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!
“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.
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
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
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
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
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.
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.
“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.
