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Chapter 14, Part 3

Posted On: Sunday, 2 March 2003, at 2:52 p.m.

When Colonel Foxtrot appears, he is garbed in plainclothes and very surprised to see me in the Bennet's parlor. We nod to each other before he rivets his gaze back to Miss Mary, who now stands before her chair greeting the orange hairball with squared shoulders and a challenging smile. I almost wait for her to whip out a slingshot from behind her back and nail him between the eyes with a pebble, but alas, my wishes remain unfulfilled. Much to my surprise, Mrs. Bennet recites her welcomes in somewhat subdued tones, but upon further observation I attribute her muted spirits to the stern expression Colonel Foxtrot assumes when she approaches him. After showing him to a seat and pointing out the pastries, the fluttery, intimidated woman is content to shrink back into her chair, where she watches further proceedings with a bright and darting eye.

As soon as the hulk sits, Miss Mary clears her throat and nods towards me, a gesture that elicits a sigh from her suitor. "Now?" he fairly groans, sounding rather tired.

"If he is already here, Colonel, you cannot lose another moment," she insists.

My bafflement resolves when Colonel Foxtrot turns to me and holds out an olive branch. "I wish to make peace with you, Mr. Hurst," he says, glancing sidelong at Miss Mary. Rather than finding approval, he is met with a raised brow. "And with your wife, as well," he adds. "Immediately. It is uncharitable, after all, to hold my grudge further."

An image suddenly pops into my head wherein Foxtrot is chained to a chariot being driven by Mary Bennet, and she is wearing a pharaoh's headdress and a fake beard, all while wielding a whip, which she periodically applies to his backside...

"Hurst?" he says, frowning at me.

"Why, yes, certainly," I mumble. Thus our tentative truce is formed and sealed by a nod from Judge Mary. As good will commences to reign in all quarters, Mrs. Bennet draws me into conversation, asking me again about Bingley's holdings. I'm very hard-pressed to attend both to my hostess's tiresome queries and the conversation unfolding between the slave and master. Opting for the latter, I can hardly guess what answers I'm giving Mrs. Bennet. For all I know, I might be telling her that Bingley is really worth twenty thousand a year, that he owns a sizeable chunk of Canada, and that his townhouse in London is actually a seraglio stocked with lusty concubines and hordes of illegitimate children.

"I'm now certain that an onus has been lifted from your soul," Miss Mary is saying. "Do you not agree?"

"Indeed I do," he concedes. "You were right yesterday to suggest that I make a peace-offering. And I'm relieved that you persuaded me to confess to the remnants of my ill-will and the shocking details of all my past misdeeds."

Miss Mary nods and briefly pats his arm in a manner intended to convey pity in its purest form. As he looks down at her hand, his brow lifting up to expose an oddly gleaming eye, she continues. "I am tolerably satisfied that you are able to see wisdom. Your actions do you credit, and you are daily earning my esteem." She takes a sagely bite of pastry and waits for him to have the next word.

Just as I am beginning to think that Foxtrot is entirely subordinated, he recovers some of his authority with a quip that resonates more with his old, rakish self rather than the humble, pious man before me. "If that is so, then I must rejoice, for to earn the esteem of such a lady, when her teeth are like a flock of sheep all shaped alike, which have come up from the washing, all of them paired, and not one of them missing..."

"Colonel Foxtrot!" Miss Mary exclaims, nearly dropping her pastry.

"And hair," he muses, with a strange quirk of his lips. "Hair like a flock of goats trailing down from Mount Gilead."

"That is quite enough!" she hisses, a blush creeping up her cheeks.

"May I ask why you are offended?" he inquires, stroking his moustache in - Good Lord! - a highly suggestive manner. "I am merely quoting from-"

"King Solomon's Song of Songs," she concludes in a breathless whisper.

"I am impressed," he counters. "May I assume then, that you are well-acquainted with the work in question?"

"Yes, I mean no, well..." she falters. "A little."

"Then you cannot fault me for lewdness. After all, I could have conjured up a pair of fawns pasturing among the lilies."

Pair of fawns? What the blazes is he talking about? Miss Mary is scarlet by this point, and I think that any moment now she will have him removed from her presence. Even Foxtrot begins to look a little nervous, no doubt wondering if he has overstepped his bounds.

"I..." she begins, shifting a little in her seat and wrestling with her spectacles. "It was indeed good of you to... to leave the fawns unspoken for."

The relief on Foxtrot's face is palpable, though, flipping his braids over his shoulders, he also assumes a slightly self-satisfied air. The two remain quiet for a short time, each no doubt assessing the power of the other. I think Foxtrot emerges as the victor in what he says next:

"Now, if yesterday I was made to tell you of my failings, I believe today you should divulge a few of your own transgressions."

The formerly blushing Mary is now quite pale. "I see no reason to," she hedges.

"It is only fair," he insists, sitting back and folding his arms over his belly.

She looks over at Mrs. Bennet and myself - supposedly in the depths of a meaningful conversation - and then glances over at her eldest sister, still absorbed with her bonnet. "Hmmm..." she mutters. "I still think it highly inappropriate. Besides, I am an innocent creature; I don't know what I would tell you."

"Are you attributing perfection to yourself?" he inquires, his expression austere. "Where is the humility I have come to expect from a young lady such as yourself?"

I study him closely and surmise that he's just as serious as he is teasing. I wonder why she refrains from booting him out of the house; after all, he is anxious for her hand, and not vice versa. Or am I correct on that account? Watching her, the way she looks at him sometimes, one could say that she's not resenting his company.

"I am very humble," she insists. "In fact, you will find few humbler than myself." Sighing, she looks down at her lap. "Very well," she grumbles. "I shall tell you of a few of my... less than exemplary moments." Raising her eyes to his she resumes. "Occasionally, when I am practicing music and my younger sisters are prattling in my ears, I am sometimes overcome with the urge to stuff both of them into the pianoforte. The scene can become so vivid in my mind... their muffled squeals, their legs sticking up out of the instrument... but it is rather uncharitable to contemplate such a deed. As for my father, he's a sensible man, but he doesn't take church very seriously, and I believe that I haven't tried hard enough to convince him of its merits. He never wishes to discuss the sermon during the midday meal, and I feel as if my efforts to broach the topic have not been strident enough. Perhaps I've been too lax in this regard. I believe a similar failing applies to my mother, as well. She is a... a good woman, but places far too much emphasis on outer beauty and, although I've attempted to show her the value of inner worth - by keeping my garb humble and modest, for instance - I think I've failed to influence her." She takes a deep breath. "Their characters, Colonel, remain largely untouched by my appeals... so much so that I wonder sometimes how I carry on."

I wonder how Foxtrot will handle her sudden descent into low spirits, and watch as he pats her arm in a gesture echoing her own expression of pity from before. Only, his sentiments extend beyond pity, for his hand slides down to grasp her own, which he lifts to his lips and kisses. She looks up at him in flustered surprise, while he utters, in grave and sincere tones, "Such matters would disturb only a lady of your probity and virtue, madam. Indeed, you possess those qualities that I cherish and respect above all else."

Not a touch of teasing in his voice. He relinquishes her hand, which she slowly lowers back to her lap, and suddenly I'm aware of a complete void of silence in my left ear, which was - until this point - jammed with Mrs. Bennet's voice. I turn to the lady and find her twitchy and pleased, eyes roving from her middle child to the fiery Foxtrot.

I exploit the tender moment by finishing my pastry. But something goes horribly wrong in the process. As I am popping the last bit of crust into my mouth, my tongue chances to flick against my fingers, and I am assaulted with a most horrendous taste, something like a mix of brine, runny eggs, and castor oil. Gagging in sudden horror, I realize that this very hand is the same one that I ground into Collins's mere minutes ago.

You fool, I think, feeling myself go queasy, a more sensible individual would have taken care to switch hands before eating! To the surprise of all, I sway to my feet, settle a palm on my stomach, and stumble out of the room. Collecting my coat and gloves along the way, I step out of doors and gulp in enormous mouthfuls of fresh air.

Collins, though, chooses to make his appearance at that moment, with a very exasperated Miss Elizabeth at his side. The taste of him still burned into my mouth, I can barely look at him as he bows. "Tell me you are not leaving," he says, "for our acquaintanceship, although rather brief, has proven to be the zenith of my day... that is, aside from the charming walk I took," he adds with a sly glance at his cousin.

"I cannot stay," I choke. "I must pay call to Sir Lucas at the moment, and-"

"May I join you?" Miss Elizabeth desperately cuts in. "I have not seen Charlotte for so long, and now would be a most... opportune time to visit her."

"Yes, certainly," I agree. For a moment I'm afraid that Collins will ask to come, so I tell him, "Mr. Collins, Mrs. Bennet would be most insulted, I believe, if you did not go indoors right this moment and eat a pastry. She had them baked especially for you."

His hand flutters to his mouth. "Oh, my," he murmurs. "If that is indeed the case, then I cannot possibly refuse. To insult such a charming, brilliant hostess would be a sin worthy of hell's deepest circle!"

As he departs, Miss Elizabeth and I step into Bingley's coach, she taking the seat opposite me. "I must thank you," she sighs.

"Think nothing of it at all. Though follies are always amusing to observe, of some pleasures a little goes a long way."

She smiles and chuckles. "I believe we are in agreement, sir."

The next few moments pass in silence, and I notice that she begins to look a little discomfited, almost as if she is wrestling with some question that she's afraid to voice. "Mr Hurst?" she finally ventures. "Would I be too... forward in asking you something?"

"Well that depends on the question. If you wish to know of my appalling opium habit or my current stint as a French spy, I'll be very hard-pressed to enlighten you."

My nonsense has the intended effect, provoking a merry little laugh from her. "Very well; let me be forthright. Was that girl that Wickham laid designs on... was she Mr. Darcy's sister?"

I shift in my seat. "I'm not certain that I can relate that to you, madam."

"I shan't breathe a word of it to anyone, not even to Jane!"

"I still think it is not my place to tell you. All I can say is that you are an astute young lady, and I beg you to leave it at that."

Her eyes close briefly, as if in pain, and she shakes her head. "I am not always as astute as I believe myself to be," she whispers. Then, looking up again, she adds, "Please... tell me what Miss Darcy is like. Wickham called her proud and-"

"Ah, so Wickham spoke to you?" I mutter. "Well, I can safely tell you that Miss Darcy has not a bit of misplaced pride in her. She is a shy and sweet young lady."

Miss Elizabeth nods, swallowing hard. "And what of her brother?" she asks.

I study her face but find no regard. "What do you know of her brother?" I reply.

She smirks. "I know - now at least - that he is not a fiend. What he is, though, is rather difficult to say. I find that it's hard to enumerate his good qualities."

I shrug. "Well, Darcy's a difficult man. Very difficult."

She appears thoughtful for a moment and then smiles again. "I suppose I could refine my method of character assessment. In all honesty, Mr. Hurst, my first impression of you was not-"

"Hardly anyone has a good first impression of me," I counter.

The carriage pulls up the Lucas drive, where the two of us are surprised to see the Bennet coach already standing outside the door. As we disembark, Mr. Bennet steps out of doors and - after exchanging a brief greeting with his daughter, who promptly disappears within - he ambles over to me.

"I beat you to it!" he teases. "While you were idling away in the parlor, no doubt enjoying the circus act, I treated myself to a conversation with Sir William. And not a moment too soon, it seems. Denny already visited the good man yesterday and persuaded him to hand over, at some future time, a sum of money to invest in a phrenological society in Ireland. Ever heard of phrenology?"

"Mmmmhmmm," I wearily reply.

"In any case, Lucas was not the only one solicited. They went to at least six other families, including the Kings-"

"They?"

"Yes, Wickham is his new partner in business."

"Splendid. So what's to become of their money then?"

"They did not hand anything over yet. I believe what I'll do at this point is visit the other families and warn them against it." Upon stating his purpose, he slouches and shakes his head. "I'm a bit piqued," he says. "My plans for the evening involved supper, brandy, and the last of Tristram Shandy, not any of this door-to-door heroics."

"It is admirable of you," I murmur, surprised by his unexpected resolution.

"Take care not to flatter me, Mr. Hurst. Your words might spur me to even greater levels of activity and then what would become of my native indolence?"

Sympathetic as I am with his love of rest and quiet, I can't help but add, "Perhaps it would also be helpful to speak with Colonel Forster. If all of Hertfordshire's families refuse to invest in their schemes, perhaps they will be... unreasonably irritated."

Mr. Bennet mulls over my words. "No..." he says at last, removing his hat and fanning his face, "I don't believe that's necessary. Once they realize that they cannot dupe anyone here, they shall merely resign themselves to their posts as officers."

Initially I find myself ready to disagree. The notion of Wickham and Denny extracting some form of revenge settles too palpably in my mind. But his hat... I watch it slowly rise and fall, breathing lazy currents of air against his closed eyes... with a sigh I remove my own hat and do the same, and so it is that the two of us stand side by side for a while longer, savoring idleness. Wickham and Denny dissolve from my head, even when Mr. Bennet finally goes off to speak with the heads of Hertfordshire's other estates.

I would at this point normally give you an account of the rest of my week, dwelling on Darcy's unceasing dislike, Bingley's buoyant cheer, and - I must confess with the sharpest pang in my heart - my new ritual upon awakening, which involves sending out a clumsy hand to the very empty other half of my bed. It is a dull week... that is, until Saturday. Because Saturday, dear reader, becomes my day for relief and rejoicing. No, make that Relief and Rejoicing... capital letters for a capital day.

The more minor contribution to that day's contentedness involves Darcy. After breakfast, I find myself strolling down the hallway to the library, eager for some solitude. A few paces from the door though, I am surprised by Darcy, who pops out of an adjacent passage and nearly walks into me. The two of us spring back and grow still, my eyes on his face, his eyes on mine - a proud lion and an enormous water buffalo sizing each other up on the African plains.

I am almost overcome with the urge to paw the ground and snort, but restrain the animal within, opting instead to wonder why on earth he hasn't turned away by now. I've rarely seen him stiffer; perhaps if I tap his shoulder, he'll tip over like a chess piece.

I don't know how long we stand outside the library door - a regular pair of principled idiots - until we simultaneously extend our hands towards the coveted room, indicating that the other should enter first. So ridiculous are these mirrored gestures of courtesy that I begin to laugh. Through eyes slitted with mirth I see a dark frown, a tight lip and then... empty space. Oh, dear, I think, clutching my stomach, I've driven him off. With a sigh and perhaps less remorse than I should be feeling, I saunter into the library, thinking that now I shall have it all to myself.

Not so. Darcy's backside presents itself to me as he pokes around at some uppermost shelf, for once leaving a trail of skewed books in his wake. He then throws himself into the nearest armchair and turns his eyes to his selection. I take a seat opposite him and absent-mindedly pluck out a book from a pile next to me.

Hamlet. I've chosen Darcy's favorite play. Maybe my pick is a sign that I should be making an overture of reconciliation. But what reconciliation? Were we ever really friends? I can't count the number of times we've been at each other's throats, though perhaps not as savagely as last Sunday. I think him too stiff; he thinks me too slovenly. I sneer at his kingly airs; he sniffs at my lower class crudeness. Oh, the number of times I've wanted to grab a fistful of his hair and drag him out to some scummy pond or cold river and pitch him in face first!

But then I think of the past week and its comparative dullness to the rest of my stay in Hertfordshire and realize that it's not only Louisa's absence that I've missed, but Darcy's as well. I have come to rely on this chap for intelligent conversation and - when the mood strikes him - some wickedly wry humor. He's well-informed, well-read, scathingly witty, and occasionally comes out with the most unexpected quip. However, none of this humor extends to himself. Find a flaw in the mighty Mr. Darcy, and you'll be blasted with a glare so cold that icicles will sprout from your nose. You see, not only is he proud enough to believe that his station requires certain mannerisms such as lifting one's nose and posing like the statue of a dead general, he is also at heart a man of very high standards. Keep in mind that he inherited his parents' fortune and sister's guardianship at an age when most men are still idling over their schoolbooks or carousing through town. I have visited Pemberley on a few occasions already and must say that it's impeccably run - everything neat, orderly, and efficient. And, believe it or not, he treats his servants kindly as well. His housekeeper still talks of him as if he's an apple-cheeked little boy, the menservants all say that he is judicious, and the women... well, Rupert always had a very hard time wooing Darcy's maidservants because, more often than not, they were too busy admiring their master instead, particularly his bottom.

Granted, none of his employees has ever called him 'genial' or 'open,' but they like him nonetheless. His sister I can safely say adores him. Though I suspect that she's a little intimidated by him, too, her love is otherwise unclouded; she thinks him the brightest torch of virtue and knowledge. I wonder... all of these eyes upon him, upon his conduct, day in and day out, and this inflexible man forcing himself to remain impeccable and dignified throughout. Failure? Failure is unacceptable! For instance, this past Wednesday he shut himself in Bingley's study for nearly four hours and, when I asked Bingley about the occasion for this rigor, my brother replied that Darcy was sorting through three tenant disputes via post, for his steward had failed to resolve them in a manner worthy of approbation from his master. I can only imagine how he must have swallowed down the Ramsgate affair, that near loss of his sister and his miscalculation of Mrs. Younge's character. I believe he must have bruised himself sorely over such a lapse in judgment, though the world will never know to what extent. He would think it unseemly to allow others a glimpse of his self-reproach.

I refocus on the present and find his eyes boring into my own. Good Lord! Have I been staring at him all this while? I tear away from his glare and force my attention on the words, words, words... cannot concentrate... must not look up... oh, there I go, looking up... did he just look down?... is he staring at me, too?... must look at the page again... I know nothing, my lord... Ophelia, insanely boring as ever... could he be looking at me... now!... yes, he is, ha ha!... I'm not the only mad fool in the room... yes, look down again, Darcy... I'm on to your little game... silence... silence... silence... wow, he hasn't turned a page in a LONG time... strange, because I've always thought him to be a quick reader... surely he's reading... don't look up, Hurst... all right, I'm looking up... he appears to be concentrating... come on, Darcy, turn a page, turn a bloody page... turn over a new leaf... he looks up... I don't look down... he closes his book... I close mine... and then...

"Oh, for crying out loud!" I exclaim. "I apologize for the way I spoke to you last Sunday! It's not my business to point out your flaws... in such a callous manner, that is."

Now that's a fine apology if I ever heard one. Hurst, you golden-tongued god of eloquence, you've done it again!

At first, his eyes lower to his book, his finger toying with the edge of the paper. Then, with unusual nonchalance, he turns to a new page and casually inquires, "Is that Hamlet that you're reading? I believe we had an argument over it once. It would do you well to read it again... you might find much to change your opinion."

I blink and almost let the book slide out of my lap. Was that an acceptance of my apology? At the moment, I really don't care. As long as he's capable of speech towards me again, I'm secure in the knowledge that my partner in all manners of intellect and truculence is back. Throughout the rest of the time in the library, the two of us continue a tentative exchange of ideas and managing, on the whole, not to kindle a dispute.

I don't realize it then, but Darcy's response to my pathetic venture towards peace indicated a subtle change in his attitude. The fact that he bothered to speak to me less than a week after I called him, among other things, proud, miserable, and blind, showed evidence of a greater lenience in him. That Saturday I do not think of the implications of his reply; in fact, the thought will only occur to me over a week later, when he and I are in the throes of one of the most weighty trials of our lives. For now, I give his reaction to me no further thought, especially not after I go to bed, when the greatest reason for my joy this Saturday makes her appearance sometime before midnight. Yes, it is around this time that my wife steps through Netherfield's front doors, met by a small cluster of tired servants and a happy Bingley who, as a lighter sleeper, hears the noise downstairs. I only know of her arrival when, somehow in my sleep I sense a shift in the mattress next to me. True to my morning ritual (now a nightly habit apparently), I throw my hand out to the other side of the bed, where it collides with something soft that isn't a pillow (though could be mistaken for one) and is not a blanket, either (yes, far too firm to be a blanket).

"Oh, dear, I see that I've woken you up," says a weary voice. "I tried not to."

For once in my life, I rouse immediately. No eye-glue this time, I promise you. And after waking up, I turn over with a tremendous flop and lay eyes on the form and face of my wife, settling back into the mattress again after the tremor. I think I must look very stupid at this point, because she sighs and releases a mocking little giggle.

"If I poke you now," I mumble, "you won't vanish up in smoke, will you?"

"I believe not," she assures me with a yawn.

It takes me a moment to process this information. My mental machinery whirs, a stack of conclusions assembles in my head, and the next brilliant question drops onto my tongue. "What if I poke you hard?"

She sighs. "Do it then. Poke me hard, you fool."

I extend my forefinger and jab her upper arm. She's still there. Then I try her shoulder. Yes, still there. Now I aim a little lower, for her belly. She dissolves into laughter. Excellent! Experiment concluded, results entirely satisfying. It is only then that I notice the pair of dark half-moons under her eyes.

"You're tired," I say, acquiring a new tendency to utter the obvious.

"Mmmmhmmm..." she replies.

"What are you doing traveling by night? And... and you're back early, too."

"Are you not happy that I am?" she inquires, lifting her brow and attempting to place her hands on her hips (very difficult to do, seeing that she's lying on her side).

"I'm very happy that you are!" I assert with such vehemence that her arms relax, and she wearily smiles. "But," I add, "I'm not happy that you seem so very exhausted. Was it too tiring, to keep a pregnant lady occupied?"

"A spoiled pregnant lady," she hisses, mouth tightening.

I swallow hard, realizing that I've just hit on a very sore topic. "What is it?" I murmur, taking her hand in my own.

She looks down at where our hands meet and gives mine a squeeze. "The first day," she sighs, "was quite a lot of fun. Very much like old times." Her brows knit in a way that I'm beginning to find rather adorable (when her irritation isn't directed at me, of course). "Then the second day, well, it was also full of amusements, all the delicious talk of the town but then, by evening I grew so tired, and I didn't stay up much with her." She withdraws her hand from my own and, leaning into the pillow, tucks it alongside her other hand under her head. "On the third day again, more titillating conversation of the sort you'd never approve of, but again I began to grow unaccountably tired of it. Did you know, Hurst, that - as wonderful as it is to hear of this lady's marriage and that lady's divorce - after two whole days such conversation can grow rather wearisome?"

"I can only imagine."

"In any case, I grew more bored and then oh, she's an awful woman, Gilroy."

"Because she doesn't gossip in small doses?"

"Not that," she whispers, a tremble coursing through her lower lip.

"Louisa, what happened?" I whisper.

She passes a hand before her eyes. "Nothing."

"Then why are you about to cry?"

"Oh, just be quiet, will you?" she breathes and abruptly buries her face in the crook of my neck. Though she isn't sobbing, I can feel tears trickling onto my skin. I begin to stroke her hair and the arm that's thrown tightly around my shoulder, all the while wondering what that she-demon said to upset Louisa so.

We lie in silence for sometime before my wife withdraws her head. However, rather than falling back upon her own pillow, she looks long and hard at my face and, to my utterly delighted surprise, plants a brief kiss on my lips. Arms still thrown about my neck, she follows up on her impulsive action by flashing a rather vixenish smile, one that I suddenly cover with my own mouth.

I don't know how long our lips remain locked, only that when we finally break apart, we're both gasping like landed fish. She raises a hand to her lips, her eyes very bright but not with unshed tears this time. "Gilroy," she sighs, "that was astonishing."

"Indeed," I pant back. "I wonder what on Earth I did right this time."

She laughs, and I'm possessed by the urge to see if my prowess is only a fluke. After several more exchanges, I come to the conclusion that it's not. Of course, the fact that I'm employing my skills on a rather enthusiastic partner certainly helps. Who cares if you can kiss like Don Juan when all that really matters is mutual eagerness?

Rational thought further proceeds to evaporate when she grabs the tight little curls at the back of my head with one hand, while her other hand begins to roam about in a most... pleasant manner. Eyes closed and mouth occupied, I can scarcely credit where my own limbs are straying, only that I'm beginning to feel less cloth and more skin. Suddenly, out of a haze it seems, I feel her move back, gradually ending our interlude.

Through swimming eyes I fondly note the flush on her face and appreciate the rise and fall of her breathing through a very skewed nightgown. But then she whispers, "Gilroy, not tonight."

"What?" I sigh, blinking.

"It... not tonight. It wouldn't be very comfortable tonight."

My disappointment is extremely keen. I attempt to offer her a weak smile while uttering, "Why, yes, of course, traveling that long distance, you must be tired, indeed."

"No, it's not that," she insists, clasping my hand with her own.

Mastering the impulse to pull her back against me, I ask, "Then what is it?"

The flush of passion has turned to the bright pinkness of embarrassment. "I don't know how to say this," she begins, lowering her eyes.

I wiggle a little closer to her. "Say what?" I breathe.

Her hand comes to rest against my chest. "Well..."

"Well what?"

"Must you insist on making this difficult?" she cries, kissing my chin and proceeding to whisper her answer in my ear.

"Oh," I say knowingly, nodding my head and patting her shoulder. Then I frown. "Wait, what's that?"

She sighs and covers her face with her hands. With a deeper blush, she starts anew. "You see, Gilroy, about once a month..."

By the end of her delineation, I'm quite enlightened. "I see. It all sounds rather inconvenient."

"Tell me about it," she moans, laying a hand on her stomach. I replace her hand with my own and gently move it in circles until her body begins to relax more.

"So," I venture, "when can you... we...?"

"How about the night of the ball?" she suggests. "This Tuesday?"

"I suppose I can wait," I grumble, to which she giggles. Yawning then, she plants a kiss on my cheek and burrows under the blanket.

To be truthful, I'm not entirely frustrated about the delay. Setting our... tryst? Yes, tryst sounds absolutely delicious... for the night of the ball, a very special night in its own right, shall give me more time to plan. You see, in the past our passion was less a roaring fire and more a sputtering candle but it cannot remain that way from now on. Especially now that I feel closer to this woman than I have since... since... since.

Yes, an artful seduction is in order. No more bungling, as in years past. Not that I was ever brutish, mind you, but merely... uninspiring. Oh, but tonight I could have been very inspiring! Stop... no use pouting, Hurst. Tuesday night, the flambeaux will burn, the Earth will quake, and the angels... the angels will break out the brandy and swagger on the celestial dance floor. You have to make sure of it.

Chapter Fifteen – Part One

Posted on Friday, 14 March 2003

The few days leading to the ball pass in a pleasant fashion. Though I’m still anxious to know about the wounding comment her former governess made, I can’t tell you how relieved I am that Louisa returned home much like she was before she left. I’m increasingly amazed at the number of topics we are able to discuss in a rational manner, and that we can go for entire stretches of time – occasionally as long as a quarter of an hour! – without resorting to snide comments or exasperated eye-rolling. Not only that, but she really enjoys the poetry book I got her and makes me read from it every night.

Now, if you will recall, the volume on Shakespeare’s flowers was not the only one that found its way into my possession during that visit to Meryton’s bookshop. Though I am exceedingly embarrassed to admit it, I am also the owner of A Pirate’s Plunder, the swaggering tale of the soft-hearted pirate – Clarence Lawley is his name – and his beloved: the mewling, drooling, long-legged, narrow-minded princess, Bess. Why do I still have this piece of nonsense with me? Why did I not immediately commit it to flame the moment Louisa returned with her mind intact? Well… don’t laugh, but… all right, laugh all you want, you insensitive little… oh, this is so hard to say… well, I’m sort of using it for… ideas on how to… ehem, seduce my wife.

Excuse me while I crawl under a table, sofa, or chair and die of embarrassment. But before I do, let me say that as awful as that book is, it presents a general notion of what a woman might find enticing. So I devote some time each day to leafing through it – only a little bit of time – and glean a few seductive ideas.

Rule number one: I must strive to be a brawny, long-haired, well-muscled baritone who speaks perfect French, plays the lute, mends his own clothes, and… holy Lord, by Caroline’s standards, this pirate is a truly accomplished individual! Rule number two: I must walk about with my shirt half-ripped from my body. Rule number three: I have to carry a rose between my teeth. And if it gets to the point where my mouth is otherwise occupied (oh, I can see your lascivious little minds churning away now!), the rose must be tucked behind my ear, thorns or no thorns.

Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. I must admit that some of these maxims will never apply to me. For instance, how could I possibly learn to mend my own clothes in three days’ time? And the lute! Don’t get me started on the lute! But, other than that, I’m in rather good shape. Indeed.

I suppose I could also consult Rupert, but I’m too mortified to broach the topic with him, especially when it pertains to the uncertain state of my own abilities. I’m so afraid that he’ll tease me, and that I’ll be too put out to think of a witty rejoinder. By Monday though I’m a little desperate for advice, and so, after a few incoherent false starts and stammering asides, I finally work up the courage to ask him a few questions.

Unfortunately, he chooses that moment to relay the one key piece of information that clouds my day. "Gil," he says, after nicking me a few times during the morning’s shave, "a letter came in for you at dawn today." He hands me the missive, and I see that it’s from Henry Fitzwilliam. Eagerly I tear it open and read the following:

Dear Gilroy,

What do sheep, France, and careless colonels all have in common? Welcome to Matlock, my friend, where the flock is feisty and the lunacy never ends. I expected that, after Rosings, I would be able to retire to my London home, catch up on the latest politics, and indulge in books and brandy to my heart’s content. But, as it turns out, my leisurely plans were dashed by one very idiotic younger brother.

As I may have told you, the Colonel (who, if you ever chance to meet him, will most likely not strike you as an addle-brained fool) was recently given a year’s leave from the military. So zealously involved was he in the current war against the French, that his superiors thought it best that he replenish his mind with a much-deserved rest. Off he went to Matlock then, to pay our parents a long overdue visit, but apparently he couldn’t quite escape from his long-held military mindset. Maneuvers and stratagems and espionage were evidently so entrenched in his brain that he was unable to go for one day without venting these war-mongering impulses. And vent them he did.

Not content to idle away his time drinking tea, smoking cigars, and behaving in a generally civilized manner, my brother turned his mischief loose upon Matlock’s prized flock of sheep. Apparently, he scrounged enough money to pay off our shepherds and employ them in the gleeful task of orchestrating a mock battle between English and French. He divided the flock in half – the stronger, sturdier sheep were of course the Englishmen – and with the aid of sheepdogs, iron pokers, and hot brands, succeeded in driving all the miserable rams and ewes into an absolute frenzy. He prodded one side against the other, whipped them into miniature battalions, and even fitted the largest ram on the English side with his own uniform coat! Suffice it to say that by the time the shepherds saw that he was getting a little too carried away with the game and ran to the Earl to inform him of his son’s madness, the sheep had scurried off in all directions. About forty of them wound up on other pastureland, where – roiling with anguish and aggression – they set about butting and biting members of a neighboring flock.

Now, like an upright, responsible man, my brother fled the scene of his crime the following day after receiving a veritable tongue-lashing from our father (our mother was too busy laughing to voice her reproach). And so now here I am, the dependable older son, who must reorganize the affairs of the flock, hire new shepherds, and negotiate with the neighbors about the damage inflicted by the Colonel’s ingenious escapade.

Pity me, Gilroy. How I’m related to this mushy-pated monkey quite escapes me. And once I do get to London, which I hope will be soon, he’d better flee from the Matlock residence and seek refuge in Darcy’s abode. Otherwise I will not be held accountable for any of my actions.

Ever your exasperated, sheep-hating friend,

Henry Fitzwilliam

I nearly ball up the letter in frustration and throw it into the hearth. How dare that bumbling Colonel interfere with my plans! I had my whole scheme worked out, my matchmaking maneuverings arrayed in my mind. I was so eager to introduce him to Charlotte Lucas, so readily anticipating it. And now, because of a mad brother and a batty flock of sheep, he won’t be able to attend the Netherfield Ball. In fact, he doesn’t even know of it! I sent the letter informing him of Miss Lucas to his London home, where it’s probably buried beneath a mountain of correspondence.

Poor Henry – poor, muddled Henry. Despite his professed ease with bachelorhood, he really does wish to get married. At times in the past when I’d be complaining about Louisa and the daily downs of married life, he would come out with some sober and uncharacteristic comment along the lines of, "Oh, well, at least you have someone, Hurst," or "I await the day when I’ll be the victim of such vexation".

Granted, he’s seeking a woman of quality, not just any Caroline-like crow who’ll peck away at his soul for the remainder of his years. And now, after all this time, I’ve found someone for him! To be quite frank, I have no doubt of Miss Lucas’s reception. Henry is, after all, a worthy catch and not merely in terms of wealth. He’s affable, intelligent, kind, and – if I may say so myself – not at all bad-looking. Though rather soft about the middle, he’s of a dignified height and build. And if his eyes weren’t so merry and his smile so cheerful, he would look rather imposing, what with his high cheekbones and dark dash of hair, each temple touched with a smidgen of distinguished silver. I’m certain he could pass as some Roman senator whose bust you see in wealthy homes.

As I groan in frustration, Rupert chooses to dole out the next portion of dismaying news. "Seeing as you’re already in a bad mood," he says, cheerfully toweling my head, "I might as well tell you of the inquiries I made about Denny and Wickham." Henry momentarily laid aside, I train my attention on Rupert’s intelligence. "I went about to various shops and kept my ears perked in the tavern, and I’ve found out that the two of them have run up debts in towns all over England, including Meryton. And not all of their money troubles are legitimate, so it seems." He pauses. "They’re gamblers, the two of them. Quite fond of cards and rather poor at all the games."

"So that’s why they were concocting another phrenological scam!"

"Exactly," he says. "Though, now that you and Old Bennet have interfered, there’s not much of a scam to be had."

I frown. "Do you think, Rupert… do you think if they’re still desperate for the money, that they’ll… they’ll do something rash?"

"Like what? Take over Netherfield and hold us all hostage?"

"That’s not humorous in the least!" I cry.

"Cheer up, Gil! What can they do but stick to their posts and keep a low profile."

"I don’t know, Rupert…"

"Gil, you’ve got more important things to worry about," he cuts in.

"Like what?" I mutter.

"Like impressing that pretty little wife of yours."

"Rupert!"

"Do you think I don’t know? Do you think I haven’t seen you burying your nose in that ridiculous romance novel? Hah! I scoff at such drivel!" he declares. "You want advice, you come to the master. Is that understood?"

And so it is that the two of us discuss what I can best do to make Tuesday night a decidedly memorable occasion.

Tuesday evening, as Rupert places the finishing touches on my attire, I’m sweating through every possible pore of my body. My good valet fans me a few times and even moves my chair beside an open window, but I just can’t seem to calm myself. It’s ridiculous, I know, but I can’t deny the anxiety that creeps over me, the fear that something will go wrong, that I’ll bungle as I’m often wont to do.

"And whatever you do," I hear him say, "when you’re dancing with her tonight, do not step on her toes!"

"No, certainly not," I mumble, tugging on my cravat.

Rupert swats my hand away and gives my forehead another swipe with a handkerchief. "Gil," he sighs, "you look as if you’ll melt. Be careful, you know… from the word downstairs, it seems like Bingley spared no expense with the lighting. I don’t want you to wind up as a puddle on the floor."

He’s right. I’m being entirely ridiculous. As he begins to fuss about with my hair, I take a series of deep breaths. Outside the window, I hear the first of the carriages begin to clatter up to the front door. "Oh, the first guests are arriving!" I announce. "I should be standing at the receiving line now."

Rupert hurries up and, when he’s finished, I quickly eye myself in the mirror, mop the remaining perspiration off my brow, and make my way downstairs. The swell of voices – high-pitched effusions, silly little murmurs, polite and insincere chuckles – meet me head on. I feel nauseous all of a sudden and, pausing at the foot of the stairs, opt to make a turn away from the main hall and into the small, dark alcove leading to the library.

It takes me only a few moments to realize that I’m not alone. In between my own deep breaths, I discern the uncertain shuffling of someone else farther down the corridor. "Who’s there?" I whisper.

"Hurst?" comes Darcy’s voice. I nearly fail to recognize it; in the shadows it has a plaintive, almost bewildered quality.

Which means that – thank Heavens – I’m not the only nervous fool in Netherfield. "What are you doing here, Darcy?"

His voice grows colder, more gruff and emotionless. "I can ask the same of you."

"I want this ball to be over. That is all."

"We’re of a like mind then," he mutters, releasing a harried little sigh.

I smile. "Do you wish to stand with me at the receiving line?"

"Why on Earth would I want to do that?"

"To greet the guests. Glare them into submission, so that they won’t even think of doing anything inappropriate while they’re here."

"Hurst…"

"Yes?"

"Go away."

Ah, well, I can take a hint. With an impertinent "so long!" – and a mental note to bother him later on – I depart from the alcove and realize that all I have to do is stop dwelling on my own nervousness and instead keep an eye on everyone else’s follies. Or loveliness. As I approach the main hall, Louisa – who stands at the front door – turns around to face me. I have to say that I have never seen her look so elegant. Her attire is not ostentatious, her headwear is free of feathers, her jewelry is tasteful, and, even with my limited fashion expertise, I can safely say that brown and gold color tones suit her exceedingly well. As I approach, I attempt to formulate some kind of articulate praise but – with a lilting laugh – Louisa lays a hand on my arm and assures me that I don’t have to say a word, for my flabbergasted expression more than adequately betrays my admiration. "And you, Gilroy," she whispers, "are quite the dapper gentleman yourself."

Again I attempt to produce coherent speech, but Caroline turns to her sister and hisses, "Louisa, pay attention, more guests are arriving!"

Which brings me to my dear sister-in-law: a great green goose if I ever saw one.
With a grumble, I nudge between her and Louisa and attempt to pay attention to the swarm of guests spilling in. But so bored am I of the pleasantries, that I promptly fall asleep and remain dozing on my feet until Louisa suddenly elbows me.

"Well, well," she hisses, "look who just rolled in from the pumpkin patch."

My hazy vision suddenly encompasses Colonel Wilhelm Foxtrot who, over his red uniform, is wearing a glaring orange cloak. He removes it with a flourish, deposits it in the arms of a blinking, near-blinded servant, and strides sedately to the ballroom, no doubt in search of Mary Bennet.

Ah, but he won’t find her there, for the Bennets are piling through the door right now. First Miss Jane steps in, and by the enormous gasp that comes from somewhere beyond Caroline’s turban, I can surmise that Bingley has spotted her as well. Next is Miss Elizabeth, her eyes ablaze with excitement and wariness. Then there’s Mr. Bennet and Mrs. Bennet, followed by the remaining three daughters. And Mr. Collins, of course.

"Mr. Hurst!" he cries, clutching my hand. If I thought, back in the dressing room, that I would be the sweatiest man in Netherfield, I was wrong. "What a lovely home this is!" he continues. "Though it cannot hold a candle to Rosings, I am certain Lady Catherine would not hesitate to set her delightfully firm foot over its threshold."

"How can you presume to speak for Lady Catherine?" I inquire.

He falters, looking down at the floor and offering me a sheepish grin. "It is merely a conjecture," he meekly replies. "Certainly I’m of too small a mind to grasp the mental workings of such a cerebral woman."

"Mr. Collins!" Madam Bennet’s voice cries from behind his sloping shoulders. "The first dance is to start in five minutes. Go and find Lizzy!"

"Indeed!" he declares. "For she has promised me the first dance, and it would be most negligent of me to abandon her to the clumsiness of a mediocre partner." He pauses and leans over to me conspiratorially. "I flatter myself to think that I’m a rather accomplished dancer, Mr. Hurst. My gentle patroness has informed me on several occasions that she has rarely seen anyone prance about with more vigor and grace."

Instantly he departs, and I turn to my wife, requesting her hand for the first dance.

"You’re actually asking me to dance?" she exclaims with a smile. "I don’t remember the last time you displayed such enthusiasm for the activity."

"I’m not saying I’ll dance with enthusiasm, Mrs. Hurst. After all, my performance on the floor will most likely pale in comparison to that of Mr. Collins."

She giggles wickedly. "The second dance, Mr. Hurst. I have to stand here and wait for the last guests to arrive. Especially now that my brother has gone off."

"Hmmm…" I muse, wondering if I should be polite and offer to remain with her and Caroline at the front door. "Should I stay here with you?" I ask, trying not to cringe.

"The first refreshments have already been laid out. You may begin to gorge at your leisure."

"G-d bless you, woman," I sigh and make my departure. Indeed, sitting on a side table in the ballroom is an array of fruit. And so smitten am I with this delectable array of delicious treats that I almost fail to notice Darcy just a little ways off, standing stiff at one of the doorways leading out of the ballroom. Recalling my resolution to nettle him, I amble over and say, "I had no idea that there was a shortage of footmen tonight, Darcy. It’s rather generous of you to be offering your services." As fury proceedeth to mar his mighty brow, I add, "Just be sure to tell me when you’ll be bringing out the wine."

As he turns to me – a stinging reply no doubt poised to spring from his lips – his severe expression suddenly turns into one of astonished amusement. Taken aback, I look over my shoulder and follow his gaze to Miss Elizabeth and Mr. Collins. The moist and oozy gentleman is leading the reluctant lady to the dance floor, as her good friend Miss Lucas looks on with a hand politely pressed to her lips. Darcy takes a few steps forward, and as he brushes by me, I hear a faint rumbling of repressed laughter in his throat.

When the dance commences I analyze the reverend’s earlier comment – the one pertaining to his vigorous and graceful prancing – and note that while the vigor and the prancing are there in good order, I’m not so certain of the grace. I personally think that he looks like a marionette with a few broken strings, but perhaps I am being too harsh.

Suddenly he takes a wrong turn and runs right into the bosom of another dancer. As he begins to utter a string of apologies, Miss Elizabeth barks at him to fall back into place, and he complies with a decidedly obsequious simper. I look over at Darcy to see what he makes of Miss Elizabeth’s partner, and find that his countenance is once more entirely serious. His eyes though… it would be a lie to say that they aren’t roaming, following the sinuous path of an ivory-colored skirt, the skipping of a light pair of feet, the mischievous sway of swept-up curls. Oh, at the moment I bet he wishes he were Mr. Collins. Or, to put it a better way, I bet he wishes he were in Mr. Collins’s place. He almost is, come to think of it, for even now he’s walking down the line of dancers, his pace measured to the music and the progress of one particular Bennet girl.

My gaze strays to Miss Lucas, who is now deep in conversation with her sister. I don’t know of what they speak, but she seems decidedly irritated. She taps a folded up fan against an open palm – a palm that would fit most perfectly in Henry Fitzwilliam’s hand – and repeatedly shakes her head. The younger girl, who once made a few rather conspicuous comments about Darcy’s derrière, is sticking her lower lip out in an unattractive pout. Miss Charlotte, I think, needs to be whisked away from this all. It would be far more fitting for her to be minding sheep.

A hand clamps around my elbow. "Well, Gilroy," my wife sneers, "you did profess a certain amount of respect for her, but that doesn’t give you an excuse to stare!"

I blink. Louisa… jealous? "My dear," I reply, working my arm loose and rubbing the circulation back into it, "you have no need to be concerned. I was merely meditating on a plan of mine that happens to involve Miss Charlotte."

"Oh, so she’s Miss Charlotte now, not Miss Lucas," Louisa snaps.

"No, not Miss Lucas. For you see, I would much rather have to refer to her as Lady Fitzwilliam."

A pulse of silence, followed by an incredulous little laugh. "Tell me you’re not serious, Gilroy," she says.

"Oh, I most certainly am."

She shakes her head. "But he’s a viscount! And she’s… she’s…"

"She’s what?" I demand, folding my arms over my belly.

She glares up at me in defiance. Lord, do I want to kiss those inflexible little lips.

"Never mind," she mutters, rolling her eyes. "You can match-make to your heart’s content, Mr. Hurst. It is none of my concern."

Pleased with her response, I take her hand and raise it to my mouth. Her eyes widen, and she glances around.

"What are you worried of?" I whisper. "We are husband and wife, after all."

"Indeed. But I am quite unaccustomed to such a public display of affection."

"Well, I can tell you without hesitation, madam, that if you choose to plant a kiss on my lips right now, I won’t utter a word of complaint."

Her cheeks take on a light pink hue. "As tempting as the offer is," she counters, "I believe a ballroom is not an eminently suitable place for such activities."

"Then damn the ball," I hiss, my mouth curving into a grin – probably a really foolish, foppish grin – the moment she laughs.

"No, no, sir," she says. "Not when the second set is about to begin, and you’ve pledged your hand to a certain lady."

"Hmmm, well, then I’d better go and find her." I pause, twisting my head about. "Now where could Caroline be..." I muse, fighting down a smile.

Though a ballroom is also not an eminently suitable place for head-smacking, my wife doesn’t restrain herself from doing just that, albeit lightly, her fingers landing on the back of my skull with a fleck and trailing off in what could only be called a caress. "Well," I sigh, briefly closing my eyes. "Seeing as I can’t find your sister, I suppose I shall have to dance with you."

To my complete and utter amazement, I do not grow dizzy during the set. It used to be a problem I had – the burst of streaking stars blurring my vision, the frantic swish and swash within my ears – but tonight, I am free of all discomfort. Maybe those walks in the morning, though leaving my physique largely unaltered, have improved my constitution. I don’t remember ever enjoying the pursuit more and so cheerful am I that I forget to be nervous about proper footwork and execution. I merely carry along, driven by the music and the suggestive sashay of my partner’s hips.

I think this is the first time in a long while that I’ve felt absolutely weightless. Airborne. Hurst with wings, like a big, cherry-pink cherub gliding through miles of cloud, my thoughts unraveling like streams of colored paper. G-d, I feel so happy, so silly, so many years younger than I am.

"Gilroy," I hear Louisa hiss, "stop flapping your arms!"

"For the sake of accuracy," I reply, "I’m moving my hands and not my arms."

"What difference does it make? You look like some great big… pelican!"

"No – more like a hummingbird… and one that’s sucked on far too much nectar."

The music winds to a close, and Louisa draws to my side. But before another saucy word can fly from her mouth, Caroline is upon us. "Look what happened to the train of my gown!" she cries, offering us a rear view of her fashionably spindly figure.

Both Louisa and I peer very hard, but can detect nothing.

"Oh, please!" my sister-in-law exclaims. "Do you not see that tear along the very edge, between where the gold is sewn into the green?"

This time Louisa releases a little "oh!" though, to be quite honest, I can still see nothing.

"That shaggy monster stepped on it," Caroline informs us, nodding towards the refreshment table, where Colonel Foxtrot is making short work of an apple. "And," she continues, "when I made his sheer thoughtlessness known to him, do you know what he said? He told me not to wear such a fancy gown next time! That if I were more modest and plain, I wouldn’t have to worry about his awful weight bearing down on my clothes!"

Nice work, Foxtrot. But I’m not inclined to think entirely well of him, because the minor disaster he inflicted upon my sister compels her to whisk my wife to an adjoining room where they can somehow contrive a way to mask the invisible damage. I sigh and move over to the braided goon.

"So, Foxtrot," I begin, as he slurps down the apple core, seeds, stem, and all, "I’m surprised to see that Miss Mary Bennet is not with you."

He rakes some fingers through his moustache and shakes his head. "I wished for her to be, but she thinks that it would be entirely improper for the two of us to stay continually at each other’s side. We are, after all, not formally engaged." He purses his lips. "And now I have to watch her as she… receives attention from that man."

That man? I gaze over to where he’s glaring and find Miss Mary, music books clutched to her chest, her ear inclined to none other than William Collins.

"You’re jealous of Collins?" I cry.

A feral growl issues from this throat. "He’s a member of the church, and quite the charmer when it comes to the fairer sex. I should despair if he ever won her heart!"

My, my… Collins is quite the man about town tonight. Not only did Darcy wish to exchange places with him earlier, he’s now managed to make Foxtrot turn a rather unattractive shade of green… much like the color of Caroline Bingley’s gown.

"Come now, Foxtrot," I soothe. "If you haven’t already noticed, it’s quite obvious that Mr. Collins is far more enchanted with Miss Elizabeth."

The caterpillars flex, crawling down to the bridge of his nose. "Are you serious?"

"Yes indeed."

They retreat back, clumping over his eyes once more. "Well then… I feel a little more at ease. Though I shall still keep my eye trained on him for the entire night!"

Now he’s beginning to frighten me, and so I take on a somewhat placating tone of voice. "Perhaps you could ask her to take a turn with you about the floor."

"I already have. She is mine for the very last dance."

"Excellent!"

His face softens. The slightest smile plays about his lips. "And after dinner, we’re planning to sing a duet together in front of all the guests."

"What?"

"Oh, I hope she’s not as nervous as I am," he continues, resting a meaty hand on his gut. "Though I can safely assume that she’s not." He momentarily looks down at the floor and then at me. "She is a rare sort of lady, Hurst."

A pause. "Um… could you go back to the part about the duet?"

"Ah, yes, the duet. We have yet to decide upon a song. You may not know this, Hurst, but as a young boy growing up in Bavaria, I used to sing in a choir. Oh, how I loved the music! But then, one day when I was twelve, I opened my mouth, croaked out a ‘kyrie,’ and… and so my vocal career came to a close."

Taking in his story and wondering why he’s being so candid with me, I suddenly notice the three empty wineglasses arrayed on the table beside his hand.

"Foxtrot, I thought you didn’t approve of drinking."

He sighs. "Indeed it is wrong of me. But Mr. Collins has put me in such a state of despair! Look at him, even now, gracing her with one of his insidious, insinuating grins! How could any woman in her right mind resist him?"

Yes, entirely too much to drink. I make my bow and depart, my feet carrying me to the room where Caroline disappeared with my wife.

"I don’t understand you," I hear my sister say. "These days you spend far more time with him than you do with me."

"Caroline, your gown is fixed. Let us go and join the guests."

"Answer me, Louisa!" is the petulant demand. "Why the sudden interest in him! He’s nothing but a clumsy, thick-headed lout!"

I wait for one agonizing moment to hear what Louisa will say. "Don’t speak of him that way," she whispers at last. "There’s far more to him than you can imagine."

I sigh in relief. For a second, I thought that she would not come to my defense at all. And then… I cannot imagine how unhappy I would have been then. Heartened by her words, I channel my anger into a path of playful revenge. "Oh, sister dearest," I drawl, stepping into the room.

Louisa gasps, and Caroline stiffens. I approach my sister at a leisurely pace, circle her once like some large, well-fed buzzard, and then make my strike. "Would you honor me with the next dance?" I inquire, smiling up at her brittle, astonished face.

"Why I… I thought… that is… well, yes," she stammers, swallowing hard. I offer her my arm, which she gingerly accepts and, followed by my bewildered wife, we make our way out to the floor.

Surprisingly enough, it seems that Darcy has managed to secure Miss Elizabeth’s hand, and now they stand opposite each other, anticipating the first strains of music. Darcy’s features are schooled to indifference, though his gaze is blindingly intense and focused exclusively on his partner. She has her chin lifted up, almost in challenge, as she steadily appraises him in return. He suddenly mumbles something, offering her a somewhat uncertain smile, and she reciprocates with her own comment, no doubt something impertinent (if I can judge by the look of surprise on his face). Testing, testing, testing… he is like a man approaching a strange, exotic, and utterly unreadable creature, while her every word is like a stone lobbed into the depths of a dark lake.

Alas, I am forced to turn my attention to my own partner, who is regarding the pair with somewhat less benignity. The first note of the music strikes, the dance begins, and my revenge takes its course. As I grasp my sister-in-law by the hand for the first turn, my foot quite accidentally lands on her toe. Not in a truly painful manner, mind you, but in a way that excites the most undignified kind of discomfort.

"Oof!" she exclaims. "Take care where you tread!"

"Forgive me," is my solemn reply. The next turn commences.

"Oooeeeooh!" she squeals, like a ticklish parakeet. The dancers next to us – Mariah Lucas and a prominently hairless officer – glance over at her. "Mr. Hurst!" she hisses. "You stop it right this minute!"

"What?" I whisper, making an attempt at boyish innocence. "I’m merely clumsy, Caroline. Pity me my weakness, I beg of you."

She huffs and begins to hold her body out as far as possible from me. A few more turns continue in which I behave. Catching Darcy’s eye, I see that he’s begun to affect an attitude of boredom, as if another moment spent dancing will leach him of all his intellect. The façade cannot stay up for long though, because as Miss Elizabeth makes yet another remark, flipping her curls right under his upturned nose, the faintest smile twitches about his mouth like a sleeper struggling against an inescapable dream.

Now, back to Caroline. Though I refrain from further toe-crunching, I shift my assault to another front. Her hand clasped within my own, I ever so lightly slide my finger up her palm and give her wrist a little tickle.

And Lord is she ticklish. "Hee-hee-hoo!" she chirps. "If you do that again, Mr. Hurst, I’m walking away from this set!"

"But what would the guests think! Consider appearances, my dear." I tickle her wrist again. She jumps and mewls. "You see," I say, "you’re stuck with an utter lout."

"Enough!" she cries, her voice less commanding and more petulant than before.

"Only if you promise me one thing," I say.

"And what’s that?" she seethes.

I lean into her foot. She yips like a lapdog. "Don’t ever make Louisa feel as if she has to choose between her husband and her sister."

"I don’t know what you’re speaking of," she claims. We arrive at the end of the line and come to face each other, her wrists and toes out of my reach.

"Oh, madam, I believe you do," I say and, to her utter amazement, walk away from the dance, leaving her mortified, furious, and alone, as the music carries on.

Chapter 15 – Part 2

Posted on Sunday, 23 March 2003

After I depart from her fuming presence, Caroline does not remain long on the dance floor. In a furious swirl of skirts, she stomps away towards the refreshment table, which now happens to be free of Foxtrot (though his three – no, four it seems – empty wine glasses still grace the rich red tablecloth). Soon to replace my dear sister and I at the end of the line are Darcy and Miss Elizabeth, who from the looks it are involved in a conversation requiring some thought. A perpetual furrow resides above Darcy’s nose as if, in addition to focusing on his footwork, he is performing some intense mental acrobatics. Acrobatics that will not be aided in any way by Sir William Lucas, who is now walking with an eager step towards the standing pair. Fearful lest Darcy lose his temper at the man’s untimely approach, I intercept him, earning a warm but bewildered smile in reward for my interference.

"Mr. Hurst!" the good man exclaims, clapping his broad, red palm on my shoulder. "How goes it with you?"

"It goes very well," I reply, steering him away from the dark lad. "And you, my good sir? Has Captain Denny come to bother you again?"

His smile disappears, as he shakes his head in a most lugubrious manner. "No, no," he sighs. "What a pity that the man should be a scoundrel. I can scarce believe it!"

"It’s true, it’s true," I insist. "All that you’ve heard is true."

"Oh, I hope so. Because he seemed so warm, so amiable. And my younger daughter took quite a liking to him."

"Miss Mariah?"

"Why, yes! When he was explaining phrenology to us – and mind you, it’s quite difficult to understand – he gave us a demonstration on her, and she nearly swooned!"

I can see it now. Benjamin Denny, sinking his freckled hands into Miss Mariah’s hair, shamelessly running his fingers over her scalp, and all in full view of her befuddled father.

"Yes, she found him absolutely charming," Sir Lucas goes on. "Though I cannot permit her to see him now, knowing what he is."

"No, indeed!"

Again he sighs and shakes his head. Then a frown creases his forehead. "I was just about to speak with Darcy about something," he says, "but I forget what it was."

"Then perhaps it wasn’t very important."

"You may be right," he concurs and, spotting his older daughter not too far away, makes his excuses and joins her.

By this point the dance has concluded, and Darcy passes by me, his partner’s hand secured firmly within his own. "To what do these questions tend, madam?" I hear him ask.

"Merely to the illustration of your mind and your character," is the arch reply.

As I wonder what these queries might pertain to, I watch him blink at her comment. No doubt he is straining to recall the number of ladies in the past –unrelated to him, of course – who actually strove to see the man behind the wealth and property. And no doubt he has come up with a very round and solitary number.

Attempting to master his disconcertment, he skews his mouth into a teasing smirk. "Hence your inquiries into my favorite literature, my favorite music, my thoughts on land reform, and my grades in Cambridge?"

"Certainly," she replies, unfazed by his smug expression.

The smugness falters a little in the wake of her direct admission, as he mumbles a nearly incoherent, "I see," before clearing his throat and renewing the struggle to keep his face fortress-like and remote. "Do you really think though that the arithmetic question was necessary?"

"Very necessary," she insists, her lips quirking into an insouciant smile.

Suddenly his head begins to dip down, ever so slightly, and I think – for one shocking moment – that he’s aiming to plant a whopping, wet one on that taunting mouth. After all, he is still holding onto her hand (not that he’s noticed).

But alas he catches himself, and his head snaps back up again. "Yes, I now realize why it was necessary," he says, his voice somewhat more hoarse. "You were able to observe firsthand my superior mental prowess–"

"What vanity!" she cries, in a voice that holds little real reproach.

"–for I was able to formulate my response while staying in step with the music," he concludes. "And what a challenging question it was! If Bingley and I were sitting on our horses 10,578 feet apart, and Bingley began to canter towards me at 12 miles per hour whilst I spurred my horse towards his at 14.5, how long would it be before the two of us collided… indeed, a most merciless mathematical exercise to pin upon a man when he is dancing!"

Now it is her turn to be disconcerted, for here he is – this usually humorless hunk of wood – effortlessly spinning out a saucy speech. She recovers by lifting her brow and asking him, in all pretended innocence, "Do you not normally solve mathematical equations while dancing, sir?"

"Never until today," he whispers, his eyes not once leaving her face, "though I must say," he adds in a comparatively louder voice, "the task does strengthen one’s mind. Even if one’s partner does not acknowledge the correctness of the response."

In an exaggerated expression of surprise, she places a hand below her throat, a particularly provocative action given the circumstances. "As I explained to you, sir," she replies, matching his lightly accusatory tone, "I was not anticipating a numerical answer."

"Ah, so you did not think me capable of… producing one?" he asks, his stern expression belied by the movement of his eyes, which are not-so-surreptitiously tracing the outer edge of her hand.

She follows the course of his gaze and turns an even deeper shade of pink than she was before. Indeed, now her cheeks match his in color.

"Again, you mistake me!" she counters, rallying her wit while removing her hand from her chest. "I have faith in your ability to add, subtract, multiply, and divide. However, my question was meant to gauge common sense. After all, when faced with an imminent collision, would you not veer out of the way? Would you not stay your mathematical curiosity while steering yourself and your horse to safety?" She pauses. "As you see, Mr. Darcy, my intention was merely to assess your common sense."

"Then perhaps I have no common sense," he mumbles, staring fixedly into her eyes. "Perhaps I have no sense at all."

Such a mix of hauteur and helplessness I have rarely seen. Especially when, in a fit of delayed bashfulness, he looks down to find his hand still firmly joined to hers. His subsequent gasp calls the improper matter to Miss Elizabeth’s attention and, flushing from dark pink to dark red, she releases a surprised little "oh!" and raises her other hand to her lips. After some further pause – allow them time to recover from the shock, I beg of you – fingers are quickly untangled, propriety is restored, and eye contact is lost. Making a hasty bow and mumbling something that resembles an apology (I think I need to get my ears cleaned), Darcy stands only one moment longer in front of his dance partner – appraising her necklace and the skin on which it sits – before he strides off, coattails flapping and dark hair flopping. I wish I could tell you of Miss Elizabeth’s response to his unceremonious departure, but I feel my wife’s hand encircle my arm as she summons me to the meal, and any strength of concentration I have is lost in the heady smell of her perfume and in the thought of good food.

However – and what a misfortune this is! – I cannot prostrate myself before the banquet table tonight because if I wish to succeed in my role as seducer, it would be a crime for me to lurch into the bedchamber like a well-stuffed slug. And what a pity, too, because Bingley spared little expense with the meal. There’s pheasant and duck and fish and duck and soup and… and did I mention duck? Yes, there’s duck. And just the way I like it too – dripping with fat, drenched in sauce, dribbling sweet, fleshly liquids all over the plate.

Oh, dear, I must distract myself. I must distract myself before I go mad! Nibbling on a pathetic handful of grapes, I hop about from table to table, restless and hungry and ever-tempted to gorge and gorge until I’m blind and wallowing in my own gluttonous stupidity. The fourth chair my squirming bottom lands in happens to be beside Mr. Bennet’s seat.

"Hurst!" he cries, in between bites of – what else? – duck. "You look rather ill. Are you enjoying the evening?"

"On the whole," I mumble, following the cyclical pathway of his fork.

"On the whole," he repeats, chewing happily. "What a diplomatic response! Land a seat in Parliament, and I’m certain you shall go far." He pauses, putting his fork to rest alongside his plate. "I have some intelligence for you," he says, a wicked twinkle in his eye. "Turn thine head and look to yonder corner."

I crane my neck around and spot Colonel Foxtrot and Miss Mary Bennet, poring over a music book. Though a tad flushed in the face, Foxtrot does not have the appearance of one who has imbibed too much drink and by the way his beloved is vigorously nodding her head at his every word, it seems like he’s capable of producing rational speech.

"What of them?" I ask.

"I believe they’re devising a massive assault on our ears. And I for one would like to think of a clever countermeasure."

Just as I open my mouth to reply, Mrs. Bennet releases a happy, high-pitched squeal, a response to a comment made by the Lucas matron.

"I was under the impression, Mr. Bennet," I say, not missing a beat, "that you are already inured to disturbing noises."

"Touché," he mutters with a good-natured smirk. "Some noises are indeed nigh impossible to stifle."

"What could work is an element of surprise," I suggest. "Begin to engage her… I mean, begin to engage the source of the noise… with some random topic of conversation. And keep at that topic with such fervor of spirit, such keen intent, that the other party will not know what to make of you."

"Shocked into silence, eh?" he whispers. "I do believe I may try it, Hurst."

The opportunity does not immediately arise, though, because Bingley bounds to the front of the room and announces the start of the evening meal’s musical interlude. And though it is clear that he intends for one of his sisters to perform, Miss Mary spares no time securing her spot at the pianoforte, a somber Foxtrot planting himself by her side. Smile faltering and cheeks reddening, Bingley rallies a modicum of enthusiasm, thanks his eager guests for their willingness to entertain, and then sits back at his table in wearily good-natured resignation.

All the room is stilled in breathless anticipation. Forks do not clink, mouths do not chew, chairs do not scrape against the floor. Foxtrot clears his throat once – a meaty sound, I grant you – and then… then!… the duet begins.

Only, it’s not a duet. Miss Mary plays serenely throughout, her mouth sealed for the duration of the song. Foxtrot is the one who carries the vocal melody and – believe it or not – I’m being perfectly honest when I say that he is one of the most astonishing tenors that I have ever heard. That man was born to sing. He releases one perfect note after another like a magician producing white pigeons from a bottomless hat. Caterpillars in repose, eyes closed, moustache rippling with each breath of music, he is a man made for the operatic stage.

Aware that my mouth is open in unconcealed awe, I glance around and find that most of the guests are in a similar state of shock. Indeed, so amazed am I that I only pick up the last stanza of the song, what sounds like a lied. Though my German is rusty, permit me to attempt a translation:

Komm herab, du schöne Holde,
(Come here, you lovely lady)
Und verlaß dein stolzes Schloß!
(And leave your stilted slob)
Blumen, die der Lenz geboren,
(Blooming arse that Spring abhors)
Streu ich dir in deinen Schoß.
(He strews his dirt – that dining slob!)
Horch, der Hain erschallt von Liedern,
(Hark! The heinie enthralls your leader)
Und die Quelle rieselt klar!
(And the quail reasons clear)
Raum ist in der kleinsten Hütte
(Room there is in a cleanest hut)
Für ein glücklich liebend Paar.
(For a gluey, loving pair.)*

Something seems rather odd about my interpretation, but I am given no time to reassess the semantics of the piece. The music winds to a close, the last notes are carefully executed by Miss Mary’s trained hand, and a silence engulfs the room. After what seems like an age, Bingley makes the first murmur of appreciation, and is soon followed by everyone else in a general clamor of approval. Even my wife appraises the braided songster with a look of grudging admiration and, despite her general dislike of the man, Caroline condescends to send a polite sniff his way.

But, of all the forms of praise, the most eloquent and graceful is produced by Mr. Collins, who makes a congratulatory beeline for the pianoforte and – as his cousin Mary rises from the seat to make her bows – trips over a leg of the instrument, spins once, and collides bodily with the unfortunate girl. She is knocked back into the wall, while he nearly lands sprawling at her feet, catching himself only by throwing his arms around her waist, his rubbery legs scrabbling for purchase on the polished wood floor. Amid general gasps of horror, his attempts at gaining purchase fail, and he sways back, dragging his cousin with him so that the two of them land with a discordant twang against the keys.

Foxtrot rushes to extricate Miss Mary from this indecent embrace and beckons a servant to bring her a glass of restorative wine. As he is performing these solicitous services, Mrs. Bennet takes it upon herself to point a trembling finger at Mr. Collins and cry out, "Oh, now he’ll have to wed Mary. And to think, I was saving him for Lizzy all along!"

Her timely comment produces a variety of reactions. Darcy’s eyes proceed to bulge out of their sockets. Lizzy covers her ears while uttering a mortified "Mama!" And Mr. Bennet, tipping brandy into his throat, shakes his head and declares, "What will that silly woman think of next?" I believe though that the most severe response originates from Foxtrot, who leaves his beloved’s side and descends upon the roiling reverend. Before anyone can stop him, he hoists the clumsy man up to his feet, thrusts him out at arm’s length, reaches behind him to the wall, removes an antique sword from its decorative perch, and – as the coup de grace – positions it against the flaccid flesh of Collins’s midsection.

Now this is entertainment! As the guests look on in bated suspense and mild terror, Collins holds his hand up in meek surrender and pleads with the Colonel not to press his advantage. He is absolutely pitiful in his fear and, although the thought of a Collins-kabob intrigues me, I begin to feel a bit of sympathy for him. Unfortunately, Foxtrot does not and intones in horrible, desperate strains, "How dare you rob me of my treasure?"

"My treasure? I mean, your treasure?" Collins stammers.

"She is like the holy grail to me!" the impassioned soldier cries. "If she were locked up in the deepest, dustiest cave in the desert, I would yet pursue her and lay my sword at her feet!"

"I believe you would," says the reverend with a mighty gulp. "For a stronger, more passionate man I have rarely encountered in my days upon this Earth. Indeed, if you were to present yourself to my near-omnipotent patroness, I am certain she would bestow upon you the honor of guarding her venerable threshold every blessed day and night for the rest of your devoted existence!"

"What do I care for your patroness when there is but one lady that I wish to serve?" This, with a meaningful glance at Miss Mary, who drops her wineglass in response.

The moment Foxtrot turns his head to his love, the moment Miss Mary lets go her chalice in surprise at such depth of devotion, is the moment Bingley springs to action, jumping up from his nearby seat and wedging himself between Collins and the tip of Foxtrot’s sword. Seeing as my brother is a taller man than the Bennet’s infamous cousin, the blade finds itself at an angle that could potentially nip the next generation of Bingleys at its bud. To make matters worst, Mr. Collins wraps his arms around my brother’s waist and whispers, "Save me!"

Foxtrot whips his head around, his caterpillars soaring at the sight of Bingley’s jovial countenance. As he attempts to work the sword around Bingley’s body towards the clinging growth behind him, my brother gently lays his hand on the blade and says, "Come now, Colonel, let us deal with your rage in a rational manner, like two civilized adults. Shall we?"

Though Foxtrot makes no move to put down his sword, Bingley forges ahead, undaunted. "It is clear to me – and, if I may speak on behalf of my charming guests – to everyone else in this room, that you are now overmastered by an urge to inflict bodily harm upon a man who has engendered no small amount of distress in your heart. Am I correct?"

Foxtrot nods dumbly.

"Well, it’s perfectly natural to feel anger. It’s good, even healthy. And at times, one cannot help but unleash it upon the world. But, what I want you to do now is take a deep breath, let it out slowly – yes, that’s it, let it cleanse you – and think of a happy thought."

"Happy thought," Foxtrot mumbles.

"Yes, yes! Like… like raindrops on roses and… and whiskers on kittens!"

"Oh, dear Lord," Darcy groans.

Miss Jane abruptly steps forward. "Cream-colored ponies?" she suggests, looking hopefully from Bingley to Foxtrot and back to Bingley again.

"You like those, too?" Bingley whispers, eyes wide with adoration.

"Yes, I do," she murmurs shyly. Flushing pink in the cheeks, she avoids the human shield’s ardent gaze and lifts her eyes to Foxtrot. "What brings you joy, Colonel?"

Foxtrot blinks at her, lowers his sword, and suddenly turns to Miss Mary, still standing in a pool of wine and shattered glass. Dropping to one knee before her and resting the sword upon it like a knight from the Crusades he asks, "Miss Mary Bennet, will you do me the honor of consenting to be my wife?"

A smattering of gasps erupts across the room. After that, a thick silence, complete but for a few excited "oohs" that appear to be emanating from Mrs. Bennet’s throat. Miss Mary, adjusting her spectacles, takes some moments to stare down at the kneeling figure, his head bowed and braids limp. Finally, she glances over at her father and inquires, "Papa, do I have your consent?"

Popping a piece of duck in his mouth, Mr. Bennet shrugs and says, "I suppose."

"Then I accept," she whispers. "Though," she adds, in a more strident voice, "you shall have to work hard on your uncharitable temper."

"Agreed, madam," Foxtrot murmurs while tentatively looking up, his moustache parting to reveal a smile of sheer, toothsome radiance. Were Miss Mary able to encounter his eye, she might see how well the expression of heartfelt delight, diffused over his face, becomes him. Alas, she is somewhat bashfully staring at her shoes and does not look up, especially when Foxtrot mumbles, "I wished for you before I knew you, but once I knew you I wished for you even more."

What was a smattering of gasps before, is now a more expansive mix of applause and cheers. Mrs. Bennet, sagging back into her seat, is fanning herself convulsively, leaving Miss Jane and Miss Elizabeth to approach the newly engaged young lady and offer her their congratulations. Clapping Foxtrot on the back, Bingley assists him to his feet, as Collins – still shaken – offers to officiate at the ceremony, a suggestion that is stifled by the ever-sensible Miss Elizabeth. A throng begins to form around the new couple, the most vocal member of the crowd being Lydia Bennet, who insists that it is entirely unfair that her older sister should be marrying before her.

"Indeed," Mrs. Bennet declares, picking up on her youngest daughter’s comment, "who would have ever thought that Mary would be the first of my children to wed! And what a husband! Did you know, Lady Lucas, that he is in possession of a rather sizeable fortune?"

"I would have never imagined," the Lucas matron mutters.

Ignoring her, Mrs. Bennet presses a hand to her heart and sighs. "And what a handsome gentleman he is, too! Extremely well-groomed! Did you ever see a more even moustache? A finer pair of eyebrows? All is symmetry with him."

Compelling my attention with a tap on the shoulder, Mr. Bennet remarks, "We should call this evening’s performance, ‘Le Nozze di Foxtrot!’ A fine opera, do you not agree? It has all the essential ingredients: a superb – if somewhat violent – leading tenor, a comical buffoon, a sentimental story of love undying, and even a good sword fight!"

I smile. "Are you not apprehensive at the thought of such a son-in-law?"

"Certainly not!" he insists. "He shall treat his wife well, that much is obvious. And I believe I shall never spend a dull day with him." He rises, extending a hand to Mrs. Bennet. "Come madam, let us get a good, close glimpse of connubial-felicity-to-be." Leaning on his arm and still fanning herself, she joins him as he moves to the clot of guests at the front of the room.

Louisa falls into the now vacated seat beside me and, with a deep sigh, utters, "What a way to ruin a ball."

"Come now," I say, offering her a few grapes from the dozen or so in my palm, "it’s good publicity. Bingley shall become famous for hosting the most entertaining balls and next time he throws a fete, everyone from miles and miles around shall be fighting to get through his front door."

She smirks, daintily popping the fruit into her mouth. "You have an interesting way of perceiving affairs, Gilroy," she declares. "I for one would like this messy evening to come to a close." She glances at me sidelong. "It’s for the best that he’s engaged, you know. I feel as if a rather unpleasant chapter in my life has definitively come to a close."

"And is a new chapter about to open?" I whisper.

"Of course, silly. Have you never read a book?"

As I open my mouth to reply, she inserts the last grape between my teeth. "In fact," she goes on, "so eager am I for this ball to come to an end – much like the chapter in question – that I do not intend to wait around until the last of the guests have left."

"Ah, so you plan on… retiring early?" I murmur.

"As soon as the last dance has come to a close," is her reply, which she follows up on by rising to her feet and departing with an emphatic sway of her hips. Staring after her, I regain awareness of my environment only when Caroline’s voice screeches nearby.

"This is absolutely preposterous!" she cries.

I turn around and find her standing next to Darcy, whose expression is austere and unforgiving. "I agree with you entirely," he says.

She smiles slyly, adding, "Is it not the most disgusting turn of events you have ever witnessed?"

His nod is decisive, though, upon following his gaze, I see that it does not rest on Foxtrot and Miss Mary, but keeps darting from Mr. Collins to Miss Elizabeth. Putting a fist to my mouth, I nearly erupt in laughter. For a smart man, Darcy is a real fool. Does he actually believe that Miss Elizabeth will consent to marry such an empty-headed urchin? If so, then he must not know her well at all! Indeed, he shall remain ignorant of most aspects of her character as long as he chooses to remain in Caroline’s company rather than engage the object of his desire in conversation.

The last dance finally arrives, and not a moment too early. I sit out, conserving my energy for what I hope shall be a most restless night. Darcy also refrains from participating, opting instead to glower at some random officer who has secured Miss Elizabeth’s hand for the set. Much as I enjoy the blistering frown on his face – he has quite a repertoire of frowns, you know – I realize that I must leave before the dance concludes, for I wish to see if Rupert made all the necessary arrangements in my bedchamber. After thanking Bingley for a splendid evening – and praising him for his earlier heroics – I make my way upstairs and check on the room.

Indeed, Rupert prepared everything. The bed is strewn with all manners of flora – their petals, to be more accurate, though I do see a few headless stems as well – and two tapers have been placed on either night table. I originally wished for more than a quartet of candles, but Rupert reminded me that the bed must be set on fire only figuratively.

Speaking of Rupert, I dismissed him from his other evening duties. Though he has been helpful through-and-through, I was afraid that he would make an unwitting, ill-timed jest tonight that would further increase my general nervousness. So it is then that I slip into my dressing room alone. It does not take me long to shrug on my night pants and nightshirt, over which I don my evening robe. Though Rupert suggested that I appear at my bedside wearing nothing but the robe, I refused to entertain the notion, self-conscious enough as I am. Plucking the bottle of smuggled French champagne and pair of champagne flutes that Rupert hid in my wardrobe and inserting a very long rose between my teeth, I make for the door connecting to the bedchamber.

And come to a grinding halt before my dressing room’s floor-length mirror.

Oh, dear Lord… I look absolutely ridiculous. I am certain she will laugh. Indeed, the thought of a chubby-bellied, bald and flat-footed Romeo is probably not the fantasy most ladies entertain in their romantic mental landscape. Rather, it is usually this very image that quenches the fantasy. I sigh, and the rose slips out of my mouth, bounces once on my stomach, and lands disconsolately on the floor. Perhaps I should just crawl under the bedcovers, pull them up to my chin, and close my eyes. Yes, perhaps I should do just that.

It is this last thought, dear reader, that happens to save me. For the idea of Gilroy Hurst ducking under a blanket like a blushing new bride inspires such a fit of laughter from me that I find it necessary to deposit the champagne and glasses on a nearby table and clutch my quivering middle. Overcoming my fit of humor at last, I look up and give myself a truly frank appraisal.

Starting with the head. Hmmm… not entirely bald… in possession of a thick, carpet-like comb-over that most men would envy for its immovability… let’s see, chestnut-covered curls covering the back and sides, lending me a rather appealing, boyish quality, if I may say so myself. Now, the face… well, though my eyes have been known to look rather dull and passionless, I doubt that will be a problem tonight… no, Gil, they are the lovely color of wet sand… indeed, very tropical. My nose, incongruously slender, no problem with that… and then my lips – two well-chewed strawberries… and what else? Ah, now for the torso. Yes, my torso. Possessed of a prosperous swell (I am of course referring to my stomach). Very prosperous. But let’s not dwell on that too long. Arms and legs… they’re in working order, it seems. They could stand to be a bit more muscled, but that shall come in good time… and feet: near-collapsed arches, square toes, rather furry come to think of it, but… I doubt Louisa will be paying attention to them… not that I will ignore hers, mind you.

Yes, that just about sums it up. This is the package. And there’s nothing either she or I can do about it. Indeed, the only thing I can do is strut in there with all the false confidence at my disposal, and if she laughs, well… there are very delightful ways of stopping up laughter.

Rose goes back in mouth. Champagne and accessories go back in left hand. Right hand reaches for doorknob. Feet bear body into the room. Eyes land upon a… an absolute vision in a golden-hued nightgown. Champagne and accessories nearly slip from grip. Left hand manages to dump them on a chair. Rose attempts to roll out of mouth. Mouth bites down to keep it in place. Higher mental functions register that golden-hued nightgown leaves little to the imagination. Higher mental functions (including the imagination) proceed to shut down. Distance is closed between doorway and aforementioned vision. Vision is real. Rose is removed from mouth by feminine fingers. Drool pools in corner of mouth. Right hand reaches up and gives cheek a pinch. Higher mental functions make a not entirely unsuccessful attempt to struggle back into place.

"You really took my love of gardening to heart, Gilroy," Louisa utters, twirling the rose in her hands.

"And you, Louisa," I mumble, thankful at this point that I can even remember her name, "you are like a… a ray of sun in the garden."

"Oh, stop," she whispers, though the blush on her cheeks is unmistakable.

Wasting no further time, I conjure up Rupert’s advice and, forgetting about the champagne, proceed to plant a series of kisses on her forehead. Very deliberately, taking my time, and – hers being not a narrow forehead – the pleasure is savored for more than a little while. That done, I dollop her pert nose with another kiss, before turning to her cheeks. Even as I apply myself to the fine, flushed pair though, I am contemplating my next move. Rupert informed me that ladies enjoy having their toes nibbled, but I wonder if I should do that now or simply start on her lips. Upon pulling back, I note that her mouth is now curved into such a pleasant smile that I would not wish to disturb it. Or would I? Hmmm… toes now, mouth later? Perhaps I can alternate – toes, mouth, toes! Oh, make up your mind, for the love of… thank goodness her eyes are closed, you must look like a truly indecisive idiot at this point. Gracing each eyelid with a soft kiss, my course is decided for me when her toes wiggle in delight.

However, as I slide down a little and begin to reverently lift her foot, her eyes slowly open and she extracts her dainty little appendage from my grip. "What is it?" I ask, my nervousness suddenly returning full force. "Have I done something wrong?"

"No, not at all!" she says with reassuring sincerity. "It’s simply…"

"Simply what?" I ask, eager as a puppy to please.

"Such attentions are always lovely, Gilroy. But they are even lovelier when one is in a patient, tender mood."

I blink. "Then… then you’re not in a patient, tender mood now?"

She shakes her head, her sudden slow smile inducing a fit of heart palpitations in me.

"Then what kind of mood are you in?" I whisper.

Her reply is to seize me by the lapels of my robe and crush my lips to her own. As a result, my vision goes hazy, my pulse roars in my ears, and my higher mental functions are decisively dropkicked out the window. When she finally does pull back, all I can muster is a breathless, "I see," prompting her to pounce on me with an exuberant bark of laughter.

* "Der Jüngling am Bache" by Franz Schubert

Continued In Next Section