Oh, wonderful. I am touching him again, this time without inebriation to blame for my forwardness. It really should not be a problem. He is my husband. And it is only his hands. Which I am still holding.
I dropped them.
"I mean, you should stay and. . . ." We can continue to have this inane conversation.
"Forgive me," Darcy said, still staring at his hands as if shocked to find I had not damaged them, "I have something I must attend to."
"Oh."
"Letters."
"Letters?"
"Yes, I write letters."
"With great accomplishment if Miss Bingley is any judge of the matter."
"I meant to say I have letters I must write."
"I have letters to write as well."
"Oh?"
"To my sisters. And mother. And father—and my aunt."
Oh God, Lizzy—perfect, just keep listing family members, that will make this conversation better.
"We should go attend to our letters—separately, of course."
"Yes, awkward business that would be co-authoring letters. Imagine," I said. And then I laughed. A fakish, trilling sort of laugh. It was terrible. It was probably the sound Bartholomew made before the milliner had stuffed him.
"Yes," said Darcy. Then he fake-chortled, too. It was not so horrible of a sound as mine had been but there was something sadder about it. I had broken him. I was willing towager Darcy never feigned emotion for anyone's benefit. Especially for something so trivial. My awful conversational skills were causing him to betray his principles.
Finally, with only the barest nod to Georgiana and Dora and a furtive, half-crazed glance at me, he left. Such an exit might have be rude in other circumstances, but it was the only thing he could have done. It would have been cruel of him to stay a moment longer.
Georgiana's face was the picture of disbelief, her eyes shifted between me and the place her brother had just vacated as if she was still trying to process what had just taken place before her.
Dora, who had long since returned to her sketching, winced as she accidentally poked herself with her pencil. "Ouch. That was painful," she said.
"Very," said Georgiana most emphatically.
Eight
9thDecember 1811
Morning
Sleet is such an indecisive form of precipitation. Be rain or be hail or be snow, but for goodness sake pick one. Doing all three at once is just outrageous. Exhibitionist, really. Like Mother Nature is all, "Look at me and my astounding ability to perform every obnoxious trick I know simultaneously—are you not impressed?"
Mother Nature is reminding me of my sister Mary at the moment.
That was a cruel thought. Truly, I long for the sight of Mary (just the sight, mind, not the auditory accompaniment). I even miss Lydia and Kitty and would welcome their companionship . . . provided they each took a turn carrying this bloody dog.
For the thousandth time, I hefted Sir Sebastian farther up into my arms. He keeps slipping and I was in danger of dropping him.
The terrible terrier groaned.
"It is all your own fault, you know," I reminded him.
