A Perfectly (Un)timely Proposal, Chapter 1
April 9, 1812~Rosings Park, Kent
Fitzwilliam Darcy cleared his throat and regarded his reflection in the mirror. Lifting his chin, his posture exuding supreme confidence (but which had maddeningly failed to mollify his nerves since his arrival at Rosings), he practiced once again. “I trust your family is in good health?”
He frowned at the waver in his tone. That would not do. Shaking his hands and stretching his neck from side to side, he forced his shoulders down and attempted a smile. “The weather has been favorable for walking.”
Darcy grimaced at the popinjay looking back at him. Chalmers had tied his cravat in a fussy, frillish waterfall of folds Darcy had never before consented to, his own taste being more restrained than that of the dandies of the ton… or, as it would seem, his own valet.
His cravat, however, was the least of Darcy’s difficulties. Trivial talk had always been difficult for him, but Miss Elizabeth expected it of him. She had told him to practice.
So here he was, standing in front of the looking glass in the middle of his room in his best attire, combed and coaxed into the latest fashion, talking to himself. He was a fool.
Shaking his hands again, he wiped his sweaty palms against his brushed breeches and tried once more to relax when his stomach was tied in knots and his tongue tasted of bilious acid. Taking a deep breath, he smiled, but his increasing nerves either made the expression too large or too small. This misery was unbearable.
Chalmers slipped inside the room. “The Collinses have arrived.”
Darcy inhaled sharply. This was the moment he had anticipated and dreaded since he had made his decision. He pulled out the ruby pin holding his cravat in place, pretending not to see Chalmers’ disappointment. “A simple knot will do.” Darcy could not propose to the woman he loved resembling a fop… regardless of his valet’s droopy eyes and audible sighs.
Miss Elizabeth was the only woman with whom Darcy could imagine spending the rest of his life. He had gone over and over all the objections. They were the same obstacles he had enumerated to his friend Bingley—the very challenges which had ultimately convinced Bingley to separate himself from Miss Elizabeth’s eldest sister while proving to Darcy the ardor of his own affection.
He could never abandon Elizabeth as Bingley had Miss Bennet. Then again, Elizabeth was not indifferent to him as Miss Bennet was to Bingley. Such fire in her eyes! Such passion in her speech! Theirs would be a lively union replete with stimulating debates, provocative conversation and, Darcy hoped, hot-blooded affection. He loved Elizabeth. Not even her atrocious family, low station, and lack of connections or dowry could dissuade his heart. He had to have her at his side.
She was the one.
Nodding appreciatively to the offended Chalmers, Darcy swiped a rebellious lock of hair off his forehead, willing the defiant curls to stay in place or at least have the grace not to sprout out from his head. After one final glance at his reflection, he clasped his hands with determination and stepped to the armoire where his brushed coat hung.
Chalmers raised his hand. “They have arrived,” he repeated, the next words coming apologetically, “…without Miss Bennet.”
It took a moment for understanding to halt Darcy’s step. “Miss Elizabeth is not here?”
“Evidently she remained at the parsonage, sir.” Chalmers’ voice was heavy with regret.
“Why could you not tell me sooner?”
“You asked me to attend to your cravat.”
And a man could not speak while tying a knot? Darcy was fairly certain Chalmers knew his mind well enough to read his thought. Proving the depth of his insight, his man pinched his lips and arched his brow. As he could not know how grievously this news altered his employer’s plans, Darcy chose to forgive him.
The master of Pemberley had been practicing all day, working himself into a mass of nerves he had never experienced before and wished never to feel again. The only way to dispel his anxiety was to ask the question he had repeated in every mirror and window pane he passed in his aunt’s house. How could he woo a lady who was not present?
“Apparently Miss Elizabeth is unwell.”
Disappointment warred with concern for his intended. “I hope it is nothing serious?”
Chalmers leaned in—loyal eavesdropping spy that he was. “The maid informed me that Mrs. Collins mentioned a headache.”
The breath whooshed out of Darcy’s lungs. A headache was a minor ailment, easily provoked (above five minutes in Mr. Collins’ or his aunt’s company had the same effect on him) and just as easily cured (by removing himself from said pain-producing company). Miss Elizabeth was clever to so smoothly avoid them. Darcy was tempted to claim illness too. The prospect of enduring the next few hours at his aunt’s table without the relief of Elizabeth’s presence was enough to initiate a dull pounding at the base of his skull. “Thank you, Chalmers.”
His valet of over a decade nodded, the crinkle at the edge of his eyes the only sign of pleasure as he helped him into his best coat—the same color of the gown Elizabeth had worn at the Meryton Assembly the day they had first met.
Did she think upon that evening as often as he did? He had been in a boorish mood worsened by the villagers’ vulgar talk of his wealth and the ladies shoved before him for inspection like mares at Tattersalls—except Elizabeth. He had thought she avoided him, laughing and dancing and sparing him nary so much as a glance… until he caught her eye as he departed. He had never experienced so much sentiment in one look. It had been the beginning of the end for him. And now, he would have to endure another evening without her company.
Disinclined to join the party in his aunt’s drawing room a moment before necessary, Darcy went to Richard’s rooms. His cousin’s batman was brushing off the shoulders of his coat, so neither turned when Darcy entered.
“Miss Bennet is ill with a headache,” Darcy announced, leaning against the wall opposite Richard.
“Really?” Richard’s eyebrows popped up. “She seemed well earlier.”
Darcy nudged away from the papered partition and crossed his arms. “You called on her?” Why would Richard call at the parsonage without him?
“Do not get in a huff, Darcy. I chanced across Miss Bennet’s path during my walk over the park. We had a lively conversation which ended on a pleasant note when I deposited her safely at the door of the parsonage.”
Darcy scowled. He regretted the afternoon wasted with Aunt Catherine’s steward. The poor man had no power to effect any of the changes Darcy suggested because his stubborn aunt insisted on doing everything her own way.
Richard rolled his eyes. “Have you gone to the kennels today? Mansell has more puppies than he knows what to do with. Ten Great Danes in one litter and big enough now to get into mischief.”
The mere mention of the loathsome breed made Darcy break into a cold sweat.
Richard yammered on. “Only two months old and already the biggest weighs in at thirty pounds! If I had a property of my own, I would be tempted to take one home. Mansell would be grateful. The gamekeeper has been breathing down his neck to cull out the litter. Aunt already has enough to check the wild boar population. Keeping all of them seems excessive.”
Darcy had no desire to talk about the kennel keeper’s devils when his thoughts were across the lawn at the Hunsford parsonage with Elizabeth.
Richard looked suggestively at Darcy. “You know, Pemberley is large—”
“Absolutely not!” Darcy snapped.
“Come on, Darce. A Great Dane!”
“There is nothing great about them.”
Richard narrowed his eyes and grinned. “You are not still afraid—”
“No.” Darcy’s tone brooked no argument, although his heart raced as though it were attempting to outrun a snarling pack of the vile, mangy curs.
“It is hardly fair for you to allow one minor incident to ruin your opinion of the noble breed.”
“They are vicious savages, and I will not allow them on Pemberley property.”
Richard shook his head and clucked like a chicken. “You hold a grudge on an entire race because of the poor reaction of one dog?”
“It ran me down and tore into me.”
“You exaggerate.”
“You did not feel its teeth.”
Richard shrugged. “You were in his territory. You should have known better.”
Darcy glared at his cousin, the pounding in his skull spreading down his neck and knotting in his shoulders. There was more to the story than that, and Richard knew it. “It was a tenant’s home on Pemberley land. I had every right to be where I was.”
“You expect the dog to know the distinction? Really, Darcy, with such high expectations, it is a wonder you have any friends at all.”
Gritting his teeth and rubbing his temples, Darcy seethed, “He tore into my… flesh.” He observed the grin creeping up Richard’s face and knew he had swallowed his cousin’s bait. Blast the infernal man.
“And you still have the scar, I presume, to prove it!” Richard guffawed like a ninnyhammer. “Pray do not show me, I beg you.”
As if Darcy would.
“Perhaps I shall mention the incident at dinner. See how Mr. Collins pontificates on the merits of turning the other cheek.”
Darcy refused to listen to another word. He now had a genuine, full-blown headache of his own. Speaking through clenched teeth, he said, “I am going for a walk.”
“Come, Darcy, you take yourself too seriously. You have been anxious lately, and I only meant to lighten your mood.”
Darcy crossed the room to the sound of his cousin’s endless chatter.
“The hour is late. It is dark. Dinner awaits.”
Ignoring him, Darcy opened the door.
More urgently, Richard called after him. “Aunt Catherine shall be cross.”
Darcy spun around with a sigh. “Better at me than at you.”
He left Richard grumbling in his bedchamber, the satisfaction Darcy took in turning the table on his cousin lessening the ache in his head. His relief, however, was temporary. Once out of doors, the calm night he had hoped for was marred with throaty barks and shouts.
Darcy looked down the gentle slope at the side of his aunt’s formidable abode in the direction of the kennels, his heart jumping into his throat at every shadow. He reminded himself that the snarling overgrown beasts were kept in the kennel and supervised by a capable man who had not once, over the years, had one of his keeps escape during Darcy’s visits.
Walking across the lawn away from the noise, Darcy took several deep breaths. It was only when he reached the lane at the edge of the park and spotted one window glowing like a beacon summoning him to Mr. Collins’ cottage that he realized what he must do.
He would continue as he had planned. He would walk to the parsonage and ask Elizabeth for her hand in marriage. The decision filled Darcy with resolve, and it was with a firm step and a single-minded heart that he passed through the garden gate and rang the bell.
He breezed by the maid to find Elizabeth sitting with a candle at the table, a pile of letters clutched in her hands.
She startled when she saw him.
He doffed his hat, feeling like a dolt for forgetting to hand it to the maid. Thankfully, the lines he had so diligently practiced earlier came to him. “Miss Elizabeth, I trust you are in good health?”
“I have a headache,” she responded weakly.
Her eyes did look a bit feverish. Darcy nodded, not knowing how to proceed. Should he send for the apothecary? “I—I had hoped to find you recovered.” He bit his stammering lips together and mustered his composure. “I am sorry to hear otherwise.” He managed a small smile at her, which she was too ill to return.
Wishing to ease her discomfort, he added, “My aunt’s housekeeper keeps a well-stocked still room. I shall ask her to send a tonic for you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Darcy.” Elizabeth’s tone was cool, civil. Her pain must be great indeed.
It occurred to him that now might not be the best time to make an offer. However, there was also the very real possibility that his proposal would be just the thing to ease Elizabeth’s concerns and cure her ills. Who would not wish to distance themself from such a scandalous family as the Bennets? Live a life of luxury free of concerns?
The silence in the room grew awkward. Darcy shuffled his hat in his hands. Behind him, he heard the maid open the outer door, and he elected to seize the moment of privacy.
Clutching his hat, he closed the distance to stand directly in front of Elizabeth. With trembling hands and shaking voice, he began, “In vain I have struggled. It will not do.”
A stifled scream interrupted him, and the sound of nails scrambling over carpetless floors erased the rehearsed words from his memory.
He turned to see a white dog charging him. Panic turned to agitation at the oafish puppy—tongue lolling, ears too big for its body, disproportionate paws clawing at the wood floors. He shouted for the undisciplined pup to heel, but the animal paid him no heed. The creature jumped on Darcy, pawing at his pressed cream breeches with muddy feet… and thoroughly ruining his proposal.
Can an adorable puppy encourage Mr. Darcy to conquer his pride? What do you think?
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