Chapter 9
Nine
Afternoon
"Elizabeth, there is something I need to speak with you about."
Oh, no. I knew this was coming. Rebecca Darcy had called, despite somehow being even more spherical than she had been just a few days ago, and though she has been exceedingly friendly (she had nervously inquired after my health several times now) I know this is not just a friendly call.
She is here for a purpose. A mortifying purpose.
"My nephew has asked me to speak to you because he fears you may have some . . . misapprehensions concerning . . . concerning the . . . er . . . relations between a man and a woman. The procreative relations."
Oh, bloody no.
"Rebecca, please." Please, just kill me now. "I know how babies are made."
She looked up hopefully from her tea cup to which she had addressed her entire soliloquy. "You do?"
"Yes, my mama spoke to me before the wedding. She made everything terribly clear." Actually Mama befuddled the subject nicely, but fortunately I had already had a good understanding of process. Except for preface, but I think after last night I am much better informed on that subject.
"Oh . . . wonderful." Rebecca took a sip of tea. Then another. A clock ticked loudly in the background. I waited. She would have to ask. Human nature demanded it.
"Not to pry. . . ." she began, letting the sentence trail off expectantly.
I could not fault her curiosity, it was only natural for her to wonder what had inspired Darcy to ask her to have what must be the most awkward conversation in the world.
A conversation that could only become more mortifying as it continued, but I had to tell someone. At some point Darcy would have to know. And I did not want to be the one to tell him. Perhaps his Uncle James could speak to him.
"The problem is not my understanding," I reiterated, "The problem is with him."
"With Fitzwilliam?"
I nodded.
"Did he do something you found unpleasant?"
Instantly my mind revisited all the very pleasant things Darcy had done. With his mouth. And his tongue. And his hands—oh, his hands. That first kiss, coyly tentative perfection which led to a caress, a deeper kiss, and somehow we ended up on my bed.
And then the terrible revelation. At which point I went fleeing to my dressing room and barred the door. Had Darcy told his aunt about that? Of course he had. It was perhaps a little unreasonable of me to have refused to explain my sudden alteration. But how could I explain?
"No, it is nothing he did," I replied. I was addressing my tea cup now. "He . . . Mr. Darcy—Fitzwilliam has a . . . deformity."
"Deformity? What do you mean?"
After a nervous clearing of my throat I said, "His weaponry is shockingly overlarge."
"And by weaponry you mean his—," she said with a downward glace to her lap.
Again I nodded.
Rebecca let out a bark of laughter she attempted to disguise as a cough. "Forgive me, I am not laughing at you." At which point she broke down and laughed at me in earnest for some time.
Once she had recovered from her mirth she said, "I think every new wife when she first beholds her husband's weapon is a little overwhelmed. However I am sure you will find the sword fits the sheath quite nicely."
I shook my head vigorously. "I have seen nude men depicted in art, Darcy's . . . sword is enormous by comparison."
Rebecca began giggling anew. "I am truly sorry, I do not mean to laugh.
Most unkind of me—and laughing is such a dangerous activity when one is this far along with child, one fears at any moment one might accidentally .
. . leak a little. It happened only yesterday.
A sudden sneeze—quite mortifying—fortunately I was at home.
I am always at home now. . . .Though if I am going to be as incontinent as a puppy, I suppose it is for the best," she sighed with great feeling then continued "Now, you see, I have revealed to you my own embarrassment, so we are equal. You may laugh at me if you wish."
I had no wish to. My own mortification was such that I was certain never to laugh at the embarrassments of anyone else for as long as I lived.
"As to art," Rebecca said, "it is not generally done to depict the male organ . . . prepared for battle. It grows, you understand? It is far less intimidating in the flaccid state. A little humorous actually, but do not mention it to them. Men are so very sensitive about that for some reason.
"So you see, dear, I am sure Fitzwilliam's weaponry is perfectly proportional and you will find him to be a wonderful—you will find the experience to be perfectly—it will all be fine, dear."
I tried to feel reassured, but could not.
She had not seen it after all. Though of course it was very possible I had overreacted.
I have the tendency to do that around Mr. Darcy.
And perhaps my shock at finding myself suddenly presented with a nude man might have been lessened if I had not at that same moment realized I had never really had a proper conversation with said nude man.
You know, the sort of conversation that did not end in shouting or an awkward and disingenuous "There is something I must attend to. "
I do not know his favorite author. Nor his favorite composer.
Or if he likes chocolate. For goodness sake, the man may not like chocolate!
Or he might be one of those peculiar persons who take it unsweetened.
It is quite possible. I have observed, with great horror, that he takes both his coffee and tea black.
And it may not stop there. He could hate daisies. Or sunshine. Or kittens. Last night I might have been dallying with a black-hearted fiend who hates kittens. Well, he probably likes kittens. He is good with animals. Or Sir Sebastian at least. The dog, that is.
And he is kind to Henrietta and Belinda; gentlemen do not often have much patience for children. Though, really, should I have to give him so much credit for basic human decency? It is not as if it is all that difficult to be kind to children and animals.
Though he is also kind to Mrs. Vane and that is no easy feat.
Yet he is also haughty and sometimes rude and his weaponry is ridiculously overlarge. Perhaps. I must admit I cannot be certain it is out of the ordinary. I am no expert in weaponry. Still, it would be like him to be inconvenient like that.
And if we would have kept at it last night it would have led to me being nude. And things would have happened. Procreative things. And I couldn't do that. Just couldn't. Not with a possible kitten hater.
Well, no matter the reason for my change of mind I knew I had no wish to continue speaking on this topic with Rebecca.
Seizing the opportunity to put this discussion to an end I said, "Thank you for speaking to me, I am most reassured" I said far too formally.
I had not known Rebecca long but she was not the sort of person one spoke to with such ceremony.
"You would say anything to get me to stop talking about this, wouldn't you?"
"Oh, yes," I agreed emphatically. We both turned, meeting each others eyes properly for the first time since the awkward conversation began, and promptly burst out laughing.
"You know," she said in that poor-dear-you-really-are-clueless tone she had been using throughout this uncomfortable business, "I feel I should tell you—"
She was going to talk about it again. Why would she talk about it again? Why? Why? WHYYYYY?!
"—larger is considered preferable."
Madness. Utter madness.
"You find that shocking now, but soon you will understand what I mean. Good swordsmanship is most important, of course, but ample size is certainly—" She broke off frustratingly and began giggling once more.
"What are you ladies discussing with such merriment?" James Darcy demanded genially as he entered the drawing room. My husband was at his uncle's heels, his expression uncommunicative, his eyes determined to avoid mine.
I answered with the first thing that came to my head, "Fencing."
Rebecca—curse her—giggled harder still.
"Fencing," James repeated disbelievingly, "My wife bids me bring her here, says she is in desperate need of female companionship, tells me I cannot possibly converse with her on the subjects she wishes to discuss.
So I bring her here thinking she plans to talk about ribbons and lace and all other manner of frippery and you tell me you are discussing fencing. "
"Indeed, we are," I said as nonchalantly as possible. Rebecca, still giggling, nodded in agreement.
James narrowed his eyes suspiciously. He knew some manner of private joke was afoot and he did not like to be left out of it.
"And is my new niece an expert on fencing?" James asked mischievously.
"Not at all," I replied, "Before you arrived I had just made a remark about what a great pity it is ladies are not permitted to learn the sport."
James nudged his nephew. His face alight with puckish intent, he said, "You hear that, Will? Your wife wishes to learn to fence."
Darcy gave his uncle the sort of haughty glare I had thought he reserved for particularly heinous crimes of commonness (such as addressing him whilst impecunious and insufficiently well-connected).
James Darcy was not the sort to be cowed by any unspoken admonishment (or probably spoken admonishment) however, he nudged Darcy once more and said, "You are not so much a stickler you would not teach her a teach her a few maneuvers in privacy," to me he added, "You will find him a most satisfactory instructor I am sure—his thrust is a thing of beauty. "
Rebecca, who with great struggle had calmed herself, lost control once again. She let loose a most unladylike bark of laughter then her hand flew to her mouth, her eyes went wide in alarm, all all gaiety abandoned.
"What is it? Is it the baby?" asked James anxiously.
"The baby is fine. Everything is fine. We just need to leave. Immediately," Rebecca said. She stood, gathering her skirts behind her as if trying to hide her bottom.