A Little Whimsical in His Civilities
Page 3
“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.
Part II Of II
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 r
emain 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?”
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.