A Little Whimsical in His Civilities

by J Marie Croft

  Several droning, dismal-dreaming, fen-sucked moments elapse; and I curse my inability to think of anything inventive to say. I admit I am disappointed and angry with both of us for being so uncomfortable. My eagerness to please and surprise her with an improved manner has not been cast aside; I am simply reluctant to cause a display in front of her mother. Yet this turmoil and uncertainty must be conquered. Why else have I come here? Irresolution is not to be borne! Sudden recollection of Aunt Catherine’s interference and information give me renewed hope and a tentative voice.

  “You must allow me to tell you how… nice you look this evening.”

  Those magnificent brown eyes finally look into mine, and I stifle a gasp. There it is! That devilish twinkle I so adore. A frisson of excitement tingles my spine and other regions of my body. Beware, Darcy, here there be mischief.

  “Very well, Mr. Darcy, you have my permission and may proceed.”

  What… proceed? “I beg your pardon?”

  “I am allowing you to say how nice I look this evening. You may continue to do so, sir.”

  Nice? Did I truly just say she looks nice? By God, I am ninny-hammer! For clarity’s sake, why not just reiterate that ghastly utterance about being tolerable but not handsome enough for temptation? I wish to say something sensible but know not how. Care must be taken since there is, apparently, no viable connection between my brain and my unruly tongue whenever I deign to speak in her presence.

  I wonder what would be Elizabeth’s reaction, though, if I spoke the truth aloud? Good God, woman, you look luscious enough to eat; and I am absolutely ravenous. Come, let me sample the delicious feel of you in my arms and the succulent flavour of your lips. Let me taste your flawless skin as I lick my way…

  “… and Mr. Darcy, any friend of Mr. Bingley’s will always be welcome at Longbourn to be sure.”

  Yow! Her mother’s voice, like a bucket of frigid water poured over my head, douses wayward thoughts. Thank you, madam, for successfully diverting a perilous proclivity.

  “Thank you, madam. It would be my pleasure to visit Longbourn again.”

  While Mrs. Bennet claims my divided attention, some dog-hearted rattle-pate slinks in and claims Elizabeth for the upcoming set. Gah! I am left to helplessly gawk as the currish, fly-bitten lout leads her away. What a gorbellied dunderhead! Whether I am referring to Elizabeth’s partner or myself, I cannot say.

  As they take their place in line, I notice with satirical eye that Bingley and his angel amuse themselves by, respectively, making mooncalf and cow eyes at one another. Speaking of eyes, the gimlet variety is presently being cast in my direction by Mrs. Bennet. Oh. Perhaps now would be a good time to give consequence to young ladies who are being slighted by other men. It would certainly demonstrate to Elizabeth my lack of selfish disdain for the feelings of others. Yes, excellent stratagem. Miss Catty, the younger Bennet chit, is presently engaged with a partner; however, I doubt anyone has offered to stand up with her dowdy, priggish sister. I chide myself for such uncharitable judgments of Elizabeth’s beloved siblings. Woe betide any surly scut with the effrontery to disparage my own precious Georgiana.

  Just as I step forward in search of Mary Bennet, Elizabeth turns and looks directly at me. It is a steady, contemplative gaze, eloquent and powerful enough to stop me mid-stride. We stare yearningly at one another, at least that is the way I regard her, until the rattle-pate reclaims her attention. As the dancers wait in line for the music to begin, I walk past with a pronounced bounce in my step. Recognition of a beknighted voice collapses the short-lived ebullience.

  “What a handsome couple you and Miss Eliza make, Mr. Robinson. Oh, capital, capital! Then again, when so much beauty is before a man, how could he possibly resist the inducement of such a desirable partner?”

  It still gets my goat to hear him refer to Elizabeth as a desirable partner. He speaks, of course, of dancing rather than any other sort of congress; but, gag a maggot, the goatish coxcomb exhibits an unhealthy fascination with Elizabeth. I must not, under any circumstance, give in to the temptation of planting the man a facer. I am trying to garner Elizabeth’s regard, not prove pugilistic prowess. Although pugilism has the advantage of being in vogue amongst polished societies, every savage can punch. I am not a barbarian. I close my eyes for a second of civilized respite before acknowledging the man.

  “Good evening, Sir William.”

  “Mr. Darcy, what a pleasure it is to see you again at our little assembly. Allow me to introduce to you Mr. and Mrs. Cornelius Linville and their lovely daughter Elinor.”

  I have already been introduced to more than enough countrified … more than enough strange … more than enough new people than I care for this evening. Whilst in the midst of a crucial judgment, it is not so pleasant to be making new acquaintances every minute. Yet I am here to exhibit improved manners; and for Elizabeth’s sake, I would do anything. I grit my teeth, smile, and wonder why Miss Linville flinches… until I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the pier glass between the windows. Bloody hell! My smile obviously requires a bit more practice. It will not do to be scaring away women and children (and perhaps even faint-hearted men) with such an onion-eyed, unchin-snouted grimace.

  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 li
ke 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.

  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.

  You still have my love and admiration,

  Though rejection caused much aggravation.

  Unless I’m acquitted,

  I’ll be Bedlam-committed.

  I, therefore, beg for your approbation.

  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 o
f 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?”