A Little Whimsical in His Civilities

by J Marie Croft

  A Little Whimsical in His Civilities

  J Marie Croft

  Author’s Note: Upon return to Hertfordshire in October of 1812 ‘in pursuit of game’, Darcy’s real purpose is forestalled by interfering interlopers, his good intention hindered by old habits that die hard, and his true aim thrown off by Bingley.

  Warning: The writer’s extensive use of adjectives, adverbs, and motley-minded Elizabethan-era insults may be offensive to some.

  J. Marie Croft (Joanne)

  A Little Whimsical in His Civilities

  Part I of II

  Shall my reappearance be proof of a particular attachment? Have I any right to such a claim? My coming here shall be either a confirmation or a relinquishment of any bond.

  Providence, impervious to Lady Catherine’s schemes, impelled me to return to Hertfordshire and thereby to the scene of my initial asinine impropriety. I say initial asinine impropriety, for last autumn’s infelicity was merely the first of several since my introduction here. ‘Tis poetic justice, I suppose, for such a pivotal outcome to hang in the balance at the very venue of social chasm in which our awkward association began. Dear God, please do not allow me to mishandle this crucial encounter as I did so very thoroughly our first.

  In my defense, I must offer some excuse for incivility … if I was uncivil. Simply put, I just had to utter that fatuous comment about Elizabeth Bennet. How else could I deny an immediate and intense attraction to a woman beneath my station and unworthy of attention? Good principles, engrained under my father’s tutelage, prevented interference with lower-class females; though I have been sorely tempted on more than one occasion.

  In retrospect, I was in a fit of pique that night; yet such an admission does not pardon petulance, arrogance, and conceit. I am ashamed to confess excessive vanity and hauteur have been my old friends these twenty odd years at least. Attempts are, even now, being made to amend my defective demeanor; but such long-entrenched companions as vainglory and hubris can neither be easily disregarded nor ousted. A full half year has passed since April 9th, the day I was taken to task for presumptuous meddling and disdainful pride. I trust there has been some state of improvement to my civility since Elizabeth’s acrimonious and humbling censure at Hunsford.

  Now I have returned to this humble place. All hope for future felicity hinges on her reaction to my presence here tonight as well as on my own, God willing, impeccable comportment. I am reasonably sanguine about my prospects, but let me first see how she behaves. It will then be early enough for expectation.

  Early enough? Bah! I swear time elapses this evening as if regulated by a broken timepiece. Suspicious of the assembly room’s sluggish clock, I consult my reliable fob-watch, which confirms it is, indeed, eighteen minutes past the hour. I grow increasingly impatient with this unendurable vigilance.

  Next to me, Bingley is conversing with Miss Maria Lucas. Their mundane chitchat about the shire’s extraordinarily clear weather interests me not in the least… until my friend impresses me with a well-wrought, nonchalant inquiry about the Bennet family. My ears perk up, and now I cannot help but eavesdrop. Miss Lucas’s supposition is the Bennets are tardy because they have many females to prepare and only one lady’s maid. I would gladly hire an abigail apiece for the sisters if it would just bring the second eldest one here sooner.

  Elizabeth will look exquisite should she arrive wearing sackcloth. Oh, God. If she has read my letter and given any credit to its contents, I fear she will deem sackcloth and ashes appropriate apparel. The woman is beyond reproach and must suffer no shame on my account; and I will tell her so … if she would just arrive already!

  I had entertained hopes of receiving no inconsiderable pleasure from the sight of Longbourn’s young ladies attractively arrayed here by their mother in anticipation of our coming. Instead I see only the neighbours. In this confined and unvarying society, rumours of Netherfield’s occupation undoubtedly reached Mrs. Bennet’s thirsty ears three days ago. Our presence must be common knowledge by now. So, where are they? Where is Elizab … OOF!

  “There, Darcy, look! The Bennets are finally arriving. Smashing!”

  Neither Bingley’s jovial announcement nor his impudent and powerful elbow-jab to my ribs was remotely necessary. Apart from the occasional and, I daresay, compulsive glance at a timepiece, my hungry eyes have been riveted on the assembly room’s entryway since the moment I discovered her absence and strategically planted myself in this position. I had momentarily considered standing by a window to have advance intelligence of the Bennet carriage’s arrival; but, thanks to quickness of mind, I realized such standoffish behaviour might be misconstrued as unsociable.

  Oh. It has just occurred to me I should have employed my time much better by interacting with the locals instead of standing here in this stupid manner. What an awkward, artless arse! Well, there is nothing to be done for it now. Henceforth I shall be diligent and demonstrate only improved conduct. The tide of my unpopularity must be turned. ‘Tis easier said than done, though, in this sea, a cursed crush of exuberant Merytonites. The insipidity and yet the noise, the nothingness and yet the self-importance of all these people! Furrowing my brow, I contemplate oddly familiar words and wonder whether I have uttered or heard them before.

  “Did you hear me before, Darcy? I said the Bennets have arrived. Shake a leg, man!”

  As we inch our way into the crowd, I well-nigh retch from the miasma of stale, cloying perfume and unwashed bodies. Certain members of this herd could benefit from an introduction to soap and water and a subsequent application. Even Queen Elizabeth apparently took a bath once a fortnight, whether it was necessary or not.

  In a trice, an image of Elizabeth (definitely not good old Queen Bess) in a tub of soapy water has pervaded my susceptive mind. Delightful daydreams of the winsome woman are a weakness; but this concupiscent vision must be regulated … at least until later when it can be elaborated upon and fully appreciated privately in my chambers at Netherfield. Here and now is neither the time nor place for prurient thoughts whilst wearing snug breeches and a cutaway coat. Begone, sweet torment!

  For a moment, I dread the emphatic behest actually exited this untoward mind via an untrustworthy mouth. Although inured to constant scrutiny at such assemblies, an abnormal number of looks are presently being cast in my direction. I prepare to return the glowers but realize I am already scowling. Ah, that would explain the cringeworthy looks. Good. I have neither the time for an apology nor a ready and reasonable rationale regarding sweet torment and its banishment.

  As yet to lay eyes on the woman, and already I have resorted to ungentlemanly behaviour. Clodpole! This does not bode well as an auspicious beginning to our reunion. What can I offer in my defense? From the very beginning, from the first moment, I may almost say, of my acquaintance with Elizabeth Bennet, I have been at her mercy and out of my wits. I would not wish it generally known Fitzwilliam Darcy, man of the world, is held in the absolute thrall of a young country miss.

  Haughty expression established and blinders firmly in place over my wicked mind’s eye, I pay heed to our snail’s-pace progress through the throng. As usual, hail-fellow-well-met Bingley is being greeted cheerfully by his neighbours; but few dare address me. I avoid eye contact with anyone who might impede forward movement. Oh, blast it all! Yes, in my eagerness and haste to reach Elizabeth, I have again forgotten my determination to be more personable. Smile, you sap-skull.

  Egads, what is this? That reeky apothecary has apparently misinterpreted my smile as approachability and appears hellbent on renewing our acquaintance. My apologies, Jones, but I must plead ignorance of your presence.

  Too late. See? This is precisely w
hat comes from presenting a convivial countenance. Now I am obliged to swallow my pride and make the supreme sacrifice of stooping … I mean stopping to chat with a merchant. Not that it matters he is a lowly tradesman. I am, after all, above such prejudice since being on good terms with the Gardiners. It is, however, unfortunate Elizabeth cannot witness my forthcoming sociability.

  “Good evening, Mr. Jones.” Affability could be my middle name.

  “Mr. Darcy, I am honoured you remember me, sir.”

  “Of course. You were of invaluable assistance to both Miss Jane Bennet and myself on separate occasions at Netherfield last year.”

  He ponders for a moment, tapping his chin with stained fingertips. “Ah, yes. Tinctura Lavandula composite for your griping guts, was it not?”

  Confound it! I am not inclined to engage in time-wasting prattle about medicinal substances with this mammering, hedge-born minnow. Ah, but lavender! Her scent. I would change Shakespeare’s wording from civet to, ‘Give me an ounce of lavender, good apothecary, to sweeten my imagination.’ … not that my imagination needs further embellishment where Elizabeth is concerned. It does exceedingly well on its own, thank you. The woman possesses the only healing properties I require at this juncture. Nevertheless, I will keep your remedies in mind, good apothecary. Should my heart be broken later this night, I may find myself in need of a potent purgative potion.

  “You will excuse me, please, Mr. Jones. I was just on my way to greet the Bennet family.” I nod to the man, forge forward, and console myself with the fact Affability would be a foolish middle name for Fitzwilliam Darcy.

  Anticipation of Elizabeth’s appearance lures me forth like a siren call, and I pray my hopes shall not be dashed upon the rocks. Biddable Bingley has managed to clear a path for us, and I wonder if he employed those lethal elbows to do so. No doubt it was his disarming smile that charmed the masses into doing his bidding.

  On second thought, I fear the parting of the sea may have been due to a certain person’s haughty scowl. Really, I must remember to smile more. It is a grievous disadvantage such an unnatural expression causes facial muscle fatigue. Then again, I suppose it is my own fault, because I do not take the trouble of practicing. Fondly I recall Elizabeth teasing me in Kent with a similar admonishment. Pleasant remembrances of her banter never fail to educe good humour. Although I may not be of a disposition in which happiness overflows in mirth, I am suddenly smiling without any effort whatsoever. In the event she is looking in this direction, I force the smile to remain in place as we press on toward the entrance.

  OOF! The forced smile is wiped from my face. “For God’s sake, Bingley! Could you not provide adequate warning when you are about to halt so abruptly?”

  Rooted to the spot like an inconvenient tree, my dizzy-eyed, tickle-brained friend heaves a lovesick sigh. He has this rather nauseating habit of metamorphosing into either a tree or a mooncalf in the presence of the eldest Bennet sister.

  “Look at her, Darcy! I swear, by the beauty of Venus, Miss Bennet has grown even more lovely; and she was already the most beautiful creature I ever beheld. Have you ever seen such …”

  Bingley’s praise will, undoubtedly, continue ad nauseum once he has begun to laud the lady’s disposition and comeliness. I once made the clay-brained pronouncement that Jane Bennet smiles too much. Good God! Honestly, at times I do not even want to admit that I know Fitzwilliam Darcy let alone that I inhabit the man’s skin. How, in the name of all that is good and holy, can anyone smile too much? One thing is certain; no one shall ever say the same about me.

  One of my supposed motives for being in Hertfordshire is observation of the woman. There is no need. If Elizabeth believes her elder sister cares deeply for Bingley, further convincing is not required. Had I demanded proof, the look on her face now would be confirmation enough.

  Her admirer winds up his accolades in a predictable manner. “ … a veritable angel!”

  Behind my friend’s back I roll my eyes. “Yes, yes, yes. I see your angel. I daresay she looks much the same as ever.”

  Bingley’s paragon of virtue is unarguably fair enough, but where is my angel? Angel? Hah! Elizabeth Bennet is certainly no angel. I swear that irreverent mouth of hers was, on several occasions, possessed by demons … and what I wouldn’t give to exorcise those impish lips.

  Why can I not yet see her? Where is she? Has she not come? Perhaps her lithe frame is merely obstructed from this angle. Please, Lord, let Elizabeth be behind her parents; and I will promise to more faithfully regulate my use of explicit expletives and insolent insults.

  Oh, bloody hell. What if she has heard of my spur-galled return and decided to remain at home rather than face me here? Pig-widgeon that I am, I will indubitably hie off to Longbourn, ostensibly to determine her state of health, and blurt something asinine. God save me from myself.

  We step up and present ourselves to the principal inhabitants of the village of Longbourn. Although I am in no humour for conversation with anyone but Elizabeth, gentlemen that we are, Bingley and I first swap civil whiskers with Mr. and Mrs. Bennet. The cold politeness of the woman’s address to me, in contrast to the degree of civility extended to my friend, is understandable. Yet I cannot resist the thought that I am the person to whom the family is indebted for the preservation of Lydia’s reputation from irremediable infamy. Such ill-applied smugness is unworthy, and I really should attend the conversation.

  As Mrs. Bennet continues to gush all over my friend, I wisely sidle away before becoming befouled by the effusion. That subtle evasive maneuver enables me to catch sight of Hertfordshire’s brightest jewel. One glimpse and my breath is taken away. By Jove and by the might of Mars, I swear Elizabeth has grown more endearing than when I last beheld her pulchritude in Derbyshire. I stare in dizzy-eyed, tickle-brained wonder.

  So, it is official. I am now as folly-fallen as my infatuated friend. Yet how can I be otherwise? Elizabeth is all radiance, sparkling eyes, and bedazzling smile. Although that smile is directed toward her elder sister and Bingley, I am, nevertheless, captured and enraptured by its warmth.

  I am also speechless … an unfortunate circumstance, since ceremonious bows and small talk have been exchanged and exhausted with her parents. Some social intercourse is now expected with the daughters, but I am at a loss. Say something, you lumpish, idle-headed malt-worm!

  I bow and clear my throat. “Good evening, Miss Bennet, Miss Elizabeth, Miss Mary, and Miss Catherine. I hope you have all been in good health since last we met.” Absolutely boil-brained brilliant. Nevertheless, I do believe I have greeted the entire Bennet family with tolerable ease and with a propriety of behaviour free from any symptom of unnecessary condescension or pride.

  Ah, yes, pride, my alleged downfall. Human nature is particularly prone to it, and I am no exception. If I have a high opinion of myself, there is an excellent excuse for it. A favourable situation in society, the Darcy family name, and my considerable wealth demand pride. I contest anyone in this room to deny me that right. Even Elizabeth. Especially Elizabeth. My dearest hope is that one day she will share in that pride.

  The Bennet sisters curtsey and assure me of their well-being before the two youngest take their leave. Undoubtedly, Mother Mary and Catty scamper away in awe of my sophisticated colloquy. Fatigued by the raptures of his wife, Mr. Bennet is also slyly wandering off. Bingley’s attention has been duly captured by his paragon of virtue and her virtual gorgon of a mother. The latter is currently babbling about the Wickham wedding, but I have done my part in that sordid affair and cannot rejoice in it. That leaves a lovely lady and a mammering, milk-livered mumble-news standing in awkward silence; and we are both avoiding direct eye contact. Thankful Elizabeth cannot read minds, I have just realized how uncharitable have been my thoughts toward her family.

  Having said as little as civility allows, I venture another peek. Elizabeth is stunning, not only visually but also in the stupefying sense. I might as well have suffered a blow to the head, such is my inabili
ty to think or speak. Regrettably, she has been struck dumb by the same dread-bolted affliction; and during my summary scrutinies, fleeting impressions of surprise, pleasure, and embarrassment have all crossed her expressive face. She must wonder why I have returned if only to be tongue-tied, grave, cork-brained, and indifferent.

  I force myself to not fidget with my signet ring as I stare at the floor. Gleaning no inspiration from the wood’s pockmarked patina, I find myself, in truth, at variance with its age and polish. I would not normally describe Fitzwilliam Darcy as immature and unsophisticated, but at this very moment I feel as green as a fresh sprout in a garden. Eureka! I clear my throat unnecessarily and say, “I trust Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner are faring well, Miss Elizabeth.”

  “I thank you, yes, my aunt and uncle are very well.”

  Her quick, confused glance and answer do nothing to quell the earth-vexing unease. I dearly wish the Gardiners were here now to act as intermediaries in this problematic reunion. The endearing couple make conversation virtually effortless, and I shall be very reluctant to sever our acquaintance should I be rejected yet again by their niece.

  Will you forsake me, Elizabeth? Will you not, at the very least, raise those beloved eyes, beneath lashes so remarkably fine, and look upon me?

  Apparently not. Reasonably certain she is embarrassed, I do not entirely trust my own instincts. Past success in discerning her expressions and emotions has been abysmal. Sadly, I am only a true proficient at misconstruing the woman’s reactions. You, my dear Elizabeth, are a glorious mixture of bounteousness, intelligence, and mettle. What justification can there possibly be for shamefacedness?

  Fie upon it! Has my forcing Wickham down the throat of her family ruined the slim chance I visualized at Pemberley? I hold fast to the conviction those tender looks we exchanged were real and not another figment of my fecund fancy. I simply shall not permit that villainous, dissembling, motley-minded blackguard to come between us again. All I have accomplished regarding that rump-fed rats-bane was done with good intention. Of course, the road to hell is paved with good intentions; and I regret Lydia, that fool-born strumpet, had to become leg-shackled to a bawdy, bat-fowling codpiece.