how ardently you admire…” She blushes prettily and hesitates before finishing, “and love me. I have not yet grown weary of hearing you say so and do not believe I ever shall.”
Teasing, pleasing woman! I manage (rather well, if I do say so myself) to tenderly express her importance to me and to avow all I feel, and have long felt, for her. Genteel lady that she is, Elizabeth cannot openly profess her feelings; but I am overjoyed to behold affection in her fine eyes and to know it is for me alone.
We speak of my aunt’s interference, of Elizabeth’s response to it, and of how her ladyship’s scheme rebounded and gave me hope. We sheepishly discuss Hunsford and our incivilities toward one another but agree we have both vastly improved in civility since that time.
Quite startled by Mary Bennet’s interruption, I cannot help but notice my future sister really should smile more. Such an onion-eyed, unchin-snouted expression is most unbecoming; and her preachy admonishment, directed at Elizabeth, is quickly becoming tedious. Yet she is correct. Because our understanding is unknown, in her sister’s eyes Elizabeth has been scandalously engaged in private conversation with me for far too long. Provoked by Mary’s unsubtle castigation, I am struck with spontaneous ingenuity. I wink at Elizabeth and bestow a kiss upon her hand before turning to her sister.
“Miss Mary, would you do the honour of standing up with me for the next set?”
Her sour expression is quickly replaced by those of astonishment, suspicion, and pleasure. She thanks me and takes my proffered arm. I smile at her and realize it shall be an honour, indeed, to stand up with Mary Bennet and to become particularly acquainted with all my betrothed’s family … until we can make our escape, er, journey to Derbyshire.
Afterward Elizabeth and I continue our conversation with a discussion of my letter, her philosophy, and our encounter at Pemberley.
“My object then,” I say, “was to show you by every civility in my power that I was not so mean as to resent the past; and I hoped to obtain your forgiveness, to lessen your ill opinion, by letting you see that your reproofs had been attended to. How soon any other wishes introduced themselves I can hardly tell, but I believe in about half an hour after I had seen you.”
We sit out the next half hour as well to speak of Georgiana and then of what transpired at the Lambton inn. Elizabeth begins to express her gratitude again until the subject becomes too painful for so joyous a night. I find the perfect diversion when the musicians begin to perform a Scottish air. “Miss Bennet, do not you feel a great inclination to seize such an opportunity of dancing a reel?”
“Please do not pander to my penchant for dancing. I know you dislike the amusement, especially the more lively variety. I am quite content to sit here rather than stand up for this reel … really.”
Elizabeth occasionally professes opinions which, in fact, are not her own. I know she longs to dance. “Nonsense! My contempt for the activity has been highly exaggerated. We must scotch these rumours for once and for all. Come, woman!” I stand, smile, and offer my hand. Elizabeth accepts and returns the warmth of my smile tenfold. I still have much to learn about this smiling business, but it is becoming easier and more natural by the minute.
As we finish the spirited dance and find a relatively private place to continue our conversation, people begin to take notice of our togetherness. Rumours are being whispered, but I care not. Elizabeth’s spirits soon rise to playfulness again, and the minx wants me to account for having fallen in love with her and to pinpoint the onset. My answer neither satisfies her curiosity nor dampers down her enthusiasm for coaxing more compliments from me.
She smiles and says, “My behaviour to you was, at least, always bordering on the uncivil; and you, sir, may be a little whimsical in your civilities.” Her teasing tone turns serious as she continues. “But then your great men often are; and, in every sense of the word, you are a great man, Fitzwilliam Darcy… the best man I have ever known and the only man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry.”
After Hunsford, I became cognizant of many truths. One harsh reality was that Elizabeth would only plight her troth for the deepest of love; and I dreaded the specter of her devotion to some villainous, shard-borne vassal. Now I am the only man in the world whom she could ever be prevailed on to marry. By such an avowal, Elizabeth has all but professed her wholehearted love; and I just may go distracted. The urge to pick her up, twirl, and laugh with total abandon becomes very, very hard to resist. I am, however, a Darcy; and we do not go about lifting ladies, spinning, or in any way exposing ourselves to ridicule — at least in public. But by God, when I get her alone …
The assembly’s self-appointed host passes by and stops short when I hail him. “Sir William, thank you for your hospitality this evening.” I impulsively reach out and heartily shake his hand, utterly astounding us both. “Your thoughtfulness is always appreciated; and although we may not meet at St. James’s, I shall look forward to continuing our association here in Hertfordshire whenever I visit, which I hope will be often.”
His surprised delight at such trivial compliments almost makes me ashamed of my former opinion of the man. He is simply a jovial fellow, not unlike Bingley; and I suspect he wishes the same well-being for everyone around him. Sir William walks away with chest puffed and both spirits and chins raised. I am taken aback at how little effort it takes on my part to so positively affect another’s dignity.
I turn back to Elizabeth and am honoured with one of her radiant smiles. The tenderness in her expressive brown eyes nearly bowls me over, and I experience a wondrous epiphany. Further contemplation is forestalled by the arrival of Mrs. Long. My moment of insight flits away as Elizabeth commiserates with the poor woman over the loss of her beloved canary. I join the conversation, nonchalantly inquire where she acquired such a pet, and memorize the London address. Insisting it is no bother, I offer to procure one of the birds on my forthcoming trip to Town and deliver it to her upon my return. Mrs. Long’s eyes well up as she thanks me profusely for my compassion and assistance. Sheepishly, I accept her gratitude as well as another of Elizabeth’s tender looks.
A servant, carrying a tray of refreshments, offers wine to our party. At last year’s assembly, I refused to imbibe what I assumed was inferior vintage. Tonight my throat is parched, due, no doubt, to so much talking, smiling, and, now, resembling the cat that ate the ca … never mind. I graciously accept a goblet and swallow both my pride and a quenching mouthful of robust red wine. It is surprisingly flavourful and satisfying.
Elizabeth’s uncle, Mr. Phillips, joins our group. The attorney explains he has just arrived, having been detained by an overload of paperwork at his office. Like others have done tonight, he remarks on Hertfordshire’s extraordinarily balmy weather and the county’s immense moon. Perhaps it is the combination of brandy and wine ingested, but I am in too blithe a frame of mind to inform him the orb is the same one currently shining on Derbyshire.
Seen through the eyes of requited love, the Meryton assembly has taken on a dreamlike quality. Wine has never tasted half so ambrosial as the elixir being served this evening. Musicians have never played half so skillfully as those currently performing, and their lively reels are entirely in tune with my jovial mood. Boisterous voices have never sounded so merry, and unrestrained laughter has never been so amusing. Elizabeth’s parents and younger sisters never seemed so … Well, the Bennets are much the same as always; but they are soon to be my family, so I have decided to accept them, warts and all.
Although I have led a privileged life for eight and twenty years, tonight, for the first time, I truly understand what it is to be granted a privilege. Elizabeth Bennet has bestowed upon me the very great honour of becoming her husband; and although it would not take much effort to swagger and strut like a proud peacock, I opt for a less pompous stride as we take a turn around the room.
There is too much to be thought, felt, and said here and now, in the midst of a boisterous country assembly; and I yearn for a moment or two of seclusion. Others have been waxing lyrical about the magnificent harvest moon which presides over the town tonight, so I profess a great curiosity to see this lunar singularity. Elizabeth consents, and I am… over the moon.
Smiling and nodding the whole time, I escort Elizabeth through the assemblage of Meryton merrymakers. As we pass the pier glass in the hall, I hardly recognize the man therein with the tomfool smile plastered across his face. Practice has paid off handsomely; exercised facial muscles neither protest nor become fatigued. I am all cheerful countenance and happy heart as we exit the building, ostensibly for a breath of fresh air and astronomical enlightenment. Whether I have an ulterior motive, I will not say.
The night air is invigorating and charged with excitement. I am exhilarated and awed by the nonpareil sphere suspended before us. Has there ever been a full moon so close or shining so brightly as this one? Rather than inducing lunacy, this luminous night has brought sense, joy, and harmony to my life.
Has there ever been a more idyllic setting for romance? I had not noticed previously, but Meryton is quite an enchanting little town. Even the rowdy drunkards in the street are entertaining. I toss my flask, still three-quarters full, to a poor man who appears in need of a good, stiff drink. Raising my voice to be heard by him, I say, “Keep it, my good man; but do not look therein for answers or solace.” He doffs his cap and makes a leg. I have come outside without my beaver hat, but I mimic his exaggerated actions; and Elizabeth laughs at our antics. With this woman as my bride, I know I shall have no further need of strong spirits to chase away the blue devils.
Ah, yes, I shall have a strong, spirited spouse and solace from blue devils. Elizabeth does look devilishly good in that blue dress, and I am already tempted to seek comfort in her arms. Silently I recite Proverb 7:18, ‘Come, let us take our fill of love until the morning: let us solace ourselves with loves.‘
Patience, man! I take a deep, satisfying breath of aromatic Hertfordshire air. It is, of course, her fragrance which fills my senses, tantalizing and arousing me. I rein in inappropriate, visceral desire, however natural and just, and conjure something less sweetly redolent than lavender. “Onions.”
“Onions, Mr. Darcy?”
By God! Either my future spouse is a mind-reader or I have mistakenly spoken aloud. Had I a choice, I suppose the latter would be infinitely preferable.
Guided by the light of the moon, I steer Elizabeth around the corner of the assembly hall and stall for time by whistling tunelessly through my teeth. Shall I lie through them as well? She pulls away and stands facing me. Her amused, expectant expression makes me grin despite vexation. Onions. Of all the clay-brained, idle-headed hogwash to utter, I had to bloody-well blurt onions. I furrow my brow, dither over aversion of the truth, and pray for inspiration.
“Pray, sir, what has inspired both grin and grimace? Shall aught remove your scowl? Honestly, such pungency could make one weep. Why, yes, I do believe a teardrop is about to leak from my eye.”
“Miss Bennet, our engagement is not yet common knowledge. I may have to rescind my offer if you insist on peppering your speech with pungent puns. No more talk of dankish shallots, or fly-bitten leeks, or damned, rump-fed, reeling-ripe, bloody onions!”
Oh, blast it! I close my eyes and bite my insolent tongue. And I thought her mouth was possessed by demons? God’s teeth, man! I swear the pollution of my vocabulary is the direct result of extensive reading plus spending formative years in company with George Wickham and adult ones with an army officer cousin. The latter’s tutelage was certainly enriching.
“My dear, I must apologize. Such tasteless language should not have been used in your presence.”
“Tasteless, sir? I do believe onions are considered rather flavourful … as was your choice of choice words.”
“Please forgive me. I am truly sorry for spoiling our recent, joyous understanding with talk of vegetables, no matter how exemplary, and for verbalizing vulgar vocabulary.”
“You shall be pardoned once you confess why you uttered what you obviously wish you had not. Onions.”
The explanation cannot be escaped now. Rather sheepishly, I begin, “Dearest, loveliest Elizabeth …” I am determined to be excessively attentive to delicate little compliments which are, apparently, always acceptable to ladies. Oh, whom am I trying to hoodwink? I have not the talent which some men possess of using elegant blandishments. Just speak plainly, and get on with it, man. “I have, from the moment of your acceptance, been entertaining thoughts of … stealing a kiss from you.” No need to mention I have, at least since this summer at Pemberley, been dreaming both day and night of doing much more than kissing her. Hah! Summer … day and night … dream. Eureka! “Are you familiar with A Midsummer Night’s Dream?”
“I am. Are you making a sweet play to divert the subject away from onions? I will get to the Bottom of this onion business.”
I cannot help but admire her cleverness in identifying the correct scene. I grasp her hand in mine and raise it to my lips before quoting the Bard’s words. “And, most dear actors, eat no onions nor garlic, for we are to utter sweet breath.” I move even closer and confess. “I yearned to take you in my arms and touch my lips to yours, but Nichols included onions this evening in just about every dish. While an apple a day may keep the physician away, an onion keeps everyone away. I had no wish to repel or repulse you.”
The dim light cannot conceal her blush, and I cannot resist her charms. Like the appearance of the moon, she has never been this close nor shone so brightly. Elizabeth smiles with such welcome as I have never known. My breath hitches, my pulse quickens, and my blood rushes. I tentatively stroke her cheek. Blasted, clapper-clawed gloves! While I struggle to remove the earth-vexing, hell-hated gloves, my bride-to-be rises to the occasion with tactile assistance as well as a quote from Jonathan Swift.
“This is every cook’s opinion. No savory dish without an onion. But lest your kissing should be spoiled, your onions must be fully boiled.” With a twinkle in her eye, an arched eyebrow, and a saucy smile on her lips, she says, “Were your onions fully boiled, sir?”
Do not moan, groan, or growl. Do not entertain any design of alarming her. Do kiss her, though. Immediately and thoroughly! That is my heart speaking, or some other organ, not my brain; still, I obey. I bend my head and claim her mouth. Gloves, onions, and the rest of the world cease to exist. There is only she and me and the sweetest sensation, the sweetest connection I have ever known. My thumping heart and its importunate collaborator screech at me not to stop, but this time I listen to my spur-galled head. Reluctantly, I pull back and open my eyes. Elizabeth’s are still closed and her lips slightly parted, and I am sorely tempted to repeat the act over and over again.
I touch my forehead to hers and, while breathing heavily, say, “I beg you, most fervently, to relieve my suffering and consent to become my wife at the earliest possible date. With influential connections such as mine, a special license can be procured directly. I shall not abide a protracted engagement.”
As much as I ache to particularly engage Elizabeth, I wonder whether I am being opportunistic and overbearing. I have grown accustomed to making all my own decisions, as well as those affecting Pemberley and my sister, since father’s passing. My orders are obeyed without question, and I am in the habit of expecting instant gratification. It has become second nature to act in a manner which constitutes my own satisfaction without reference to any person wholly unconnected with me. Now that Elizabeth and I shall be irrevocably connected, I imagine she will have something to say against such an imperious standpoint. Although her lessons will be hard, indeed, at first, I shall learn to respect her counsel. As I do now.
We resolve that her father’s consent should be sought straightaway and that her mother be kept in the dark till the morning, so to speak. With Elizabeth’s hand on my arm, we return to the assembly; and I immediately request a moment of Mr. Bennet’s time.
All is well.
The siren call that lured me here has been answered, my hopes have not been dashed upon the rocks, and the tide of my unpopularity has been favourably turned in this welcoming sea. There shall be nothing henceforth but smooth sailing… although this past hour was certainly not without turbulence. Mr. Bennet blustered and made waves when I applied for Elizabeth’s hand. He eventually gave his blessing but not before his wife caught wind of my petition. Elizabeth’s mother went quite distracted; and we had to solicit the services of Mr. Jones, the accommodating apothecary, to administer one of his tranquilizing physics.
The ball is now over, Elizabeth has taken her leave, the Bennet carriage is pulling away, and Bingley and I must return to Netherfield alone. Until I see my betrothed again, time shall elapse as if regulated by a broken timepiece. I will, undoubtedly, grow increasingly impatient with the restrictions Mr. Bennet has placed on our engagement; yet I shall show him by every civility within my power that I am worthy of his daughter’s esteem.
Before entering Bingley’s carriage, I notice the harvest moon has risen high in the sky and now appears quite normal; yet it still presides over the most idyllic and extraordinary night of my life.
As we roll along the road leading to my friend’s estate, I settle back onto the plush upholstery squabs, close my eyes, and sigh. It is a sigh of relief, contentment, and yearning. The yearning I shall abide, for it is of a measurable duration this time. I will visit Longbourn every morning as early as civility will allow and remain as late as Elizabeth’s parents will countenance. Most importantly, my days as a single man in want of a wife are numbered. Strange. I do not remember ever thinking of myself as being ‘in want of a wife‘ until I was introduced to the Bennet family.
When we arrive at Netherfield, Bingley invites me to join him for a brandy; but strong spirits are neither desired nor required. Unaccustomed to such powerful emotions, tonight’s anxiety and exhilaration have taken their toll on me. I decline his offer and climb the stairs to my private chambers, where my trusty valet helps me prepare for bed.
Before succumbing to a deep and untroubled slumber, the events leading up to this moment are reviewed, including the bathing scenario; and I give thanks providence impelled me to return to the scene of my initial asinine impropriety. My final thought of the night answers my first of the evening. Have I a right to such a very strong local attachment? You bet your plume-plucked, pox-marked, weather-bitten ar … Pardon. You bet your sweet, sweet life I have!
— Finis ~