Chapter 9 #2
"So lovely to see you—must do again—must be going now," she said as she began backing out of the room as if Darcy and I were royalty.
Darcy stepped forward as if to assist her.
"NO! I beg of you—stay right there! Right there. We can show ourselves out."
By this point her cheeks were as red as her hair and I realized at last why she was leaving so suddenly. So had James. To his credit he tried to keep his countenance, but he was shaking with silent laughter.
"It is not at all amusing, James," said Rebecca, as she smacked him with her reticule. Despite this abuse, he dutifully guided her from the room and did not allow his expression to show even a hint of amusement even as he performed an elaborate low bow to us before quitting the room.
Darcy appeared bewildered and concerned. "Perhaps I should—" he began, making as if to follow his aunt and uncle.
"No!" I shouted with almost as much ferocity as Rebecca had, "You would only upset her. She will be fine. It is a . . . feminine difficulty."
The words "feminine difficulty" when spoken to my father were always guaranteed to halt all interest in whatever inquiry he had made.
Darcy still seemed confused and I feared he might press the point, however, after a moment's hesitation, he sat down.
Not in the chair Rebecca had just vacated—whose upholstery appeared perfectly free of accidental leakage, but perhaps could still benefit from the attention of a servant—but on the divan across from me.
"I hope she is well. I sent her a missive earlier, but I had not meant for her to come here. I had thought to arrange a time for us to visit," said my husband who was still not meeting my eye.
"She wanted to get out of the house. I do not think she is taking the confinement well."
Silence fell. Or not silence, really, there was still the ticking of that unnaturally loud clock. Or perhaps it is two clocks. I think I heard a second tick just a little out of time. I glanced about, carefully not looking at Mr. Darcy since he seemed so desirous of avoiding my notice.
My goodness, there are four clocks in this room alone! What on earth does one need four clocks for? I suppose so guests do not have to turn their head to check the time.
"Elizabeth."
Darcy was looking at me—yes, directly at me—with the sort of exasperated expression one wears when one has been speaking for awhile and the other person is obviously not marking one in the least.
"I'm sorry, I was distracted by the clocks."
"The clocks?"
"Yes. There are so many of them. The ticking—it is really overwhelmingly loud, isn't it?"
Darcy cast his eyes around the room, clearly performing a clock census.
He remained perfectly stoic as he did so, not at all as one would expect a person who has just discovered he is surrounded by an army of inharmoniously ticking mechanical creatures to behave.
Especially a person who found my accidental tuneless humming so irritating.
His gaze returned to me. "We need to talk about last night."
"It is fortunate the duties on clocks were repealed. Otherwise the tax on this room alone would be exorbitant," I observed pretending I had not heard him.
"Did Rebecca have time to speak with you? I tried to keep my uncle from the room—"
"It would have been two pounds I think—perhaps not much to you, but it could add up quickly."
"What?" asked a positively confused Mr. Darcy.
"The tax on clocks. There was a tax on clocks for a short while, do you remember?"
"Vaguely," he replied with an amused/bemused expression.
Why he should be looking at me like that I do not know.
He is the one trying to have a completely irrelevant conversation whilst I am giving him fascinating information about taxes.
And clocks. You would think a person with such an obsessive number of clocks would be more interested.
"Papa always jokes about it. He says 'Now that Parliament has tried to tax time, what will they tax next? Laughter? Flatulence?'."
I cannot believe I just said flatulence in front of Darcy. I cannot believe I have said any of the things I have said in the last minute.
"Indeed."
He can make haughty face and say, "Indeed" in that solemn, superior tone all he wants—I've seen him naked.
Not that he has anything to be ashamed of.
He was well worth seeing . . . if you discount his seemingly-overlarge-but-perhaps-perfectly-proportional weaponry.
But still. Once you have seen someone naked any future displays of gravitas by said person will be somewhat diminished in effect.
"I have not been drinking. Alcohol, I mean. I have had tea. Tea! Do you want tea? Should I call for some more?" I asked, surging to my feet.
Darcy stood. "I have no wish for tea."
"No tea?" I asked disbelievingly. He surely wanted tea. One cannot carry on an uncomfortable conversation without a tea cup to stare into.
I sat back down. Darcy followed suit. I picked up my empty cup and stared into it. Darcy stared at me.
"I do not drink as a rule. Liquor, that is.
I thought you should know. Given what happened on our wedding night and the way I am speaking now you could not be blamed for thinking I frequently overindulge in drink.
I am not one of those sort of ladies. You do not have to worry about that.
Though perhaps now you simply think I am mad. "
"I think you neither mad nor inebriated. I understand you are discomposed, however I think we must speak—"
"About last night," I said interrupting him, "It was all just a small misunderstanding and I am sorry. I overreacted."
"Might you enlighten me as to the source of this misunderstanding?" Darcy pressed.
"Does it matter?"
"It is rather disconcerting when one's wife runs screaming from the room after one has disrobed. It is difficult not to feel insecure."
"I did not scream."
"I am perhaps exaggerating. A little."
"My objection was not your person. Everything was quite pleasing and exactly as it should be."
"Thank you?" said Darcy clearly unsure if he should take my words as a compliment.
"Except the one thing."
"Which thing?"
"It was a misunderstanding on my part apparently. Probably."
Having mentioned it, I could not stop looking at it. Well not it precisely. He was fully clothed, I could not see it. But in the general area. Following my gaze, he inspected the his breeches as if searching for stains. Finding no blemish he returned his eyes questioningly to mine.
"What was the misunderstanding, Elizabeth?" he asked with growing impatience.
"I thought your weaponry enormously over-sized."
"Weaponry?" Darcy asked, his expression perplexed. Then he glanced from my reddening visage down to his lap, comprehension dawning.
"But I have discussed it with Rebecca and she has told me it is more than likely ordinary."
"I see. . . . Too large," Darcy murmured. His expression morphed into a boyish grin. No one who spends so much time looking disapproving should be able to grin so winsomely. It simply isn't fair.
"Yes, but as I said, I understand now it is probably perfectly ordinary. It could be even smaller than average. I have nothing to compare it to after all."
His grin faltered. Ha. "I should not think it is smaller than average," he grumbled.
"It does not matter."
"Of course not," he agreed tetchily.
I missed the grin already. I do not know why I baited him. I simply cannot be good around Mr. Darcy.
The clocks were at it again. Tick, tick, tick. Tick, tick, tick.
"So that was why you fled—my enormous weapon?" Darcy asked breaking the silence.
Never mind what I said about the grin. I hate it. And his one-sided dimple. And that roguish glint in his eye too.
"Your possibly enormous, probably perfectly average weapon, yes," I answered primly.
"You might have explained your fears—"
"I wasn't afraid. I was disgusted. I thought you were deformed. You still might be, I do not know." Fine, that was unnecessarily cruel.
Darcy apparently accustomed to viciousness, ignored this comment. "You might have explained and we might have avoided confusion . . . and the involvement of my aunt."
"How could I have explained such a thing?"
"As you you have just now."
"I most certainly could not have. Not with you standing there in the nude," I said, whispering the final words as if someone might be spying on us. The clocks perhaps.
"I would have been happy to cover myself had you told me what was making you uncomfortable."
"The origin of my discomfort should have been obvious. It was absolutely unaccountable of you undressing like that. There had not been enough preface."
"Preface?"
"Preliminaries. Prelude. I was not yet properly . . . warmed."
"Ah."
"And then you disrobed, proud as anything, brandishing that thing."
"My enormous weapon?" he asked earnestly. Then his lips quirked.
I narrowed my eyes at him.
"I had additional preface planned. I thought the dressing gown would impede my movements and as I would eventually have to remove it in anyway it seem most expedient to do so before joining you in bed."
"How was I to know that?"
"You could not have known, of course. It was unconscionable of me to have made such a blunder. Next time I will provide you with a detailed program at least four hours prior any conjugal activity as to eliminate any possibility of misunderstanding."
"I do not appreciate your sarcasm."
"What a pity, as I always appreciate yours."
"Really?" I asked, my tone keen rather than sardonic as I had intended. His opinion should not matter so desperately to me and it does not, obviously, but it would be nice to know there is something about me Mr. Darcy likes.
"Almost always," he amended. There was a softness in his expression I could not account for. It seemed out of place on Darcy's face. At least when I was the object of his attention.
I broke from his gaze, feeling as I did so that it had been a cowardly act.
"Who is your favorite author?" I said before the incessant ticking could overcome me.