A Little Whimsical in His Civilities

“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 for 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