“Until next year, Mr Jones.”
“Au revoir, Miss Smith.”
13th October 1811 10 o’clock in the evening
“Miss Smith!”
“Mr Jones!”
That was how our seventh,non-annual encounter began.
She laughed gaily, which lit her eyes as prettily as they had back in the summer, just before she saved my sister’s life.
The young lady had matured into a stunning woman, and there could be no two opinions on that subject. She looked much like she had in our clandestine meetings but with one enormous difference. She had always dressed like a matron or shopgirl—simple cotton gown, hair in a tight bun (probably copied from her religious sister), while I dressed like a modest tradesman.
That night she was wearing a gorgeous muslin ballgown, with just the right number of embellishments, and had her hair very prettily styled in what I would later learn was an Apollo knot. She had a simple necklace and earrings, colourful ribbons in her hair, and the lightest touch of rouge. She was neither too plain nor too fine for the setting. In a word, she was stunning!
The other substantial change was that I bowed properly, she curtsied, and I brought her hands to my lips for a polite kiss.
It was the first bit of ordinary propriety in our five-year history. We had never been closer to each other than the two sides of a table, and even on the few occasions where we exchanged things, we did it by sliding the item across.
But wait!I am getting ahead of myself, so let us step back a bit to set the stage.
~~~
After her warning in the summer, I did exactly as she suggested—well, demanded. I returned home, gave my valet a quarter-hour to pack while I changed into travelling clothingthat would not scare my sister to death, left for Ramsgate; and zounds was I happy I had.
Miss Smith’s intuition about the companion I hired for my sister was true. She was in league with a bounder, who had convinced my innocent sister she was in love with him and should elope. The man was my age, while my sister was hardly older than Miss Smith when I first met her.
It was funny in a way. The delay in her writing that triggered Miss Smith’s suspicion was caused by the companion, who had to hold back the letter that told me what was occurring with her connivance so she could forge a new one. It never occurred to her that a few days delay would matter, since I was just a knuckle-headed man who would not notice. To be honest, the vile plan probably would have worked were it not for Miss Smith.
I shall not trouble you with the details of what it took to disabuse my sister of the notion that she was in love with a dashing hero. Suffice it to say that words were said by myself and the bounder that made his intent clear, and my sister had yet to recover several months later. Betrayal is very hard to overcome, as Miss Smith knew all too well.
I spent the intervening months kicking myself for not getting the young lady’s real name straightaway instead of waiting a year, and I still had several months to wait. I hoped she could help my sister recover, because I was running out of ideas. The best any of my relatives could suggest was that time heals all wounds—an idea I found wildly optimistic, lazy, and defeatist.
My aunt suggested I go somewhere else for a time—anywhere would do—because I made my sister nervous, which somehow delayed her recovery. Thus instructed, I reluctantly set out to fulfil a promise for one of my oldest friends. He had leased an estate and wanted me to educate him a bit on its operation,which seemed as good a task as any while I let the next six months drag by before I could meet Miss Smith again.
My friend had the usual ambitious sister whom I had laughed with Miss Smith about, but they were everywhere I went, so she was not particularly special—annoying, but not out of the ordinary. I had to take precautions while in her home, but I had to take precautions at any house party, so it was nothing new.
I found myself in a rather bad mood when I learned that only a few hours after a three-hour coach trip with his noisy sister, her brother had engaged our attendance at a local assembly. I hated assemblies but was trying to do better, with uneven results at best. Having one with barely any respite was hardly the recipe for success, but needs must.
A few hours later, I found myself introduced to entirely too many people and avoiding as many of them as possible. I was happy to meet my friend’s neighbours, but being thrown headlong into a marriage-mart was not what I had in mind for the evening. I vastly preferred to meet people a few at a time in closer settings where the noise did not give me a megrim. I met the usual collection of people who would be fine in a better mood or quieter setting, but they mostly grated on my nerves.
I met one matron who had at least three daughters, which made me think of Miss Smith, but otherwise she seemed like an ordinary matchmaker. Subtlety was not her strong suit, and one might even consider her shrill—but only if one had never met my mother’s elder sister.
For a time, I avoided introductions and dancing, though for the first time in my life, I felt guilty about it. I was beginning to think I might not be doing my duty as a gentleman. I was just amusing myself with visions of how Miss Smith would chastise me for it when we met in six months’ time (rightly so), when my friend decided he had been patient enough.
"Come, Darcy," said he, "I must have you dance. I hate to see you standing about by yourself in this stupid manner. You had much better dance. To be candid, you look like you are afraid of women, and to have such a great tall fellow as you showing fear of the fair sex… well, it just will not do. How will I hold myself up with any credit if the largest man in my party is afraid of dancing?”
I had to laugh at his efforts, especially the squeak on the last word. I ordinarily might have found his efforts annoying, officious, or both; but I imagined him pulling that with Miss Smith, and that made me chuckle. The lady was taking up an astonishing amount of my thinking, but I was not especially bothered by it.
“You are dancing with the handsomest woman in the room,” I said, but then thought she would hardly approve of such an uncharitable statement, so I softened my arrogance a touch just to prove it could be done, “though only by a small margin. Any fool can see there are plenty of handsome women in the room, and many of them must be agreeable.”
My friend laughed gaily. “Whoever has been giving you deportment lessons is to be commended. I should be very keen to examine the stick they have been beating you with. I expected to smash my head against this rock for ten minutes, and crawl off in defeat, only to spend the next month trying to convince people you are not an ogre.”
I frowned but could not hold it long. “You are correct, but,” I said, then had to think a bit, and finally sheepishly continued, “I have been lately thinking about my behaviour. The reflections have not brought satisfaction.”
My friend was not much for deep reflections in an assembly hall (or anywhere for that matter), so he looked around until he found his latest angel and let out one of his huge smiles, returning to our earlier subject.
