“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 fo
r 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.”
A Little Whimsical in His Civilities Page 4