Chapter 2
Two
Afternoon
In the matter of one week I have moved from the state of utter ruin to triumphant wifehood. Having accomplished that which is supposed to be the ultimate goal of all women, I ought to feel overjoyed. Or at the very least content. Yet I feel nothing of the sort.
What followed the arrival of the epistle was four days of Mama shifting between lamenting how little time she had to plan the wedding (and abusing Mr. Darcy for his impatience) and exclaiming how wonderful her future son-in-law was, how rich I would be, and how clever she was for having engineered the whole thing (the last was news to me, but if she wished to claim my foolishness I was perfectly willing to give her the credit).
We visited every shop, called on every neighbor with Mama boasting mortifyingly to everyone she met that I was to be the grandest lady in Derbyshire.
So, yes, having the wedding over is a relief.
Having the marriage started however gives me no pleasure at all.
But I am determined to make the best of it.
Mr. Darcy, if his silent brooding is any indication, is not.
My husband has spoken exactly thirteen words to me since we were wed five hours ago.
I imagine the first words most husbands speak to their brides directly following the wedding ceremony are declarations of joy or compliments or at the very least, even in situations where there is little affection between the couple, a conversational remark on how surprisingly pleasant the weather is.
Mr. Darcy, it would seem, could not find solace in the miraculous golden day. Instead, as we stood on the steps of the church surrounded by the well-wishings of my family and neighbors, he heaved a great sigh and said in a tone of resigned despair, "Well . . . we are wed."
I suppose I should forgive him for the obviousness of that observation—it does seem rather extraordinary we should find ourselves eternally bound when can barely tolerate each other—but I must say I expected something better from my new husband.
His comment displayed an uninspiring lack of creativity.
I do hope it is not indicative of his future conversation.
It would hardly be fair for him to be condescending and dull.
Worse still, he refused to look at me as he spoke, making it more of a general pronouncement rather than a comment to myself in particular, however I am going to count it else my total will be only nine words and that would be simply intolerable.
At the wedding breakfast, he said "I would like to leave by half one." Eight whole words. An absolutely stunning display of verbosity for Mr. Darcy.
This loquaciousness, however, clearly drained him for once we were in the carriage he pretended to read.
I can only believe he was pretending because the roads were so terrible he could not possibly have been focusing on the page whilst being jostled so violently and indeed he kept looking up to glance out the window, making a concerted effort not to let his eyes stray my way in the process.
"I do hope the fair weather holds all the way to London," I said.
Banal words, perhaps, but when one is trying to keep things cheerful I find the weather to be a perfectly safe topic, and most people understand when one person makes an observation about the weather it is then the responsibility of the other to make some little remark of his own so that the pair might at least pretend to have a sensible conversation.
My husband is apparently not at all like most people. He said, "Uh-huh."
Unfortunately for him I am not easily deterred. "We have had terrible winters of late, I do hope this one will be better."
By way of reply he murmured unintelligibly.
In retrospect I cannot say I fully blame him.
It was hardly a comment bound to inspire much in the way of discussion.
What was he supposed to reply?: "I, on the contrary, am hoping for a particularly frigid season.
Nothing would please me more than another January in which the Thames freezes solid. "
Certainly not a prime example of my conversation skills. Then again, given his dreary moods, perhaps he would enjoy harsh winters.
For my next attempt I decided to try a different tactic. "Your sister is already in town, I believe. I am so looking forward to meeting her," I said hoping a more personal topic of conversation might inspire speech. I was proved correct. Mr. Darcy felt compelled to use actual language in response.
"Indeed," he said. His thirteenth word in our marriage, and I think it my favorite thus far.
It has now been a half hour since any word passed either of our lips. I am coming to realize my efforts are hopeless. This is not simply natural taciturnity, he is being deliberately uncooperative.
Or perhaps it is a very good book. The title is quite illegible from here. Should I ask him what he is reading? He thought it perfectly normal to discuss books in a ballroom so he should have no objection to discussing them in a carriage.
No. I will not. Though I will certainly admit my own folly caused this dreadful situation, he cannot claim innocence either.
He might have left the library upon my entering it yet he chose to tarry.
He chose to find words to defend himself against my admittedly impertinent accusations and yet he cannot spare a few now.
Clearly he blames me and means for me to feel my guilt, but I will not bend to such petty vindictiveness.
I am determined to sit here silently and enjoy the view as the scenery goes by.
As it lurches slowly by. As it wobbles slowly by as we make our way down the heavily furrowed road.
Perhaps I will not look out the window. I think it is making me nauseated.
I will look at him. And I will smile. Let us see how long he can remain silent under such scrutiny.