“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.
I touch my forehead to hers and, while breathing heavily, say, “I beg you, most fervently, to relieve my suffering and consent to become my wife at the earliest possible date. With influential connections such as mine, a special license can be procured directly. I shall not abide a protracted engagement.”
As much as I ache to particularly engage Elizabeth, I wonder whether I am being opportunistic and overbearing. I have grown accustomed to making all my own decisions, as well as those affecting Pemberley and my sister, since father’s passing. My orders are obeyed without question, and I am in the habit of expecting instant gratification. It has become second nature to act in a manner which constitutes my own satisfaction without reference to any person wholly unconnected with me. Now that Elizabeth and I shall be irrevocably connected, I imagine she will have something to say against such an imperious standpoint. Although her lessons will be hard, indeed, at first, I shall learn to respect her counsel. As I do now.
We resolve that her father’s consent should be sought straightaway and that her mother be kept in the dark till the morning, so to speak. With Elizabeth’s hand on my arm, we return to the assembly; and I immediately request a moment of Mr. Bennet’s time.
* * *
All is well.
The siren call that lured me here has been answered, my hopes have not been dashed upon the rocks, and the tide of my unpopularity has been favourably turned in this welcoming sea. There shall be nothing henceforth but smooth sailing… although this past hour was certainly not without turbulence. Mr. Bennet blustered and made waves when I applied for Elizabeth’s hand. He eventually gave his blessing but not before his wife caught wind of my petition. Elizabeth’s mother went quite distracted; and we had to solicit the services of Mr. Jones, the accommodating apothecary, to administer one of his tranquilizing physics.
The ball is now over, Elizabeth has taken her leave, the Bennet carriage is pulling away, and Bingley and I must return to Netherfield alone. Until I see my betrothed again, time shall elapse as if regulated by a broken timepiece. I will, undoubtedly, grow increasingly impatient with the restrictions Mr. Bennet has placed on our engagement; yet I shall show him by every civility within my power that I am worthy of his daughter’s esteem.
Before entering Bingley’s carriage, I notice the harvest moon has risen high in the sky and now appears quite normal; yet it still presides over the most idyllic and extraordinary night of my life.
As we roll along the road leading to my friend’s estate, I settle back onto the plush upholstery squabs, close my eyes, and sigh. It is a sigh of relief, contentment, and yearning. The yearning I shall abide, for it is of a measurable duration this time. I will visit Longbourn every morning as early as civility will allow and remain as late as Elizabeth’s parents will countenance. Most importantly, my days as a single man in want of a wife are numbered. Strange. I do not remember ever thinking of myself as being ‘in want of a wife‘ until I was introduced to the Bennet family.
When we arrive at Netherfield, Bingley invites me to join him for a brandy; but strong spirits are neither desired nor required. Unaccustomed to such powerful emotions, tonight’s anxiety and exhilaration have taken their toll on me. I decline his offer and climb the stairs to my private chambers, where my trusty valet helps me prepare for bed.
Before succumbing to a deep and untroubled slumber, the events leading up to this moment are reviewed, including the bathing scenari
o; and I give thanks providence impelled me to return to the scene of my initial asinine impropriety. My final thought of the night answers my first of the evening. Have I a right to such a very strong local attachment? You bet your plume-plucked, pox-marked, weather-bitten ar … Pardon. You bet your sweet, sweet life I have!
— Finis ~
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A Little Whimsical in His Civilities Page 5
