I still do not understand how it came to this. We set out from Darcy House, Sir Sebastian securely tethered on a lead, the weather—though chilly and gray—was perfectly clear, and somehow, not an hour later, here I am carrying a lead-less Sir Sebby through the sleet and sludge.
I will take responsibility for my part in it. I did let him escape me. He saw a rabbit, he gave chase. Perfectly natural thing for a dog to do, of course. What was unnatural was the strength with which he ripped the lead from my hand and the speed with which he pursued the frightened creature. Even more unnatural? When he returned—when he finally bloody deigned to return—he returned sans lead.
I had been panicked thinking he might accidentally hang himself with the lead all the while I should have been panicked thinking about the possibility of carrying a two stone dogall the way home. Areekingtwo stone dog. The foulness of his odor has surpassed the realm of the merely olfactory and has invaded the kingdoms of the neighboring senses. Visible fumes rise up from his filthy pelt. And, though I have tried to hold my breath, I still have an unpleasant taste in my mouth—sweaty and sour and equine.
Apparently sometime during his little adventure Sir Sebastian rolled in horse manure. Very fresh horse manure. Worse still, I think he ate some, for his stomach is stretched tight as a drum and he keeps groaning pitiably. I could put him down but then he would run off and I would be out here in the wet for another hour calling for him.
I think I have more than made amends at this point. I volunteered to walk Sir Seb hoping Darcy, who had until today been walking the dog daily since his arrival, would forgive me for my latest wrongdoing.
Yes, I've done a bad thing. Again.
It is really not so terrible. Just a minor little misstep and not at all in itself wrong. I am perfectly within my rights to invite my elder sister to stay with me. If Darcy had read the letter my mother sent me he would understand having Jane to stay with us is a small concession to Mama's very large list of demands. Had I not invited Jane, Mama would have descended upon us, all of my sisters in tow, demanding I find suitors for each of them.
And it is only Jane. How can he have an objection to Jane? He cannot. His anger at my newest sin is ridiculous.
Although, if I am being truthful, perhaps it is not so much my inviting Jane that offends him as the manner in which he came to know about her impending arrival. I knew even as I wrote the reply to Mama that I should ask his permission before making the invitation, but I did not want to give him the opportunity to say no (and, really, what is one more guest?). I know, I know, I am awful. And then I made it worse.
Of course I should have told him directly after I posted the letter. I excused my cowardliness by the fact he was hardly ever in the house to be told. However, yesterday we attended church together and I certainly could have told him on the carriage ride to or from. But I did not.
Because . . . because I was waiting for the right moment and that moment came that same afternoon when Mr. Bingley called. Mr. Bingley, as one might expect, inquired after Jane's health and asked me to include his well-wishings in my next letter to her. The delighted smile on Bingley's face when I said, "Oh, but you will not need me to do so. You can tell her yourself when she arrives on the twelfth," was of such contagious radiance I felt warmed by his delirious happiness and I am sure Mr. Darcy would have felt it too if hehad not been so engrossed in plotting my death.
Perhaps not my death, but at the very least he was thinking of sending me off to some remote part of Scotland or if he lacks a Scottish hunting lodge locking me up in the attic of Pemberley never to be heard from again. Whatever he was thinking it was something ominous. I could tell by the glare.
I have mentioned before how potent his Glare of Doom is, this was his most devastating glare yet. If it were possible to could kill with a glare, everyone in London would be dead. From this one particular glare, not just because Darcy goes around making his bored/irritated/tired/contemptuous/ haughty face all the time at everyone he meets. Bored/Irritated/Tired/Contemptuous/Haughty Face is a paper-cut compared to the beheading-with-a-dull-axe-by-an-inebriated-executioner that was this glare. This was not simply a murderous glare, it was a Plague Glare. A Glare of Mass Destruction. Even Mr. Bingley, who has tolerated Darcy for however many years and therefore must have some immunity by now, audibly winced when he saw it.
I felt the urge to play innocent. If I had fewer scruples (and perhaps more wiles) I might have batted my eyelashes, stared blankly back at Darcy as though I had all the intellectual prowess of a sheep and said, "Oh, you not recall that I told you? I must have told you. I did not? Oh!" (pause for an irritating, high-pitched giggle), "How thoughtless I am! Imeantto tell you. You simplymustforgive me." You see, I know how a lady might get away with any transgression if she is willing to paint herself as an imbecile.
But I could not bring myself to do it. I did not think I could convincingly counterfeit such stupidity and if I should have successfully portrayed it I would have resented Mr. Darcy for believing it. I do not think Mr. Darcy would tolerate me bleating such nonsense anyway. Even if he believed me to be as lacking in mental faculties as the most idiotic of bovid, he would probably have just announced a hankering for mutton in that dry, biting manner of his.
So instead of dissembling I said, "I ought to have told you before now."
He rolled his eyes. I felt instantly less contrite.
"Told me—yes—at the very least."
I knew what he meant. I ought to haveasked.
Yet he never asked me before he agreed to have me chaperon Dora and that is a far greater commitment than having Jane to stay. The most inconvenience Jane could cause him is he might have to greet her should they meet in the hall. Which knowing Darcy he might actually consider that an inconvenience, but even he must recognize so minor adiscomfort is worth enduring for the happiness of his friend.
And Mr. Bingley was very pleased with the prospect of seeing Jane. He made a great show of his pleasure, babbling on in a lovesick manner about Jane's many attractions. If she had been in the room I would have thought his speech a lead up to a proposal it was so effusive in its praise, but, as it was, I think he was simply fearful that Darcy and I were about to engage in an argument and was just saying the first thing that came to his mind to fill the tense silence.
Darcy did not dare scold me in front of his friend and accepted the news as cheerfully as could be expected. In other words, not at all cheerfully, but he did not demand I write back to Jane at once uninviting her which was really the best I could hope for, and was, of course, if I am being honest with myself, the object of telling him with Mr. Bingley in the room. Manipulative, I know. Bad Lizzy. Very bad Lizzy.
But now I have more than done my penance by carrying this wriggling, yapping, excrement-covered beast. If Darcy could see me now he would forgive me at once. Then order me a bath.
"We could both do with a bath, Sir Seb."
The canine growled in response.
"You do not like that word I take it? Well, too bad. You are getting a bath. Even if I have to give you one myself because all the maids are frightened of you."
I understand now why Margaret demanded only the family walk Sir Sebastian. At the time I thought her instructions pure whimsy, but seeing how easily he slipped his lead. . . . On that front I am no more capable than a servant it would seem. Darcy, however, has had no such trouble with him, or if he has he has not admitted to it.
"Does Darcy know how to handle you?"
Sir Seb looked up at me as though he found the question preposterous.
"I suppose the better question is: do you know how to handle him?"
