Polite chitchat, the former bane of my existence, and having to watch Elizabeth dance with Mr. Robinson, my life’s current canker-blossom, continue for a tedious, mind-numbing half hour during which I should have been seeking Mary Bennet. Provoked by Miss Linville’s myriad subtle hints, I am struck with spontaneous ingenuity.
“Would you do the honour of standing up with me for the next set, Miss Linville?”
She thanks me and takes my proffered arm. I smile, or grimace, at her again and then look to see if Elizabeth has noticed my gallantry. It shall be an insupportable punishment to stand up with this young woman, with whom I do not wish to be particularly acquainted, unless Elizabeth is aware of such chivalrousness. It is, after all, done solely for her benefit.
The Robinson fellow escorts Elizabeth to a seat; and I gape, as it soon becomes evident she has no partner for this set. With astonishment and dismay, I realize the aforementioned ingenuity has, instead, turned out to be badly-timed foolhardiness. Fobbing, hasty-witted gudgeon! Obviously there will be no further offers this evening to young ladies other than Elizabeth. I shall not be making the same mistake twice.
As the music begins, I gristbite my teeth and try to pay heed to Miss Linville. She is, I suppose, comely, light-footed, and elegant; yet I do not enjoy her company. The woman has, without warning, become an unmuzzled, flap-mouthed flirt-gill. While we move through the steps of the dance, I halfheartedly listen to her prattle on, with great energy, about tonight’s wondrously romantic moon.
Am I crying for the moon? Is Elizabeth Bennet as unattainable as that celestial body?My mind is preoccupied with awareness of her. I swear she is sitting in the exact position, next to her sister Mary, as when I uttered my initial asinine impropriety. I dearly wish I could turn back the hands of time and regulate that churlish, ill-nurtured clack-dish of a mouth that spoke within her hearing that night… or, at least, back to when I could ask her to stand up with me for this set instead of Miss Creant.
I gaze in admiration as Elizabeth lovingly tucks a stray curl behind her sister’s ear and tenderly coaxes a smile from her. My reaction mirrors Mary’s. Dearest, sweetest Elizabeth! She would be a caring and supportive sister for Georgiana and an accomplished, lively wife for any man. Not for any man, for me! If I can but see Elizabeth Bennet, no, Elizabeth Darcy happily settled at Pemberley, I shall have nothing for which to wish.
All my life I have been spoiled, granted whatever suits my fancy, and given everything my heart desires. Until Elizabeth. My younger self might have pouted at such deprivation; but I am, after all, a grown man. Instead of childishly protruding my lower lip, I tauten my already stiff upper one in a gentlemanlike manner… which makes it rather difficult to smile … which is what I am supposed to be doing. Gah! Why can I not be inherently amiable like Bingley? I mean, really, how hard can it be if he has it down to a fine art?
The dance brings me back into Elizabeth’s line of vision, and… Blast! I was under the impression Meryton suffered from a dearth of eligible men since the departure of the militia. Apparently not. From perdition’s pit a plethora of slavering young bucks has suddenly appeared and congregated around her. Elizabeth smiles and chats with both of them but is taking an eager interest in and, I daresay, giving undue attention to one of the spleeny, elf-skinned measles. No doubt he will be her next partner. Why does she not notice me? I have, many times over, the consequence of those plebeian clod-poles.
The two toad-spotted foot-lickers look at my heart’s desire with great admiration. Although their appreciation of her allure does not surprise me, it nettles me most ruthlessly. Elizabeth is the most enticing woman of my acquaintance and five, nay, ten times as tempting as every other woman in this room.
Be that as it may, the woman’s physical attributes are, honestly, of secondary importance. Fine eyes may have first captured my attention, but … Oh, fie upon it! I hereby confess her eyes were not truthfully my primary focus, but I swear they were the second. Nevertheless, as I became better acquainted with Elizabeth, her exceptional qualities of conviction, dedication, intelligence, and liveliness of mind soon totally and unconditionally enthralled me. Oh, bloody hell and very well! It was not totally unconditional. I struggled mightily against the attraction. I am … I was pond-scum.
The set ends; and I have, except for a few rather painful confessions, survived it relatively unscathed. Elizabeth appears to be enjoying herself, which should be all that matters. Perhaps this charitable feeling is due to the fact I caught her eye twice during the half-hour ordeal. Although her glance flitted away far too quickly, I am satisfied she has, at least, observed my gallantry.
This evening simply must allow us an opportunity to enter into something more of conversation than the mere ceremonious salutation attending her family’s arrival. Every expectation of pleasure has thus far been snatched away, and my frustration is reaching a degree that threatens to make me uncivil. My well-being, not only during this evening but for a lifetime, depends on her regard. I shall not surrender without a valiant struggle.
I escort my atrociously ignored partner, Miss Linville, back to her parents and valiantly struggle through the reeking rabble. Pertinacity leads me toward Elizabeth. I will not be gainsaid. She will stand up with me for this next set, or I shall surely lose what is left of my gleeking, beef-witted mind. OOF! But first I must apologize profusely to Mrs. Phillips, with whom I have just collided. Can people not watch where I am going?
I remind myself to smile pleasantly at Elizabeth’s aunt and to unclench my jaw whilst doing so. This time I shall put forth a concentrated effort. Certain ladies of the ton have practically swooned upon receipt of my dimple-bracketed smile. It is only fair to caution you, madam, the full force of my beam is about to be unleashed.
“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Phillips, my sincerest apologies. I was obviously not attending. Have you been injured?” I am all solicitousness. Perhaps she will put in a good word about me to her niece.
The stupefied woman staggers slightly, adjusts the feathered contraption upon her head, and says, “I am fine.” Still a bit unsteady, she looks up at me in confusion. “But you, sir … You are unwell?”
“I am quite well, thank you, madam.”
“Oh. Well, good. I assumed you were grimacing in pain.”
It is blatantly evident Mrs. Bennet’s poor sister is in desperate straits and cannot afford a blasted pair of blasted spectacles. I politely bow, make my escape, and helplessly watch as Elizabeth accepts Mr. Morris for the blasted upcoming set. The temptation to stomp my blasted foot in frustration is great, but I stoically resist exposing myself to ridicule. Bloody, bloody, bloody hell! Must she stand up with every puking, pottle-pocked pumpion that bloody-well asks her?
Retreating to a corner where I can smooth ruffled feathers, I wonder why Elizabeth has to be so bloody agreeable and, oh, so totally charming, not to mention absolutely ravishing in that fetching blue frock. I heave a lovesick sigh, reminiscent of Bingley, and wander off in his direction.
I really should be engaged in a more sociable activity, such as reacquainting myself with all the principal people in the room; but my heart is not in it. My heart is either somewhere in my shoes or in Elizabeth’s possession out on the dance floor. Either way, it is certainly being trampled underfoot. I hover close at hand to Bingley but withstand the impulse to speak only with him. I did that almost exclusively the last time we were here. There is not much likelihood of doing so now anyway; he is, of course, preoccupied with his blessed angel and chatting up a group of locals. Bah! I nod at them, take a stance with the other wallflowers, and wallow in self-pity.