Chapter 3: Missed Opportunities
I had many occasions in the interim to regret not dancing with Miss Elizabeth at the assembly and having to wait until the Netherfield Ball to have another opportunity. There was that time at Sir William Lucas's party, when he talked on and on about dancing, but then called out to Miss Elizabeth and addressing me said, "Mr. Darcy, you must allow me to present this young lady to you as a very desirable partner. You cannot refuse to dance, I am sure, when so much beauty is before you." Then he caught up her hand.
At that moment, it seemed inevitable that Miss Bennet's small hand would be placed in my much larger one and I would lead her in a dance. Her blue skirts would swish back and forth, and perhaps even brush against my stockings and over my shoes. Indeed, I was already stretching forth my gloved fingers to receive her hand, when she pulled away as if burned. My gaze was drawn to her face, her eyes, deep pools which seemed darker than the night sky when illuminated only by candlelight.
I heard her say words of refusal, but still I thought she was only waiting for a proper request and thus asked the formal sentence that had been drilled into me from the first when being taught to dance, only needing to fill in her name: "Miss Elizabeth, will you do me the great honor of dancing with me?"
Miss Elizabeth shook her head and as she did so, one dark little curl came loose and bobbed at her temple. She ignored Sir William's entreaties which I barely heard. I was instead focused on watching that curl move. When she turned away, the slight light caught a bit of each shiny curl that was pinned just so. It was only then that I realized I had been soundly refused. Perhaps was only fair turn-about as I was almost certain that Miss Elizabeth heard me when I rejected dancing with her at the assembly.
I withdrew to the edge of the room to think. I wondered how many hairs on Miss Elizabeth's head made up each curl, how long it would take to count them all and how they would feel to my fingers. When I was younger, I used to think God must be like me. How else would he be able to count all the hairs on a man's head (or even care to know the answer)? What other person would want to keep track of every sparrow? I thought then that he must keep endless lists as I used to do in those days. Now I know he knows everything, so it must be no effort at all, must not require any specific focus.
Then there was that time at Netherfield, when Miss Bingley was playing a lively Scottish air and I sought Miss Elizabeth out specifically for the purpose of dancing with her. I drew close to her and asked, while not looking directly at her, but rather toward the instrument, "Do you not feel a great inclination, Miss Bennet, to seize such an opportunity of dancing a reel?"
I suppose I should have formally requested a dance again as I had at the Lucases' party, but I did not want to explicitly ask and be rejected again. When she made no reply, I half wondered if she had not heard me. The silence grew and grew.
It seemed to be one of the few opportunities it would, in truth, be appropriate to repeat myself. My mind can get caught up in a loop sometimes in which it wishes to retrace the same thing over and over, which results in me wishing to repeat myself over and over again. It can be like an echo sometimes.
Ever repeating myself was something Governess Hayes did her best to beat out of me, with only partial success. My tutor, Mr. Stowbaugh, was not nearly so harsh, but he had mightily discouraged me, explaining that it was disquieting to others. I understood the wisdom in what he said, but it is hard that I am always the one that needs to change myself for other people rather than it ever being the other way around. I now generally keep such repetitions unvoiced except when I am alone. Then I say things as many times as I want.
I felt the need to look at Miss Elizabeth directly when asking once more "Do you not feel a great inclination, Miss Bennet, to seize such an opportunity of dancing a reel?"
I was caught up in staring in her eyes. By the current light they were the color of hot chocolate. I pulled my eyes to the side, midway between herself and the piano forte so as to attend better to her words and not be distracted by what her nearness could do to me.
She was saying, with a delightful lilt to her voice, "You wanted me, I know, to say 'Yes' that you might have the pleasure of despising my taste," she paused and I could not help but look back at her again, I was as a moth to a flame, "but I always delight in overthrowing those kinds of schemes and cheating a person out of their premeditated contempt. I have therefore made up my mind to tell you that I do not want to dance a reel at all—and now despise me if you dare."
I felt a burgeoning feeling in my breast, and it was most certainly not a negative emotion. I could not help but respond, "Indeed I do not dare."
I thought in that moment of all the things I did not dare to do regarding Miss Elizabeth Bennet. I did not dare touch her hair, though my fingers itched to do so it would be most improper and unseemly. I did not dare to ask her directly to dance with me knowing that I faced refusal. I did not dare to let myself feel my growing regard for her. I did not dare to imagine seeking a closer association with her, for then she would inevitably know what I try so hard to keep concealed.
I dared not imagine what it might be like to pledge myself to her and have her beside me always; my duty was to marry as well as my father had. I reminded myself of the inferiority of her connections, a mother from trade, ridiculous younger sisters who flirted and carried on. With those things in mind I could try to keep myself from the danger of desiring her for my wife.
Still, I could not help but imagine seeing Miss Elizabeth's tiny hands posed to remove her hair from its current arrangement pin by pin as my mother had. But there my imagination stopped as I was not sure what her hair would be like. Would it fall to halfway down her back or even as far as her waist in thick waves, curling mostly at the ends, or would her hair only reach her shoulders as compressed into curls? No man save for her husband would ever see her hair down and learn the answer to this question.
I wanted it to be my eyes seeing her hair coming down, lock by lock. I wanted it to be my hand sliding along her neck as I moved her newly released strands from her shoulder to her back. If she had thick curls, I wanted it to be me grasping one of her curls, stretching it down, releasing it and seeing it spring back up. I wanted it to be me feeling the sensation of coiling a ribbon-like curl around my finger or sliding my hands down its waves.
But before any such intimacy could take place, we would need to be married. Though I could not marry her, I could imagine saying those words which were like to how I was taught to ask for a dance, "Miss Bennet, will you do me the great honor of marrying me?"
