It’s easy enough to imagine dating a man like Mr Darcy, isn’t it? (See my earlier Pink Ink post, Dating Mr Darcy…For Real.) It’s certainly no hardship to picture yourself sharing a candlelit dinner for two, or a sleigh ride on a snowy country lane with the taciturn but forbiddingly handsome Darcy…
…and so easy to imagine him choosing the perfect wine for a romantic dinner a deux; sitting tall beside you in the sleigh as he guides the horses though the snow (or maneuvers his Aston Martin expertly through heavy traffic); and brushes his lips against yours as he bids you good night and leaves you at the front door.
Mr Darcy, Mr Knightley, Colonel Brandon, Henry Tilney, Edward Ferrars, Captain Wentworth…all of them compelling, all heroic in great ways and small. Any woman would surely love to spend a few hours conversing over drinks or dinner in the company of such an admirable man.
But try to imagine sharing dinner or a movie on a date with Mr Elton or the Reverend Collins. Not such a pleasant prospect, is it?
REVEREND COLLINS
It’s bad enough that your mother has invited Mr Collins to Sunday dinner; to add insult to injury, she pushes him at you over the roast beef and mash and makes no secret of her fervent hope that you and he will marry.
You shudder as you pass the gravy. To spend the rest of your days shackled to such a ridiculous, self-important man is unthinkable. Unbearable.
Nevertheless, you’re persuaded to meet him at Starbucks for coffee the following Saturday. You suffer through an hour of listening to him sing the praises of someone named Lady Catherine, and sit in silence as he boasts about her excellent taste and extreme generosity. You suppress a yawn and glance at your wristwatch. You’ve had enough.
“I really must fly,” you inform him brightly, and set your cup down. “Thanks for, erm…this.”
He sighs. “It was a tolerable cup of coffee, I daresay, although the beans that Lady Catherine grinds for her own special Rosings blend is far superior to this. Before you go, tell me – will you marry me?”
You nearly choke on your latte. Is this guy for real? You barely know each other! And what you do know, you can’t stand. So you attempt to let him down gently, in the most polite way possible. A more excruciating hour you cannot recall.
You have no interest in marriage, you inform him firmly. There will be no more dates. And there will most assuredly be no wedding, now or ever.
The next day he asks your best friend Charlotte out, and after a brief, whirlwind (and in your opinion, completely baffling) romance, the pair are engaged to be married. Mr Collins is smug; Charlotte is thrilled; and although you’re convinced she’s taken complete leave of her senses, you pretend to be pleased and wish her well.
MR ELTON
So when Mr Elton – another English country vicar (why are men of the cloth so drawn to you??) – asks you out to see a film, you hesitate. Your first inclination is to say no. Hell, no. But he’s so pleasant, and well spoken, and…well, you really do want to see The Force Awakens. So you (reluctantly) agree, thinking that perhaps you can fix him up with your unattached cousin Harriet.
At first, all goes well. You converse over non-alcoholic beers beforehand. You mention your cousin and tell him that she’s unattached but, unlike you, is looking for a serious relationship. (A little spot of matchmaking never goes amiss.) Mr Elton seems moderately interested and agrees to meet her.
When you both arrive at the theatre it’s crowded. The only seats available are in the very last row. You balk, and try to think of an excuse to turn around and go home, until several patrons seated nearby hiss at you both to sit down. So you do.
The movie begins. The film is absorbing and packed with action and you soon find yourself drawn into the story. You feel something warm and damp land on your shoulder.
It’s Mr Elton’s hand.
You freeze. Good God. Politely but firmly you remove it and return your attention to the screen. A moment later, The Hand returns…this time, landing a bit lower, on the curve of your shoulder.
“Mr Elton,” you hiss as you swat him away, “kindly keep yourself to yourself!”
“But dearest,” he whispers passionately in your ear, “I cannot hold my feelings back. I love you, most ardently. I want to marry you.”
“No,” you whisper, earning evil glares from nearby members of the audience, “it’s Harriet you want. She’s desperate to get married. She’s…perfect for you.”
“i have no interest in your cousin,” he objects, and leans forward to grip your hand tightly in his. “It’s you I want. You! Say you’ll be mine.”
You struggle to free your hand. “Take me home at once,” you demand, “or I’ll fling this extra-large cup of soda all over your starched white neckcloth!”
He hastily withdraws. Needless to say, Mr Elton returns you home without a word (which is fine with you). That’s it, you decide grimly as you shut the door to the sound of him revving the engine as he peels away from the curb in high dudgeon. You’re done with dating. Done!
MR BINGLEY
When your best friend Jane wants to fix you up with her ex-boyfriend Charles (she hoped he’d pop the question but he never did), you refuse. But she insists you give Mr Bingley a go.
“He’s sweet and pleasant and lots of fun,” she urges. “You’re perfect for each other. And,” she adds, lifting her brow, “he’s a ginger.”
You’re sold. You do like ginger-haired men. Envisioning James Norton and going all soft and gooey inside, you relent and agree to go out with him.
The appointed day of your date arrives. Bingley announces he’s taking you to the Christmas market (“Only,” he hastens to add, “if that meets with your approval?”). Although he’s not quite James Norton, he’s agreeable and good-natured and easy to be with, and to your surprise, you have a wonderful time.
And although it’s true he can be a bit silly at times, and his relentless desire to please can be somewhat exhausting, Jane is right. He really is quite a lot of fun to be with.
And as you address your wedding invitations a month later (being sure to include Harriet and the odious Mr Collins on the list, so you can rub your good fortune in his face), you reflect that perhaps dating all of those non-Darcys wasn’t such a waste after all.
Your friend Lizzy landed herself the incomparable Mr Darcy, it’s true. But how much better, you think smugly as you address the last envelope, to spend your days in wedded bliss with a pleasant, smiling man and not a scowling, moody git like Darcy.
“I’ve brought you tea, dearest,” Bingley announces, beaming as he hands you a cup of Darjeeling and leans down to kiss you. “I do hope you like it.”
“It’s perfect, Charles,” you assure him. “Just like you.”
As he leaves, it occurs to you that brooding, handsome men are all very well in books and films. But honestly? A man possessed of a reasonable fortune and a pleasant disposition is all a girl really needs to be happy…
…no matter what those romance novels claim.
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