Obviously, that weedy, slime-sucked gruel does not come close to the charming love sonnet I intended to compose. Even a fine, stout, and healthy love would choke on such vomitus. Bingley is right; I study too much for words of four syllables. It matters not. Since I do not perform to strangers, I shall never expose myself to ridicule by reciting my rhyme aloud. Thunder and turf, what would people think? Fitzwilliam Darcy… gentleman, master of the grand estate of Pemberley, nephew of both the Earl of Matlock and Lady Catherine de Bourgh of Rosings Park, member of the ton, and, now, author of a puking, plebeian limerick.
“Darcy?… Darcy… DARCY!”
“What?”
“Whatever has gotten into you, man?”
“Whatever do you mean, Bingley?”
“The harvest moon truly must spawn lunacy, for I swear you were chortling to yourself just now as I approached.”
“I most certainly was not! And what if I was?”
“Your doing so was illy timed.” Bingley glances over his shoulder, raises his voice a notch, and says, “Were you not listening while Mrs. Long lamented the loss of her beloved canary?”
I turn to see if the woman is following our conversation. Before she can identify the guilty expression on my face, I pull my friend aside and speak so only he can hear. “You did not tell her?”
“Well now, what do you suppose?”
“I suppose not. Thank you. Still and all, the woman had no business permitting her pet to escape its bloody cage and fly willy-nilly about the neighbourhood … especially when there are gentlemen in the area allegedly returned to enjoy some sport.”