Chapter 16
Sixteen
Still morning
I turned away from the door to find Darcy making Bored/Irritated/Tired/Condescending/Haughty Face at me.
"We do need to talk," he said, his tone everything reasonable and mature. Yet this show of equanimity is a lie.
He wants a row.
Other people might not see it, they might look at him and think him the picture of relaxed composure, but I can see from that blazing look in his eyes (a look similar, yet so different from the blaze of desire) he wants another argument as if a rematch might have some other outcome, like he might find himself cast in a better light if he can draw me into battle, force me to unleash all this venom I am holding, making myself as villainous as he made himself last time.
This could easily happen if I do not keep my temper. Which is exactly why I am so determined to do so.
I know now I was wrong about some things: Jane's indifference, my own foolish schemes to get Mr. Bingley and Jane together. I was wrong.
But Darcy was wronger.
He said hurtful things without care for the pain they would cause, if my distress bothers him now—well, splendid. I am glad to know he can be concerned for the feelings of others. But his discomfort at my wounded feelings is not enough to absolve him. Not yet.
For now he can just sit there in his wrongness and be wrong.
Or stand there, as it were, since that is what he is doing, standing there all haughty and looking at me. I tamped down another flare of rage. This is why I have been avoiding him. This is why I didn't even want to hear his name. Just seeing him makes me want to do violence to him.
Because everyone thinks he is so bloody great. So much the gentleman. And he is.
But he also isn't.
I was so wrong about him. But I was also right. It is all too confusing. I cannot think properly. I cannot feel properly.
I just so cannot right now.
Ignoring his invitation to converse (argue), I walked past him. He sighed dramatically in response. The man practically begs to be coshed over the head. His is a murder that will be easily solved. Mrs. Darcy—in the library—with the candlestick.
I am jesting. Mostly. I did not used to be such a violent person. Of course I did not used to be Mrs. Darcy.
"What are you doing?" he asked as if I had not made my intentions obvious by picking through the shelves for something to read.
"I am going to read until Georgiana returns."
"We do need to talk," he said again, just in case I had not heard him the first time. I suppose, a failure to hear properly is probably the only reason he can think of that a person would not mark his opinions. Intentionally not being listened to must be an extremely rare circumstance for Darcy.
"You may say whatever you like," I said, choosing a book at random. "I cannot stop you." I mean I could . . . with a candlestick of sufficient weight.
I settled into my favorite chair. It was already warm which meant he had not been brooding at the desk as I had thought but in this chair.
My chair. The rational part of my mind knew he had lived in this house long before I had and thus it was truly me who had taken his chair. But I was far beyond being rational.
I did not want to share things with him. Not things so much in terms of material goods, but likes, dislikes. I wanted nothing in common with this man who thought so little of my family. So little of me.
I could not get comfortable in this chair without the ottoman. Where was the bloody ottoman? Of course, there it was, on the other side of the room with my husband blocking my path to it. My bloody husband who was just standing there staring at me.
Well, there was nothing for it. The solution to my problem was completely indecorous, but then Darcy already thought my behavior indecorous, didn’t he?
I felt rather than saw Darcy's brow rise when I threw my legs over the arm of the chair.
Indecent display of ankles aside, this was much more comfortable than propping my feet on the ottoman anyway.
It was my chair in my library in my house (fine, all of those things actually belonged to Darcy but he was my horrible husband so that made them mine) and there were no guests about so I could sit however I liked propriety be damned.
He can raise those eyebrows as high as he likes, I hope they get stuck in his hairline.
"Good book?" he asked after what felt like several hours of silence had elapsed.
"Yes." I had not read one word. I had been too busy ignoring him to read.
"I did not know you had a particular interest in methods of irrigation."
Ah, so that was what the book was about.
"There are a lot of things you do not know about me," I replied primly.
"That is true."
Another eternity of silence.
"I must admire your diligence, even those of us who find agricultural treatises stimulating must admit that book is awfully dry. Especially for a book about irrigation."
Oh my God. A pun. That was just pathetic. Even if I wasn't angry with him I wouldn't even give that a pity laugh. And yet I felt a tug at the corner of my lips. Just a little tug.
To keep myself from smiling, I turned my ire on him. Yes, there he is grinning at me. Boyishly. Probably thinks he's quite clever. So irritating.
"Why are you smiling, Mr. Darcy? How dare you smile at me. Go back to Bored-Irritated-Tired-Condescending-Haughty Face immediately."
The grin instantly dropped from his face, replaced with an expression of beLizzyment.
"Bored-irritated what face?" he asked.
"That unpleasant face you make."
"I did not know I had an unpleasant face. I rather thought my face was one of the few things about me you approved of."
I would not give in to his teasing tone and his smile. "You have a face—your social face, the face you make in company. Or at least the face you make when you are in company you consider undeserving of your notice."
"And you think I look at you this way, with bored-irritated-condescending-whatever face, as though I consider you beneath my notice?"
"It is not how I think you look at me, it is how you look at me, Mr. Darcy."
My statement was not quite true. He had given me all manner of looks—that moment when he declared me glorious it had almost looked as though he cared for me, and since the wedding he has regarded me with expressions of at least toleration (because I am so very tolerable) if not true liking—but I was thinking about the haughty gaze he had cast upon me when we first met.
He had not even cast it upon me. Not directly.
I was just part of the general mass of uncouth people he did not wish to associate with.
"I see," said Darcy, his smile and all levity gone. Good.
I went back to not reading about irrigation.
"We do need to—"
"Talk, yes, you have asserted that several times now, yet you have not managed to say anything substantial," I snapped.
Darcy flinched. I, too, was surprised by my own severity.
Usually even angry Lizzy is humorous Lizzy, kind Lizzy, nice Lizzy.
Wrathful, grudge-holding Lizzy is new. I never thought I could hold a grudge. It always seemed so silly.
Yet here I am, clasping the grudge to my bosom like a flower gifted to me by a suitor (Darcy has noticeably neglected to bring me flowers—if ever there was a time to get a lady flowers it would seem it would be after insulting her family).
Really, I should be proud of myself for my grudge holding abilities.
Despite all my internal blustering about never forgiving him, I thought I would relent the moment he started apologizing.
Which he has yet to do.
"Elizabeth," said Darcy, speaking my name like a directive. That did not sound like the penitent tone of a person about to apologize.
I forced myself to focus on my book. Embarrassingly I realized I was holding it upside down.
Darcy crossed the room and picked up the ottoman I had wanted for my feet, placing it in front of me he sat down upon it. Still I refuse to look at him.
"Elizabeth," Darcy repeated, this time pleadingly. I spared him a glance. He did look properly contrite sitting there lower than I, staring up at me beseechingly. It is a good start, I'll grant you. But I expect more.
I returned my attention to my upside down book. For the sake of appearances I turned the page.
"I knew I had hurt you but I did not realize. . . . I think there might be certain misconceptions on your part."
Misconceptions indeed! In my wrathful shock I dropped the book. Darcy caught it. The flash of a grin that this small accomplishment brought to his features was quickly annihilated by the Stare of Madness I centered upon him.
With great care, he placed the book on the floor, never taking his eyes off of me as if I were a wild animal who might strike at any moment.
"You say there are misconceptions on my part?" I asked, my tone hinting that there was only one acceptable answer which was of course: "No, I am very sorry, I did not mean that. I am an idiot."
"Yes, your part," Darcy replied because he is, in fact, an idiot, "You seem to hold the strange belief I despise you, despite the many indications I have given you to the contrary."
Well . . . fine. He has done things, said things that indicate he may not completely despise me. But feeling something slightly more positive than outright loathing for each other is hardly an achievement in a marriage. And it doesn't mean I have to forgive him for anything.
"I never meant to hurt you," Darcy continued, "I should not have worded my rebuke of your behavior so harshly. I should not have said what I said about your family. I should not have made any mention of your family at all—"
"Why ever not? If you thought your words to be true, why not speak them?" I demanded.
"One does not need to say everything that comes to one's head."