Chapter 6
Six
Morning
It was on the sideboard where all the breakfast dishes were laid, at the end on a pile with the other morning news sheets. The Society Papers of Lady Whisperton claimed the heading. A gossip rag. I put it back where I had found it.
Then I picked it up again.
I do not read gossip sheets as a rule, but this one was a mystery. It was here in a house I instinctively knew such frivolous things would not be tolerated. And an announcement had been circled.
Looking around to confirm the room was deserted (one can never be too careful here, Darcys are a stealthy breed) I took the paper over to the nearest chair, balancing my shamelessly overfilled plate in my other hand (I barely touched my food at dinner last night, I find I lose my appetite under scrutiny). The indicated announcement read:
"Ambitious Mamas and Unmarried Misses, I must tell you a tale of sorrow.
The delectable Mr. D, distinguished bachelor of Derbyshire, is a bachelor no more.
He was lately wed to a Miss B. Do not try to decipher that cypher, Dear Reader, for you will never guess as the lady in question was unknown even to this well-informed author.
One might surmise that it is a love match—why else would that gentleman align himself with a country nobody with nary a penny?
However, the truth may be less romantic. It would compromise my dignity to discuss the matter in detail, but suffice it to say the marriage came about under most extraordinary circumstances."
"What are you reading?"
This was spoken by Darcy. The Darcy. Supreme Darcy of Darcy House. Master of Avoidance, Sardonic Eyebrow Raises, and Judgmental Glares. Presently he was giving me the Judgmental Glare of Doom. I dropped the offending paper as if it were a pair Mr. Collins's soiled smalls.
Not suspicious at all, Lizzy. Well done, you. Of course he would find me reading drivel.
Mr. Darcy approached. Have I mentioned how obnoxiously he walks? It is a manly version of Mrs. Vane's imperious glide. Like he owns the room. Which in this case, of course, he does.
He stood next to me, looming over me expectantly like a great dreary tower. Given how tall he is I suppose he cannot help it. But I get the feeling he likes towering. Insufferable man.
It is perhaps obvious that I am once again a little peeved at him. And once again he probably does not deserve my peevishness. Which oddly makes me all the more peeved.
My peevishness can do him no harm however because he has been avoiding me.
How am I ever to apologize to him for our wedding night and demonstrate how very pleasant and most importantly sober I can be if he is forever out of the house?
Yesterday after our visitors left I was preoccupied with making Dora comfortable and finding a servant willing to see to Sir Sebastian needs (apparently he has a Reputation—enough of one to warrant capitalization—and the maids were all tripping over each other in their haste to escape the horrible fate of looking after him).
By the time everything was settled Darcy had gone out again.
I picked up the gossip sheet which had fallen into my lap and offered it to him. "It was on the sideboard. Is it yours?" I asked sweetly.
He took the paper wordlessly.
"Someone so helpfully circled the pertinent information," I said as his eyes roved the page. I thought I knew who that someone was.
"Interesting," he said after a moment.
"Yes, most flattering is it not? To know our misfortunes are worthy gossip sheet fodder."
"Misfortunes?" He pronounced the word caustically, every syllable a sharpened blade. I faltered.
He spoke again before I could recover. "You found this here?" he asked, his tone regulated, betraying none of the sharpness he had expressed only a moment before.
"As I said."
"I am sorry if it has upset you. I will take care of it."
At first I thought he meant take care of it as in pistols at dawn with Lady Whisperton. Or perhaps less sensationally, taking care of it by filing a suit of libel against the printer.
"My sister will apologize," he assured.
Of course. Being a rational man, he meant take care of it by scolding his sister.
Yet again. He returned just in time for dinner last night with a sullen Georgiana in tow.
She had evidently been hiding at the Bingley's all day, no doubt discussing my perfidy with Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst. The siblings appeared none-too-pleased with each other, which made me certain Mr. Darcy had scolded his sister for decamping.
Without the slightest bit of conviction I said, "You cannot be certain it was Georgiana who left it here."
There was really no one else it could have been.
If Mrs. Vane were to lower herself by admitting to purchasing a gossip sheet, she would hand it to me directly just to see the look on my face.
And if Dora has any awareness that there is such a thing as a gossip sheet, or indeed gossip in general, I should be heartily surprised.
It occurred to me that another round of scolding would turn Georgiana unalterably against me. "Please, Mr. Darcy, do not mention it to your sister. I am not at all upset and really it is actually helpful to know what is being said."
"It was not meant to be helpful."
"No, but sometimes it is better to ignore bad behavior. Sometimes to deprive the offender of a reaction is punishment enough." I tried to tug the sheet from his grasp, but he pulled it away from me.
"I think I know best how to deal with my own sister," he said coldly.
Frustrating man! Why was he speaking to me as if I had been the naughty one? And why did every conversation between us turn into an argument?
Not bothering to keep my sarcasm in check I said, "I am sure you are right."
In reply he rolled his eyes.
It is difficult to explain why this particular gesture annoys me so much when Darcy does it.
Lydia rolls her eyes at me all the time and it gives me only amusement.
Perhaps because when my husband casts his eyes in a heavenward direction he silently says, "I cannot put into words how exasperatingly ridiculous you are.
" Or worse and perhaps more likely, "You are not even worth me putting into words how exasperatingly ridiculous you are.
" Of course this is probably what Lydia means by the gesture as well, but Lydia is Lydia; one cannot be wounded by the derision of a silly child.
Mr. Darcy's derision however. . . . The man makes me feel inferior. It is not that I think Mr. Darcy is my intellectual superior. Certainly not.
Probably not.
That is to say he is certainly better educated. Obviously. I didn't even have a governess. But that does not mean he is cleverer than I.
Does it?
And why should it matter if he is cleverer? It should not. It does not. Only. . . .
Only he does not think me clever enough to understand his feelings, he dismisses me with a roll of his eyes. It is most unfair. Well, perhaps not. I have given him reason to doubt my sense. Twice now.
"Well. . . ." he let the word hang there, drawing out the awkwardness of the moment as only Mr. Darcy can. "I have things I must attend to. Good morning," he gave me a nod and turned on his heel.
"Will you not take breakfast?" I asked, nearly shouting in my desperation to halt him.
"I've already eaten," he replied without turning back. He left as imperiously as he had entered.
Strange, vexing man. What did he come here for if not to eat?
I was considering abandoning all dignity and chasing after him, demanding . . . something—a conversation—a chance for us to be agreeable to each other—but Sir Sebastian waddled briskly into the room as if he owned it and then launched himself into my lap as if he owned me as well.
I could have deposited the dog onto the floor, caught up with Mr. Darcy and apologized for my inebriation on our wedding night and for whatever misunderstanding that had just caused him to leave so abruptly (really, I have no idea why things turned so suddenly antagonistic between us) but Sir Sebastian had already made himself quite comfortable, so I let him be my excuse for cowerdice.
I would look silly if I went dashing after Darcy anyway. And what could I possibly say?
"What am I to do?" I asked aloud.
The dog regarded me seriously.
"My husband cannot bear to be in the same room with me apparently."
My eyes prickled. My bottom lip wobbled dangerously. I bit down on it hard.
"No, you will not, Lizzy. You. Will. Not."
Sir Sebastian cocked his head endearingly, his eyes displaying great concern. Somehow that made it all the worse.
I sniffed. It was a wet, gurgling, I-am-about-to-bawl-like-a-child-denied-a-sweet sniff. No. No. No. I refused to cry over eggs and blood pudding whilst conducting a one-sided conversation with an obese terrier; it was just too ridiculous.
The dog placed one of his front paws comfortingly on my arm as if to say, "Steady on. It cannot be all that bad."
"You are right, of course. I am not even two full days wed, there is no need for despair yet. I have plenty of time to fix my marriage. A lifetime, actually."
I patted Sir Sebby and he rolled over as to give better access to his enormous belly. "Good, good, that's settled then," he said (not aloud, of course, I haven't run completely mad—he said this with his eyes) "Now give me a sausage—that's a good girl."