“Very impressive, sir. Are you also able to pinpoint the source of that frustration?”
Cheeky chit. “I am afraid not. More complex than Pythagoreanism, a woman’s thoughts are neither within my sphere of understanding nor an area with which I am familiar. I suspect your mind has more angles than I ever learned while studying Euclid’s Elements of Geometry. Ergo, I would merely be going in circles trying to pinpoint the derivation of your aggravation.”
I begin to retrace our steps, with Elizabeth in tow, and arrive at the specified position.
“Come now, Mr. Darcy. You are being irrational. Can you truly not get to the root of the problem?”
I was not joking when I mentioned going in circles. My head is spinning in an attempt to keep up with the minx. I quickly survey the surrounding area, and espy the pearl earring on the floor under a table beyond the row of chairs previously occupied by her sisters and my friend. I had not noticed Bingley’s, Miss Bennet’s, and Miss Catherine’s departure but now observe them participating in a Scottish reel. Miss Mary remains seated, nose buried in a book. It is probably Fordyce’s Sermons, but I cannot talk of books in this ballroom. Elizabeth fills my head; it spins and reels, not unlike those engaged in the dance.
“I have, at least, solved one problem.” I point to where the piece of jewelry rests, and she looks at me expectantly.
What? Does she expect me to retrieve it? Is there not a footman about? Oh, bloody hell. It would be a most undignified maneuver. Yet, if she insists, I will unwillingly oblige and crawl on hands and knees to recover the confounded earring. Elizabeth does not even attempt such a request; she just patiently waits for me to volunteer. I sigh, lower myself, and retrieve her puny, pox-marked pearl.