A Most Civil Proposal

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

A Most Civil Proposal

Copyright © 2013 by C. P. Odom

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any format whatsoever. For information: P.O. Box 34, Oysterville WA 98641

ISBN: 978-1-936009-21-3

Graphic design by Ellen Pickels

To my wife, Jeanine, who lit up my life
and gave me the reason to write.

And to my first two reviewers, Carol and tJean,
who helped me learn and made me look better than I was.

Prologue

Wednesday, April 8, 1812

“Will that be all for tonight, Mr. Darcy?”

Fitzwilliam Darcy, lost in the turmoil of his thoughts, turned from the window to find that his valet had completed preparations for the morrow.

“Yes, Jennings,” replied Darcy absently, “thank you. That will be all, and I wish you good night.”

“Will you be rising as usual tomorrow?”

“Yes. As usual.” Darcy turned back to the window.

“Then I wish you good night also, sir,” said his valet, and the click of the closing door followed shortly.

Darcy again tried to concentrate. He was coming to the conclusion that it was nigh impossible to determine just how his well-ordered and well-planned life had descended into the tumult and uncertainty that plagued him at present. As recently as the previous day, he had been firm in the belief that his emotions were well in hand, that his detachment was still in place, that he was . . . safe. Safe from the bewitchment of Elizabeth Bennet, secure in his position in society, and fixed in his confidence as the master of his own fate.

And now? Now he knew that safety had been only an illusion and that he had actually stepped well over the edge of the precipice before being fully aware of the danger. At what point had it happened? Was it during his walk with her in Rosings park the day before? Perhaps — or perhaps not; it did not matter. He knew only that his present resolve to speak to Miss Bennet on the morrow was as real as his previous resolve to ignore her had been imaginary.

He snorted. Speak to her? No, it was much more significant than that. He would make an offer of marriage to her despite the humiliation and strife that would result. He, the master of Pemberley, and she, the daughter of a country gentleman of small fortune and no connections! But it did not matter any more, and he could not determine when that point had been reached.

The mistress of Rosings, his aunt Lady Catherine de Bourgh would not be pleased. The thwarting of her long-held ambition to align himself with his cousin Anne de Bourgh and to join Pemberley with Rosings would not make her temperate. She was well used to having her own way, and he had walked carefully in past visits, remaining noncommittal without overtly contradicting her oft-expressed plans. Indeed, he and Anne had derived considerable amusement as he deftly sidestepped her mother’s blunt suggestions. It had seemed harmless fun then since neither of them had any wish to marry. In fact, Anne had told him many times that she knew her health never would allow any kind of marriage, and she would be happy to live out her life quietly in a modest country estate rather than Rosings. But Anne’s wishes were meaningless to his aunt, and when Lady Catherine learned of his engagement to Elizabeth Bennet, she would be outraged beyond measure.

“It will not do,” he said aloud, picturing Elizabeth’s face crumpling under the onslaught of her ladyship’s disdain. Then he snorted again, this time in amusement. Miss Bennet had already demonstrated her ability to stand up to his aunt — never retreating yet never quite offering offence. Impertinence it might be called, but courage it could also be named, and he cherished that quality as he imagined her at his side, one eyebrow arched in amusement while Lady Catherine thundered and raged ineffectually.

While his aunt’s reaction boded to be extreme and predictable, Darcy was none too sure about the rest of his family and friends. He well knew his uncle Lord Matlock would not be pleased, but just exactly what his response might be was not certain. He took his position as the head of the family seriously, and he would not be happy about a match between the Darcy name and fortune and a country girl with little to bring to the marriage.

His jaw clenched, and his brows knit together in determination; for the thought of Miss Bennet being abused — of his allowing her to be abused — was too painful to consider. “I will not allow
any
mistreatment from my relations,” he pledged aloud. “
None!
”

Now the subject that had gripped his thoughts all evening returned anew. How would he address her? He planned to take the opportunity the next day since his aunt’s parson and Elizabeth’s cousin, Mr. Collins, and his guests were invited to take tea at Rosings. His cousin Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam had urged the invitation, noting it would be the last chance before their departure on Saturday. Darcy could not determine whether his cousin suspected his attachment to Miss Bennet, but Fitzwilliam’s amiable attentions to her had played no small part in forming Darcy’s resolve. Despite Richard’s need to pay at least some notice to money when he married, Darcy was decidedly uncomfortable both with Richard’s ease with the lady and with her own response. He wished again that, just once, he could conduct a conversation with her without saying something he did not intend and often did not mean. Much as he enjoyed her verbal repartee, it made him more than a little uncomfortable that many of their exchanges resulted from statements that he never would have previously believed could fall from his lips. Unwillingly, his own words echoed in his mind:
“But pride
—
where there is a real superiority of mind, pride will be always under good regulation.”

“Idiot!” he groaned in mortification. Even though he could not fault the sense of the statement, how could he have made such an immodest declaration aloud and in company? He had always despised such boasting by other men, and he remembered the night at Netherfield as those words tumbled from his mouth without thought. He cringed inwardly as he also remembered her turning away to hide her smile — yet another joust won by Miss Bennet.

At least it will be finished after tomorrow!
Then he could speak of emotions and thoughts that could not be talked of until he declared himself. Fleetingly, he wondered whether he should proceed with more caution, perhaps a simple statement of his esteem and desire to court her in the usual manner, but his inner tumult was such that he rejected the idea almost before it presented itself to his mind. Her wits were much too quick for such discretion; she, of course, must know of his regard for her. He would not disappoint her with a tepid request for courtship when his own fervent love asserted, nay
required
, a clear declaration of intent.
After tomorrow, all will be complete.

Remembrance of earlier missteps, however, now added to his discontent. This was too important to leave to chance. He could not afford to make a hash of the fundamental step of proposing marriage when he had, on previous occasions, so oft been unable to manage even simple conversation. A plan of action was called for. Pacing in agitation in front of the fireplace, he imagined himself facing Elizabeth after suggesting a walk through the formal gardens after tea. After seating her on one of the benches in the garden, he was facing her . . . he was opening his mouth . . .

In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me —