Although I have led a privileged life for eight and twenty years, tonight, for the first time, I truly understand what it is to be granted a privilege. Elizabeth Bennet has bestowed upon me the very great honour of becoming her husband; and although it would not take much effort to swagger and strut like a proud peacock, I opt for a less pompous stride as we take a turn around the room.
There is too much to be thought, felt, and said here and now, in the midst of a boisterous country assembly; and I yearn for a moment or two of seclusion. Others have been waxing lyrical about the magnificent harvest moon which presides over the town tonight, so I profess a great curiosity to see this lunar singularity. Elizabeth consents, and I am… over the moon.
Smiling and nodding the whole time, I escort Elizabeth through the assemblage of Meryton merrymakers. As we pass the pier glass in the hall, I hardly recognize the man therein with the tomfool smile plastered across his face. Practice has paid off handsomely; exercised facial muscles neither protest nor become fatigued. I am all cheerful countenance and happy heart as we exit the building, ostensibly for a breath of fresh air and astronomical enlightenment. Whether I have an ulterior motive, I will not say.
The night air is invigorating and charged with excitement. I am exhilarated and awed by the nonpareil sphere suspended before us. Has there ever been a full moon so close or shining so brightly as this one? Rather than inducing lunacy, this luminous night has brought sense, joy, and harmony to my life.
Has there ever been a more idyllic setting for romance? I had not noticed previously, but Meryton is quite an enchanting little town. Even the rowdy drunkards in the street are entertaining. I toss my flask, still three-quarters full, to a poor man who appears in need of a good, stiff drink. Raising my voice to be heard by him, I say, “Keep it, my good man; but do not look therein for answers or solace.” He doffs his cap and makes a leg. I have come outside without my beaver hat, but I mimic his exaggerated actions; and Elizabeth laughs at our antics. With this woman as my bride, I know I shall have no further need of strong spirits to chase away the blue devils.
Ah, yes, I shall have a strong, spirited spouse and solace from blue devils. Elizabeth does look devilishly good in that blue dress, and I am already tempted to seek comfort in her arms. Silently I recite Proverb 7:18, ‘Come, let us take our fill of love until the morning: let us solace ourselves with loves.‘
Patience, man! I take a deep, satisfying breath of aromatic Hertfordshire air. It is, of course, her fragrance which fills my senses, tantalizing and arousing me. I rein in inappropriate, visceral desire, however natural and just, and conjure something less sweetly redolent than lavender. “Onions.”
“Onions, Mr. Darcy?”
By God! Either my future spouse is a mind-reader or I have mistakenly spoken aloud. Had I a choice, I suppose the latter would be infinitely preferable.
Guided by the light of the moon, I steer Elizabeth around the corner of the assembly hall and stall for time by whistling tunelessly through my teeth. Shall I lie through them as well? She pulls away and stands facing me. Her amused, expectant expression makes me grin despite vexation. Onions. Of all the clay-brained, idle-headed hogwash to utter, I had to bloody-well blurt onions. I furrow my brow, dither over aversion of the truth, and pray for inspiration.
“Pray, sir, what has inspired both grin and grimace? Shall aught remove your scowl? Honestly, such pungency could make one weep. Why, yes, I do believe a teardrop is about to leak from my eye.”
“Miss Bennet, our engagement is not yet common knowledge. I may have to rescind my offer if you insist on peppering your speech with pungent puns. No more talk of dankish shallots, or fly-bitten leeks, or damned, rump-fed, reeling-ripe, bloody onions!”
Oh, blast it! I close my eyes and bite my insolent tongue. And I thought her mouth was possessed by demons? God’s teeth, man! I swear the pollution of my vocabulary is the direct result of extensive reading plus spending formative years in company with George Wickham and adult ones with an army officer cousin. The latter’s tutelage was certainly enriching.
“My dear, I must apologize. Such tasteless language should not have been used in your presence.”
“Tasteless, sir? I do believe onions are considered rather flavourful … as was your choice of choice words.”
“Please forgive me. I am truly sorry for spoiling our recent, joyous understanding with talk of vegetables, no matter how exemplary, and for verbalizing vulgar vocabulary.”
“You shall be pardoned once you confess why you uttered what you obviously wish you had not. Onions.”
The explanation cannot be escaped now. Rather sheepishly, I begin, “Dearest, loveliest Elizabeth …” I am determined to be excessively attentive to delicate little compliments which are, apparently, always acceptable to ladies. Oh, whom am I trying to hoodwink? I have not the talent which some men possess of using elegant blandishments. Just speak plainly, and get on with it, man. “I have, from the moment of your acceptance, been entertaining thoughts of … stealing a kiss from you.” No need to mention I have, at least since this summer at Pemberley, been dreaming both day and night of doing much more than kissing her. Hah! Summer … day and night … dream. Eureka! “Are you familiar with A Midsummer Night’s Dream?”
“I am. Are you making a sweet play to divert the subject away from onions? I will get to the Bottom of this onion business.”
I cannot help but admire her cleverness in identifying the correct scene. I grasp her hand in mine and raise it to my lips before quoting the Bard’s words. “And, most dear actors, eat no onions nor garlic, for we are to utter sweet breath.” I move even closer and confess. “I yearned to take you in my arms and touch my lips to yours, but Nichols included onions this evening in just about every dish. While an apple a day may keep the physician away, an onion keeps everyone away. I had no wish to repel or repulse you.”
The dim light cannot conceal her blush, and I cannot resist her charms. Like the appearance of the moon, she has never been this close nor shone so brightly. Elizabeth smiles with such welcome as I have never known. My breath hitches, my pulse quickens, and my blood rushes. I tentatively stroke her cheek. Blasted, clapper-clawed gloves! While I struggle to remove the earth-vexing, hell-hated gloves, my bride-to-be rises to the occasion with tactile assistance as well as a quote from Jonathan Swift.
“This is every cook’s opinion. No savory dish without an onion. But lest your kissing should be spoiled, your onions must be fully boiled.” With a twinkle in her eye, an arched eyebrow, and a saucy smile on her lips, she says, “Were your onions fully boiled, sir?”
Do not moan, groan, or growl. Do not entertain any design of alarming her. Do kiss her, though. Immediately and thoroughly! That is my heart speaking, or some other organ, not my brain; still, I obey. I bend my head and claim her mouth. Gloves, onions, and the rest of the world cease to exist. There is only she and me and the sweetest sensation, the sweetest connection I have ever known. My thumping heart and its importunate collaborator screech at me not to stop, but this time I listen to my spur-galled head. Reluctantly, I pull back and open my eyes. Elizabeth’s are still closed and her lips slightly parted, and I am sorely tempted to repeat the act over and over again.