3rd December, 1811 Evening
Three
Evening
As soon as the maid who had helped me out of my dinner dress had taken her leave, I collapsed upon my bed. Or rather I collapsed upon the bed in the chamber I had been directed to upon arriving at Darcy House.
It did not feel like my bed. I did not believe anything in this house would ever feel like mine.
Nevertheless it was, at least in name, my bed.
In my bedchamber. My bedchamber which had three doors.
One door led to my private sitting room.
One door led to my dressing room. And one door led to my husband's bedchamber.
One of these doors was causing me greater anxiety than the other two. Care to guess which one?
Surely Mr. I-Do-Not-Wish-To-Converse could possibly expect—could not possibly want—would not possibly think—arrgh, I could not even put it to words—it was too horrible. He just could not possibly. There could be no wedding night after such a wedding day.
Things had not improved after our argument in the carriage. He kept to his book and his cold silences and—though I did entertain some rather childish thoughts of intentionally humming tunelessly—I restrained myself, keeping quietly civil.
He did not speak again until we reached Mayfair.
At which point he said suddenly into the silence, "In addition to my sister, my aunt and her two young daughters are staying at Darcy House.
You will most likely meet them this evening.
" I read the unspoken command in his eyes, "And I expect you to behave with decorum," they seemed to say.
"How lovely," I said though I did not feel the slightest bit of pleasure at this revelation. Though I am usually keen to meet new people, the idea of having another Darcy relation to look upon me with disapproval was not appealing.
"Mrs. Vane is my father's half sister. She stays on at my London house most of the year with occasional visits to other relation. It is her primary residence."
"She is a widow?"
"Possibly." Only Mr. Darcy could make such an enigmatic statement and think he could leave it unexplained.
"Possibly?" I prompted.
"Her husband has . . . mislaid himself. Before his disappearance he had habits of excess which have led to financial constraints for my aunt. Without assistance she and my cousins would be living in circumstances unsuitable to ladies of their rank."
Notice Mr. Darcy did not say, "My uncle is a gamester who has put his wife and daughters in penury.
" No, he had to say it much more delicately than that.
And of course call Mr. Vane "her husband" rather than "my uncle".
He would never lower himself by admitting connection to such a man.
It is a wonder he did not introduce me to the housekeeper and butler of Darcy House as "the woman I happen to be married to" rather than "my wife, Mrs. Darcy".
Yet he did indeed introduce me as his wife when we arrived. To the servants at least. To his aunt and sister he simply said, "This is Elizabeth," accompanying the announcement with a sort of vague gesture towards me just in case they were yet unsure to whom he was referring.
Perhaps his indication was necessary. They both had looked stunned as if they had been expecting someone else entirely.
In Mrs. Vane's case, I think she expected a temptress, a beguiling coquette whose undeniable beauty would explain her nephew's predicament.
Instead she was confronted with the merely tolerable me and did not know what to make of anything.
Miss Darcy expected me to have horns. Possibly hooves as well. And certainly a forked tail.
Miss Darcy hated me. I could see it in her eyes immediately. It was a true, pure outright hatred. A hatred whose intensity I suspected was in direct correlation to her love for her brother.
I could respect that kind of hatred. If some gentleman by some means evil or accidental had trapped Jane into a marriage she did not want I am sure I would feel quite the same way about him as Miss Darcy felt about me.
Even If I had been the daughter of a duke with fifty thousand pounds to my name, Miss Darcy would still hate me.
Mrs. Vane I believed, however, would have been much more accepting of me if my circumstances were thus altered.
One could tell straightaway upon meeting her that she once carried the name Darcy and not simply because she, like her nephew, had strong, aristocratic features.
No, it was because she had that same pride as Mr. Darcy, a seemingly inborn assurance that everybody and everything is beneath them until proven otherwise.
And I had certainly not been proven otherwise.
Dinner was a frightful affair. Four courses service a la russe (who bothers with service a la russe for a family dinner?) of Miss Darcy's silent hatred, Mrs. Vane's haughty disdain, and Mr. Darcy's .
. . resentment? Travel fatigue? Dyspepsia?
Or perhaps he still simply did not wish to converse. Who could guess?
I had thought once he was in the company of his relatives he would at least speak to them, yet he answered most of their inquiries with monosyllabic replies. It was most frustrating. I knew him to be capable of conversation, I had witnessed it—I had participated in it!
The wedding was barely mentioned, but of course if either lady had cared to know about the wedding they might have attended—Meryton is an easy distance from London, after all. Most of the conversation—or rather interrogation—centered on my family.
Mrs. Vane was only too happy to point out the deficiency of my relation and connections though she did it with such careful false civility I could not possibly make any sort of rejoinder without looking the villain. But, oh, how I longed to inquire about Mr. Vane.
Yet I behaved myself.
After dinner, coffee was served in the drawing room where Miss Darcy played a selection on the pianoforte.
Miss Bingley did not exaggerate in her praise, Miss Darcy is astoundingly talented.
At the conclusion of her performance Mr. Darcy announced there was some business he must attend to and went out, Miss Darcy declared herself fatigued and went off to bed, and Mrs. Vane said she must go to the nursery to bid her daughters goodnight. Thus I was left blessedly alone.
So now I find myself in bed at an hour that is absurdly early for London but I am still on country time so I should be tired. And I am tired though of course I will not sleep. Because, as I mentioned earlier—The Door.
I do not hear stirring in the adjoining chamber so I must conclude that Mr. Darcy has not yet returned from whatever business sent him out. It is too much to hope that he will stay out all night.
It is going to happen and I must resign myself to it. Really, I'll be glad to have it done with.
Only it is never actually done with, is it? Nocturnal visits from a husband might cease after the production of a son or two, but until then they are something which must be endured with fair regularity.
Perhaps I will feel better about it once I know which type Mr. Darcy is. Mama says there are two types of men (I understand the dangers of putting much faith in anything Mama says, but hers is the only information I have).
According to her the types of men are:
1. The squeamish sort. This gentleman is just as bashful as his bride and perhaps more than a little too proper.
Activities will be conducted in complete darkness.
He will push up his bride's night gown only as much as necessary and then shove in his bayonet without preface (bayonet is Mama's word choice not mine).
The whole mortifying process will be over in a matter of minutes, but every second of it will be martyrdom.
2. The experienced and unabashed lover. This gentleman knows what he is about either through direct practice (the most likely scenario) or through the rigorous study of available literature (I was surprised to find there are books on the subject and voiced my desire to read one—a book would be much more instructive than my mother, I'm sure—but Mama refused to speak any more about it and I wonder if the scholarly approach is just a bit of mythology invented by mothers to mitigate their daughters' shock at finding their new husbands too knowledgeable).
Regardless of the origin of his knowledge, this sort of gentleman will probably wish to see his bride disrobe and, as shocking as that experience will be, according to Mama it will certainly be worth it.
There will be all manner of preface and the entire process (even the bayoneting part) will be pleasant.
Mama went onto explain how exactly Mr. Darcy will plow my fertile valley (once again, her word choice, not mine). A process which I think is perfectly obvious to anyone who has lived around livestock as long as I have.
What I really wanted to know more about was preface. Specifically what it is and how one goes about it as I am fairly certain livestock do not engage in it and from what she told me it is what makes all the difference.
In true Mama fashion she absolutely refused to discuss it further, saying only, "Mr. Darcy will know what to do. Or he won't."
How comforting!
Though I would not call Mr. Darcy squeamish, I would say he is indifferent to my feelings. If he finds engaging in polite conversation too much a chore, is he likely to waste his time on preface?
I fear not.
Mama also seemed convinced he was the first type of gentleman.
With a pitying glance, she gave me an affectionate pat upon the hand and said, "It might be best to have a glass of wine or two before he visits you.
And once he arrives just be a good girl and lie still and think of all the lovely things you can buy with your pin money. "
Perhaps I should call for a glass of wine? I had one with dinner, but its affects have all but worn off. Another might serve to settle my nerves.
Settle my nerves? Goodness, I am turning into Mama.
As over-dramatic as she may be, on occasion she does have the right of things and I think this may be one of those times. A glass of wine would be helpful, yet I really did not want to ring the bell and trouble the servants for such a trifling thing, especially on my first night here.
I decided to go to the kitchen and fetch the wine myself.
It was not until I was on the second landing that it occurred to me the servants were probably still very much awake and going about their duties and my appearance in the kitchen—in my night rail and dressing gown, no less—would disturb them.
I was about to turn around and trudge back up the stairs when I noticed the first door down the hall was slightly ajar. The door of Mr. Darcy's study. A gentleman keeps his private supply of liquor in his study, correct?
I crossed the hall and peeked through the crack in the door. Seeing no occupants in the room, I cautiously eased open the door, driven more by curiosity than by any desire to pilfer my husband's alcohol.
The study was immaculate. Which did not surprise me exactly. One would expect any room designed for the primary use of Mr. Darcy to be tidy. But it was just so terribly . . . bare.
There was nothing personal at all. No paintings.
No ornamentation beyond the small clock upon the mantel, and even it was rather plain.
At the center of the room there was an imposing desk and behind it a chair that did not look at all comfortable.
By the fireplace there were two more chairs, these were at least upholstered and slightly more promising of comfort.
Between the chairs there was a little table on which sat a decanter filled with an amber liquid of some sort and beside it was a tumbler.
And that was everything. In the whole room.
A room that could not exactly be called small.
And everything was all so very ivory. And gold.
But mostly ivory. Men usually preferred sumptuous shades like red for their rooms as it is less likely to be discolored by cigar smoke.
There was no discoloration on those walls.
Nor did the room have that masculine smell of lingering tobacco. Mr. Darcy, I concluded, did not smoke.
But he did drink.
My gaze returned to the decanter. The liquid within it glowed warmly in the candlelight. I should have a drink, I thought. That was what I came for, wasn't it?
It wasn't. I had hoped to discover something about my husband. Something personal. Some little secret that might make him seem more human. And all I had managed to glean was that he did not smoke.
I sighed, resigned to return to my chambers lacking in both wine and information, but then I heard footsteps on the stairs.
It was probably just a servant come to snuff out the candles, but I did not wish to be caught snooping.
Impulsively I grabbed the decanter and tumbler and quit the room in all haste.
Some minutes later in the safety of my chamber, I stared at the decanter which now sat on my dressing table, taunting me for my rashness. You've already stolen me, it whispered, you might as well work up the courage to have a drink.
Proper ladies did not drink liquor. Wine was acceptable, in moderation.
But liquor was out of the question. Then again, proper ladies did not find themselves married to gentlemen they barely knew because they had been caught with their bodices ripped.
I reached for the decanter, pulled the stopper, and sniffed.
As expected the sharp scent of strong alcohol assailed my nose. I had tasted liquor once before when I was twelve and had sneaked a sip of Papa's Scotch whisky, only sheer determination had got me past the acrid smell. But this time there was something else beyond the harsh odor, something fruity.
I had stolen brandy. Well, brandy wasn't so bad. It was just distilled wine. People pressed it upon ladies who had swooned. It could not be too strong, could it?
I poured a little into the tumbler and took a tentative sip.
There was a slight burn, a pleasant warmth, really.
I drained the glass. How much did one need to drink in lieu of proper preface?
Certainly more than I had just partaken in.
I filled the tumbler again, this time filling it to what was in my estimation the equivalent of a glass of wine.
I sipped. Ah, yes this should do nicely.