A Most Civil Proposal (2 page)

He stopped short and groaned as the words sounded in his mind. He could almost see Miss Bennet looking up, first in surprise at his usual inability to speak clearly and then in disbelief as he testified to his inward struggles. Why could he not simply say he loved her beyond measure instead of starting out by saying he did not
want
to love her? Such explanations were unnecessary and, though true, could be construed as insulting since she was as cognizant of the disparity between their stations as he. His attraction to her was clear, and she must also be aware that those distinctions no longer mattered.

He resumed pacing, increasingly convinced that he would be unable to speak to her at all. His agitation increased as a sudden vision came to mind: he struggled to speak, he could not, and he turned to flee the garden, leaving Elizabeth behind in growing distress at being abandoned.

He closed his eyes.
I must do this right!

As he paced, his eyes swept over the writing desk and the sheets of stationery upon it, and he halted, struck by the memory of his time at Cambridge. Then, too, he had faced difficulties in presenting the results of his studies in the presence of his more easily spoken fellows. But he had been driven to overcome this perceived inadequacy on his part, and he had learned to compensate by preparing himself before his verbal addresses, marshalling his thoughts by committing them to paper, and subjecting them to rigorous analysis before giving them voice. He had not had to perform similar preparation since completing his studies, but the scheme appeared fitting to deal with his present apprehension.

He lost no time in taking the candle to the desk and seating himself. Selecting a pen and pulling a sheet of stationery in front of him, he opened the inkwell, dipped his pen, and began:

Miss Bennet, you must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you . . .

* * * * *

Darcy leaned back, massaging his shoulders to work out the cramps after long hours spent in intense concentration. His feet were chilled as the fire had long ago died down, but he regarded the many pages before him with a measure of satisfaction. The scores of corrections and even the sentences that were entirely marked through did not cause him embarrassment; he actually felt relief at having properly set down his first thoughts and then subjecting them to intense scrutiny. He had spoken them aloud, judging their impact on the only audience that really mattered — Miss Bennet — and made his changes ruthlessly. Several crumpled pages littered the top of the desk when entire passages were rejected in favour of copying the one or two worthy sentences to a new sheet. He could not imagine the mortification that would have resulted had he delivered his sentiments with no preparation. Though it could have no impact, of course, on her acceptance, the embarrassment of presenting himself in such a manner was not to be considered.

Gathering the pages into order, he pulled out a fresh sheet of stationery. The only remaining task was to make a fair copy of the written thoughts and then to burn the offending sheets before trying to get a bit of sleep before dawn . . .

Chapter 1

Thursday, April 9, 1812

When Elizabeth returned to the Parsonage after walking with Colonel Fitzwilliam, she went directly to her room as soon as the colonel left them. There she could think without interruption of all he had told her, and she soon found her anger rising as Mr. Darcy’s interference between her sister Jane and Darcy’s friend Mr. Bingley became more apparent. She had heretofore attributed the principal design and arrangement of separating them to Miss Bingley, but Colonel Fitzwilliam’s disclosures now pointed to Mr. Darcy as the offending conspirator. When she thought of how his pride, caprice, and arrogance had destroyed the chance for happiness of the most affectionate and generous heart in the world, she felt the tears sting her eyes. Further consideration of the matter brought on a headache, which worsened so towards evening that she determined not to attend the cousins at Rosings, where they were engaged to drink tea. Her friend Charlotte Collins, seeing that she was quite unwell, did not press her to go and, to the extent possible, prevented her parson husband from prevailing on her to attend even though he could not conceal his apprehension of Lady Catherine’s being rather displeased by her staying at home.

When they were gone, Elizabeth, as if intending to exasperate herself as much as possible against Mr. Darcy, chose for her employment the examination of all the letters Jane had written to her since her being in Kent. They contained no actual complaint, nor was there any revival of past occurrences or any communication of present suffering. But in all and in almost every line of each, there was a want of that cheerfulness which had used to characterize her style and which, proceeding from the serenity of a mind at at ease with itself and kindly disposed towards every one, had scarcely ever been clouded. Elizabeth noticed every sentence conveying the idea of uneasiness with an attention that it had hardly received on the first perusal. Mr. Darcy’s shameful boast to his cousin of what misery he had been able to inflict gave her a keener sense of her sister’s sufferings. It was some consolation to think that his visit to Rosings was to end on the day after next and a still greater consolation that she would be with Jane in less than a fortnight, able to contribute to the recovery of her spirits by all that affection could do.

She could not think of Darcy’s leaving Kent without remembering that his cousin was to go with him, but Colonel Fitzwilliam had made it clear that he had no intentions toward her at all, and agreeable as he was, she did not mean to be unhappy about him.

While settling this point, she was suddenly roused by the sound of the doorbell, and her spirits were a little fluttered by the idea of its being Colonel Fitzwilliam himself, who had once before called late in the evening and might now have come to inquire particularly after her. But this idea was soon banished, and her spirits were very differently affected when, to her utter amazement, she saw Mr. Darcy walk into the room.

* * * * *

Darcy had been surprised, nay he had been shocked, to discover that Elizabeth was not with the Parsonage party when they arrived for tea that evening. His preparations had been made, he had reviewed them in his mind, and he was comfortable with his planned approach. Now she had not attended, and he was thrown into disarray.

He wondered at her absence. She knew there was but one day before his departure. Could she truly be ill?

Sudden concern over her well-being replaced his anxiety, and he made an excuse to leave the room as soon as was practicable. He saw Fitzwilliam’s eyes raised in question, and he knew without having to look that her ladyship was not happy. In fact, he heard her loudly questioning his cousin as he exited the room: “Fitzwilliam! Where does my nephew go? Has he forgotten his duty to our guests?”

Any response that the colonel made was lost on Darcy as he went up the stairs and strode down the hallway to his room, surprising Jennings as he was laying out bedclothes and preparing for the morning.

“Mr. Darcy?”

“My hat and coat, Jennings,” Darcy demanded abruptly. The valet was clearly puzzled but said nothing as he quickly retrieved the coat and helped his master into it. He picked up a whisk, prepared to brush off the shoulders as usual, but Darcy was too impatient to wait. He waved Jennings off, snatched his gloves and hat from the bed, and turned for the door.

“Mr. Darcy, sir!” his valet exclaimed in distress.

“Yes?” he responded sharply, and Jennings swallowed at the impatient look on his face.

“Where shall you be if there are inquiries, sir?”

Darcy forced himself to calmness. Jennings could not know his intentions, but he had been with him too long not to recognize his employer’s uncharacteristic behaviour.

“If Lady Catherine asks, tell her that I am unwell and sought fresh air to alleviate my distress,” he said finally, his thoughts in such chaos that he found concentration nigh impossible.

“And if anyone else asks, sir?”

“Tell them whatever you please!”

The door closed abruptly as his footsteps echoed down the hall. Jennings remained standing, his mouth open in consternation as he stared after his departed employer, trying in vain to determine what could have brought about this agitated behaviour.

Even afterwards, Darcy could remember little of the rapid journey to the Parsonage until he rang the doorbell.

“Miss Bennet,” he told the surprised girl who answered the door. His stomach quivered in anticipation as she dropped a quick curtsey and then led him to the drawing room where the ladies habitually sat. Removing his hat and gloves while he followed, Darcy breathed deeply, trying to calm himself as he stepped into the room.

Miss Bennet looked up, the utmost surprise on her face, then stood to render a curtsey, and he was instantly lost. He had prepared himself, he knew what to say, and he knew how to say it, but suddenly his tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth, and he could speak not a word. His admiration for her threatened to choke him, and he chastised himself savagely —
Talk, you fool! Say something!

“Miss Bennet,” he finally forced out. “Mrs. Collins said you were feeling unwell. I thought . . . I thought to inquire whether you were feeling better.”

“I thank you for your concern, sir, and I have indeed improved,” she said in a tone of cold civility, and Darcy’s stomach tried to turn over at the tone of her voice.

Why is she so cold?
he asked himself.
Can she not see why I have come? Does she have no suspicion?

Darcy sat down, but he was still unable to speak. Suddenly, he could not remember any of what he had so carefully prepared, and he raged inwardly at being struck as dumb as the veriest dullard!

He stood and walked to the side of the room, to the window, and then back to his seat, his agitation increasing. Miss Bennet watched him silently, waiting and saying nothing. Abruptly, he remembered the papers in his pocket. As a student, his written preparations, placed carefully in a coat pocket, had served to give him the confidence to speak, but he had never needed to consult those notes. Their mere presence on his person had been sufficient, but in this instance, he suddenly knew that he required more assurance, and he at once pulled the papers from his coat and unfolded them.

As he looked at his written words, he felt a wave of calm sweep through his body. He closed his eyes in relief, and then, wasting no time, he began —

* * * * *

“Miss Bennet.”

Elizabeth looked up in renewed surprise at his words, but even more at his tone. Mr. Darcy had spoken her name with unaccustomed gentleness, almost as if he were caressing the words. She could not understand . . .

“Miss Bennet,” he continued as gently as before, “you must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”

Elizabeth’s astonishment was beyond expression. She stared at him in shock and felt a blush mount her cheeks. She could not account for his words and said nothing in return, a fact that evidently provided sufficient encouragement, for he continued.

“From the earliest moments of our acquaintance . . .”

Elizabeth looked down demurely, staring at her hands in her lap.

“I was impressed by your lively spirits, your warm heart, and your ease with all you meet. The more I saw, the more I was attracted, especially as these attributes are so lacking in my own person. I was soon bewitched and utterly lost though I did not realize it at first. I remember when you first came to Netherfield to tend your sister, your petticoats stained with mud but your cheeks bright with exertion and your hair windblown and enticing.”

Darcy watched Elizabeth keenly as she sat with a blush on her cheeks, unable to meet his gaze.

“I must confess I first wondered — and almost hoped — that you had come because of me, but I was soon disabused of that base thought as your concern for your sister showed your true merit. I was so used to being the object of all manner of plots and artifice by almost every unmarried girl and their ambitious mothers that I was unprepared for your artless devotion to your sister. Your actions proved me utterly wrong then and not for the last time. But I also was deeply impressed by your wit and your spirit, and I quite enjoyed crossing verbal lances with you at Netherfield and again here at Rosings. Even though,” he said wryly, “I was more often forced to retire from the field in defeat than otherwise.”

He consulted his notes again and continued, “I cannot fix on the time or the place when I knew I loved you. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun. But I soon began to imagine you every place I was wont to go: in my carriage, in my house in London, by my side at the theatre, and most especially at my home at Pemberley. When I saw you on your walks, I envisioned you on the many pathways at Pemberley. I saw you with Georgiana, being the sister that she never had, providing the advice and the example that I was not able to supply. I grew to realize that we could fit together well, that your liveliness would balance my reserved nature, and my knowledge and experience of the world, garnered over years of managing my own affairs, would work to your benefit.

“I know that I have not been able to speak clearly before now. Indeed, I have usually found myself so stricken in your presence that I have said what I did not intend and did not mean, and I have not been able to say that which I fully meant to say.” He frowned somewhat and then reddened slightly, looking again at his papers. “I have never been in love before — never even felt attraction before — and I know I have not presented myself to best effect. As you can see” — he waved his papers at her — “I was as speechless as ever until I retrieved my prepared notes. I have no skill at casual discourse, a talent so many others seem to exhibit with as little effort as breathing, a talent that I hope to improve upon in the future under your excellent tutelage. ”