Fatigued by the raptures of his wife, Mr. Bennet is also slyly wandering off. Bingley’s attention has been duly captured by his paragon of virtue and her virtual gorgon of a mother. The latter is currently babbling about the Wickham wedding, but I have done my part in that sordid affair and cannot rejoice in it. That leaves a lovely lady and a mammering, milk-livered mumble-news standing in awkward silence; and we are both avoiding direct eye contact. Thankful Elizabeth cannot read minds, I have just realized how uncharitable have been my thoughts toward her family.

Having said as little as civility allows, I venture another peek. Elizabeth is stunning, not only visually but also in the stupefying sense. I might as well have suffered a blow to the head, such is my inability to think or speak. Regrettably, she has been struck dumb by the same dread-bolted affliction; and during my summary scrutinies, fleeting impressions of surprise, pleasure, and embarrassment have all crossed her expressive face. She must wonder why I have returned if only to be tongue-tied, grave, cork-brained, and indifferent.

I force myself to not fidget with my signet ring as I stare at the floor. Gleaning no inspiration from the wood’s pockmarked patina, I find myself, in truth, at variance with its age and polish. I would not normally describe Fitzwilliam Darcy as immature and unsophisticated, but at this very moment I feel as green as a fresh sprout in a garden. Eureka! I clear my throat unnecessarily and say, “I trust Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner are faring well, Miss Elizabeth.”

“I thank you, yes, my aunt and uncle are very well.”

Her quick, confused glance and answer do nothing to quell the earth-vexing unease. I dearly wish the Gardiners were here now to act as intermediaries in this problematic reunion. The endearing couple make conversation virtually effortless, and I shall be very reluctant to sever our acquaintance should I be rejected yet again by their niece.