Bitterness of spirit, petulant pouting, and boorish brooding are not to be borne. Nevertheless, it is a dreadful injustice I can arrange neither a dance nor a private moment with Elizabeth. I simply must determine whether I have the slightest chance of earning her regard. The woman has captivated my heart and holds the power to either break it or grant its every wish. My personal preference would be the latter.
I close my eyes against the sight of her enjoying another man’s company. Good God, am I jealous? … of a countrified, base-court, fat-kidneyed scut? I am one of the wealthiest men in England and could bloody-well have any woman I bloody-well desire. In truth, I am pathetically envious of said scut. He is the fortunate recipient of Elizabeth’s radiant smiles, unaffected airs, and witty banter. She is the only woman in the country who would have the audacity to devalue money and rank… and with the good sense to have refused my arrogant offer.
Shall I be capable of simply walking away if she spurns me a second time? What are my available options? Other than abduction and elopement! Listen, you mewling, plume-plucked mammet, should the worst happen, you will hold your head high, walk out that door, never look back, resign yourself to an empty, passionless existence, and accept your fate like a man.
A Darcy’s lot in life is not unenviable. I have Pemberley and all the advantages of wealth and prestige. I have the company of Georgiana, my Fitzwilliam relatives, and friends like Bingley. Perhaps I shall enter a loveless marriage with cousin Anne or some other equally dull prospect. Forgetting Elizabeth will never be possible; but I have lived eight and twenty years already without her. Surely I can continue to do so, although it pains me even to think of it. Gah! Who needs love when it hurts like Hades?
If my vanity had taken a literary turn, this lovesickness would have been invaluable. Stabs have been made at poetry, but I have not the talent which some gentlemen possess of composing pretty verses on their ladies.
Speaking of stabs, would it sway Elizabeth if I eloquently articulated how her arrow has transpierced my psyche and how I am equal parts pessimism and optimism? Such sentiment could, no doubt, be worded beautifully; but I am incapable of expressing my emotions adequately. I certainly proved that at Hunsford.
Although Mrs. Bennet might be delighted with any attempt made at poetry, my stab at verse would surely have Elizabeth heading for the hills. Hold on … the hills. Is it not my fondest wish she settle in the Peak District? Perhaps a lighthearted love sonnet would send her running off toward Derbyshire.
Obviously, that weedy, slime-sucked gruel does not come close to the charming love sonnet I intended to compose. Even a fine, stout, and healthy love would choke on such vomitus. Bingley is right; I study too much for words of four syllables. It matters not. Since I do not perform to strangers, I shall never expose myself to ridicule by reciting my rhyme aloud. Thunder and turf, what would people think? Fitzwilliam Darcy… gentleman, master of the grand estate of Pemberley, nephew of both the Earl of Matlock and Lady Catherine de Bourgh of Rosings Park, member of the ton, and, now, author of a puking, plebeian limerick.
“Darcy?… Darcy… DARCY!”
“What?”
“Whatever has gotten into you, man?”
“Whatever do you mean, Bingley?”
“The harvest moon truly must spawn lunacy, for I swear you were chortling to yourself just now as I approached.”
“I most certainly was not! And what if I was?”
“Your doing so was illy timed.” Bingley glances over his shoulder, raises his voice a notch, and says, “Were you not listening while Mrs. Long lamented the loss of her beloved canary?”
I turn to see if the woman is following our conversation. Before she can identify the guilty expression on my face, I pull my friend aside and speak so only he can hear. “You did not tell her?”
“Well now, what do you suppose?”
“I suppose not. Thank you. Still and all, the woman had no business permitting her pet to escape its bloody cage and fly willy-nilly about the neighbourhood … especially when there are gentlemen in the area allegedly returned to enjoy some sport.”
“I regret we allowed our pretense to last three whole days, Darcy, and that our activity resulted in calamity.”
“While unfortunate, I would hardly categorize the loss of a hen-witted canary as a calamity; and it was your idea we wait that long before making an appearance.”
“Mrs. Long absolutely considers the loss of her fine-feathered friend calamitous, and it was certainly your idea we wait three days.”
“Bingley, I will not stand here debating these issues with you. I have a much, much more important matter to settle. Nevertheless, I fully intend to inquire as to where one might procure a canary. Where does one get hold of such a creature?”
“Perhaps you should ask Herne. Your faithful hunting dog simply fetches them as they fall from the sky.”
There are times I question why I have chosen to befriend Charles Bingley, and this is one of those times. Despite our easy camaraderie, we are definitely not birds of a feather; and the man has a well-hidden cruel streak.
Yesterday morning a very obliging grouse was perfectly lined up in the sights of my trusty Manton. It was game, unlike a certain canary. Mrs. Long’s ill-fated pet may have escaped its cage, but it could not escape the path of lead fired from a wildly flailing fowling-piece. How could one’s shot not swing wide when one’s so-called friend suddenly calls out, “Darcy! Is that not Elizabeth Bennet scampering about in yonder field?” Bah!
I excuse myself, walk away, realize the music and set have ended, and begin to panic when I cannot catch sight of Elizabeth. Has that countrified, chaw-bacon scut of a partner absconded with her? The unmistakable and welcome sound of her laughter reaches my ears, and I breath again. She is safely ensconced nearby, chatting with Sir William and Lady Lucas. Catching Elizabeth’s eye, I nod and smile with all the charm I can muster. She does not flinch but warmly returns my gesture, and it is all the invitation I need.
Oh, dear Lord! Does Sir William really think my overture was meant for him? Yes, he is heading in this direction, leaving the ladies behind. For a split second I consider turning tail and escaping.
“Ah! Mr. Darcy! A moment, sir.”
I am again accosted, nay, ambushed by Sir William Lucas and diverted away from both Elizabeth and escape. Our pompous host is signaling for me to follow, and my heartstrings are painfully yanked away from Elizabeth. I glance in her direction, but she is already being escorted by another beslubbering, hedge-born miscreant. Are these swag-bellied, motley-minded beasts crawling out of the woodwork tonight?
Did I mention I am in no humour at present to give consequence to young men who dare ask Elizabeth to stand up with them? Why is she not being slighted tonight, of all nights? I understand her fondness for dancing, but does she not realize such activity is a certain step towards falling in love? For God’s sake, Elizabeth! No more partners, except me! Oh, that the fie-fickle fiends had all sprained their hell-hated ankles in the first place! My lively hopes of winning her heart are not being entertained as planned. If only I had played my cards right…
“Mr. Darcy, I have just recollected your aversion to a certain amusement. With Miss Linville’s exception, none of our local beauties has been asked to stand up with you this evening. Your objection to dancing has not changed during the past year, I assume. So, may I encourage you to visit our card room? There are a number of tables set up for the enjoyment of gentlemen such as yourself who do not wish to participate in the dance… albeit the others are mostly the older, infirm, or married gents. Nevertheless, I am sure they will welcome you and your money. We do not play high here, and you shall only risk a few coin tonight.”