Chapter 9 #3
Darcy appeared understandably disconcerted by the suddenness of the question. "Why do you ask?" he deflected.
Because I would like to know you and I figured I better get some conversation in quick before you remembered something you had to attend to.
I shrugged nonchalantly. "Just curious."
"I do not think I have one."
"Certainly you do."
"There are so many capable authors from which to choose. My favorite varies depending on mood."
"Pick one."
"I cannot."
"Try," I urged. I had no idea why his answer had become so important to me, but it was and he was not going to get away without a reply.
"Who is your favorite, then?"
"Mine is—" Oh damn. Who is my favorite author? It really depends, doesn't it? On what I feel like at the time. I mimed taking a sip from my empty cup to buy time.
"Good tea?" Darcy asked, grinning tauntingly. Clearly he could see I was drinking imaginary tea. Wonderful.
"Delicious," I replied dabbing my mouth delicately with my napkin. If one is going to do something absurd one might as well go all out. "Now, what is your favorite color?"
"My favorite color?"
"Yes." And if you say you do not have one I will throw imaginary tea on you.
"I suppose it is gray."
"No, it isn't."
Of course it is. He would like gray. Neutral, detached, the perfect favorite color for a person who gives nothing away.
"It most certainly is."
"Fine, why do you like gray?"
Darcy pinched between his brows in frustration. I am getting to him. A few questions more and I will have him right where I want him. Now if I only knew what to do with him. . . .
"I do not know. Must one justify one's preferences?" he asked a little desperately.
I stared at him in reply. He may have his Judgmental Glare of Doom but I have a Penetrating Stare of Madness.
It has made stronger men than Darcy come over all twitchy.
Well, maybe it hasn't. The only man I have ever used it on was Papa whose constitution could not be said to be stronger than Darcy's.
However I fully expected Darcy to have some manner of reaction.
And outbreak of stammering, an eyelid tick, anything would do. Or he could just answer the question.
Finally he gave in, "I find gray calming. It makes no assertions and it asks nothing of you."
If that was a hint, Mr. Darcy, I am not taking it.
"Is there a reason for this inquisition?"
Goodness, I ask the man a few questions and he calls it an inquisition. Has there been any torture (other than the Stare of Madness)? No. Is anyone likely to be burned as a heretic as the result of this questioning? Probably not.
I recognized it would be better to have a conversation rather than this interrogation (I will concede it is an interrogation, but not an inquisition—that is just hyperbolic).
However conversations are reciprocal. I already know he does not like me (though that apparently this does not stop him from disrobing in my presence).
I have no wish to reveal anything further about myself so he can dislike me even more.
All I want him to do is answer my queries whilst giving him no information about myself, why is that so unreasonable?
"All I know about you is that you do not smoke," I replied.
"How do you know I do not smoke?" he asked, alarmed. One would think I had discovered his darkest secret.
"When I went into your eerie study to steal your brandy I noticed the walls were white. No one who smokes has walls that white—at least not long."
That and I have smelled him—I've had his tongue in my mouth, if he smoked, I think I could tell. However, I am a lady and a lady never mentions indelicate subjects like having a man's tongue in her mouth even if said man was her husband, so I just left it at the white wall thing.
"I had not thought of that." I cannot tell if he is concerned for the fate of his unblemished walls or if he was disturbed that he had overlooked this detail.
The latter, probably. I think Darcy is rather proud of his mind and his ability to anticipate contingencies.
So perhaps I know two things about Mr. Darcy.
"My study is eerie?" he added after a moment.
"Extremely." I smirked at his exasperated expression. King of the One Word Reply wants to chide me for reticence. Really, how preposterous.
"It is bare," I said after a good long pause to allow him time to appreciate how frustrating overly succinct answers could be, "No mementos, no art, nothing to reveal your tastes. Most people would find that odd, I think."
"I had it redone recently. I have not selected things to be put back."
He cast a strange smile in my direction. Was it meant to be appeasing? Friendly? This conversation had clearly discomposed him. Interesting. "But I have things," he added.
"I believe you," I said calmly, wearing the sort of superior smile of a person who has scored a point against an enemy (how I had scored said point or what game we were playing mattered little). Then I ruined my aura of awesomeness by taking a sip from my empty tea cup. I had forgotten.
"The rest of the house is, of course, yours to redecorate."
"To redecorate," I repeated stupidly.
"Yes, I know little of fashion, but I imagine much of this is out of date," he said with a lazy circle of his wrist indicating the room, "It should be redone. The public rooms at the very least."
I looked around as if I had not been sitting in this room for the last hour.
And discovered another clock (really, five clocks).
It did have a rather 90's ambiance. But I knew nothing of redecorating.
Mama never redecorated the house, at least not all at once.
Not even a whole room at once. She just bought things when they struck her fancy and threw them in alongside the old things.
Large redecorating projects took a lot of focus. And money.
A thought struck me. "It was your mother, then, who decorated these rooms last?"
He nodded.
"Will you not be sad to see the style altered, the things she chose removed?"
"Certainly I will. But it must happen. We cannot dwell in the past forever. Quite literally in this case." He spoke composedly, but a pall of anguish crossed his features. I was glad to see it. Not that I was enjoying his pain. I was glad to see his vulnerability, perhaps.
"Your mother must have had good taste. And really liked clocks," I said to break the tension.
He chuckled half-heartedly. For awhile we sat in silence, enjoying Symphony with Five Clocks again.
"I do smoke. When the occasion calls for it. However, I do not like to. It yellows the teeth," Darcy said, I think for just something to say. Or perhaps he really wanted me to know he could smoke. It might be taken as a stain upon his manhood if he could not breath fire like all the other boys.
"Are you vain, Mr. Darcy?" I asked archly.
"Can the preservation of such perfection be considered vanity? I rather thought my abstinence demonstrated the proper appreciation of art," he said with much mock arrogance.
Darcy had made a jest! Of course I have heard him make jests before, but this one had a certain self-depreciating charm; he knew I thought him arrogant and was willing to tease himself a little.
Was this flirting? Could I be flirting with my husband?
Before I could find the answer to this most important question, Georgiana came sweeping into the room looking very grave indeed and completely disregarding the fact that her brother and I were kind of having a moment.
"We have a problem," she announced.
"The difficulty I warned you about?" Darcy asked.
Georgiana nodded vigorously, her eyes wide with fear. Though one might call my sister-in-law timid, I did not think her subject to fits of hysteria. Whatever this difficulty was it must be fearsome indeed.
Darcy did not appear to share Georgiana's terror.
With a sigh he stood, adjusting his cravat and smoothing the nonexistent wrinkles from his coat as though he had all the time in the world.
Apparently the matter was irritating, but not pressing.
His garments thus attended to he announced "I shall address it. "
"Stay," he added as Georgiana and I made to follow him from the room.
Issuing such an imperious command was the least likely way to keep me from following. When will he learn?
Seemingly untroubled by being spoken to like a dog, Georgiana sank gratefully into the nearest chair. I, of course, trailed Darcy into the corridor.
Darcy heaved another great sigh, but made no remark about my disobedience. Instead he said, "This will not be pleasant."
"What is the difficulty?" I asked.
"My intractable aunt is here."
"Of course Mrs. Vane is here. It would be rather remarkable if she was not."
"I refer not to Constance, but to my mother's sister. Lady Catherine de Bourgh."
"Oh, God," I said unthinkingly. It is unkind of me to be disposed to dislike the lady before even meeting her, but Mr. Collins greatly admires her. That should be condemnation enough.
"Indeed," Darcy agreed with feeling.
We found her in the foyer dressing down the butler who had been tasked with keeping her at bay.
Saunders was babbling about his instructions as apologetically and deferentially as anyone could, but Lady Catherine was having none of it.
She railed at him harshly. Saunders appear to be on the brink of sobbing.
Fortunately for the butler, our arrival distracted his assailant.
"Is this her?" Lady Catherine asked, her gaze sweeping critically over me.
She was clearly just as indisposed to like me as I was her.
Her lips turned up in a snarl of disgust and she averted her eyes after her short inspection.
That was hardly enough time to really appreciate all my faults and advantages. She didn't even ask to see my teeth!
"I see that it is," she continued before anyone could answer, "The evidence of her low-breeding is obvious."
Really? Is it? But I haven't even said anything yet! Is it my chin? I have been told I have my mother's chin.
"Lady Catherine," Darcy said. That was all he said, just her name, but he said it in such a way everyone in the room flinched.
His aunt was only momentarily chastised however, "How could you do this to your family, Darcy? And for her? She looks like an imbecile. What is wrong with her?"
Imbecile indeed! To be fair, my mouth had been hanging open, undoubtedly making me look vacant. But only because I was astounded by her rudeness.
"I am not simple," I said, "I am neither deaf nor mute either though I can be quite impertinent as you will soon find if you continue to speak about me as though I am not in the room."
"Who are you to address me thusly?" she demanded.
I think it was a rhetorical question, but Darcy, sensing an opening to save the encounter, said, "Lady Catherine, would you allow me to present my wife—"
"I will not allow it. I will not stand for this—"
"Then you will leave. Presently." Darcy strode past a trapped Saunders who was trying diligently to melt into the wall. He took his aunt's arm and gently but firmly began to steer her towards the entrance.
She wrenched herself from his grasp,"I will not be spoken like this!"
"No, Aunt, Elizabeth will not be spoken to like this," Darcy replied vehemently.
"As I informed you in my letter, I am willingly to address any criticism you wish to cast at me, but do not aim your vitriol at anyone else.
To air your grievances before my servants, to abuse Saunders for carrying out my orders was abominable enough.
To insult my wife in her home is intolerable and is beneath the dignity of someone of your breeding. "
His words hit their mark expertly. Lady Catherine stammered unintelligibly.
"If you apologize to Elizabeth and promise to speak civilly for the remainder of your visit, you may discuss with me any misunderstanding you might have had concerning my intentions towards your daughter. If you cannot, I must ask you to leave before you embarrass yourself further."
I would be surprised if anyone had ever given her such a set down in her life. She gaped at her nephew wordlessly for so long I was tempted to ask her if she was an imbecile.
Finally she spoke. "I apologize," she said, choking out the words as if someone were strangling her.
"Address Elizabeth, not me," Darcy commanded.
Reluctantly Lady Catherine turned her gaze to me. "I apologize," she repeated. This time her words were little more than a whimper.
I quickly nodded my acknowledgment. I almost pitied her. Almost.
"Good, we may continue this discussion in my study," Darcy said, leading his aunt away.