A Little Whimsical in His Civilities

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.

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