A Little Whimsical in His Civilities

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?”