A Little Whimsical in His Civilities

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?”

Her hitched breath and widened eyes slam me back into reality. Thanks to quickness of mind, I am able to salvage the slip of tongue. “Yes, my love of the hunt has been engaged; and I shall immediately run down the crafty, artful jewelry. It may be elusive, but I am resourceful.” By God, am I ever!

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.

“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.