10thDecember 1811
Afternoon
"Elizabeth, there is something I need to speak with you about."
Oh, no. I knew this was coming. Rebecca Darcy had called, despite somehow being even more spherical than she had been just a few days ago, and though she has been exceedingly friendly (she had nervously inquired after my health several times now) I know this is not just a friendly call. She is here for a purpose. A mortifying purpose.
"My nephew has asked me to speak to you because he fears you may have some . . . misapprehensions concerning . . . concerning the . . . er . . . relations between a man and a woman. The procreative relations."
Oh, bloody no.
"Rebecca, please." Please, just kill me now. "I know how babies are made."
She looked up hopefully from her tea cup to which she had addressed her entire soliloquy. "You do?"
"Yes, my mama spoke to me before the wedding. She made everything terribly clear." Actually Mama befuddled the subject nicely, but fortunately I had already had a good understanding of process. Except for preface, but I think after last night I am much better informed on that subject.
"Oh . . . wonderful." Rebecca took a sip of tea. Then another. A clock ticked loudly in the background. I waited. She would have to ask. Human nature demanded it.
"Not to pry. . . ." she began, letting the sentence trail off expectantly.
I could not fault her curiosity, it was only natural for her to wonder what had inspiredDarcy to ask her to have what must be the most awkward conversation in the world.
A conversation that could only become more mortifying as it continued, but I had to tell someone. At some point Darcy would have to know. And I did not want to be the one to tell him. Perhaps his Uncle James could speak to him.
"The problem is not my understanding," I reiterated, "The problem is with him."
"With Fitzwilliam?"
I nodded.
"Did he do something you found unpleasant?"
Instantly my mind revisited all the very pleasant things Darcy had done. With his mouth. And his tongue. And his hands—oh, his hands. That first kiss, coyly tentative perfection which led to a caress, a deeper kiss, and somehow we ended up on my bed.
And then the terrible revelation. At which point I went fleeing to my dressing room and barred the door. Had Darcy told his aunt about that? Of course he had. It was perhaps a little unreasonable of me to have refused to explain my sudden alteration. But how could I explain?
"No, it is nothing he did," I replied. I was addressing my tea cup now. "He . . . Mr. Darcy—Fitzwilliam has a . . . deformity."
"Deformity? What do you mean?"
After a nervous clearing of my throat I said, "His weaponry is shockingly overlarge."
"And by weaponry you mean his—," she said with a downward glace to her lap.
Again I nodded.
Rebecca let out a bark of laughter she attempted to disguise as a cough. "Forgive me, I am not laughing at you." At which point she broke down and laughed at me in earnest for some time.
Once she had recovered from her mirth she said, "I think every new wife when she first beholds her husband's weapon is a little overwhelmed. However I am sure you will find the sword fits the sheath quite nicely."
I shook my head vigorously. "I have seen nude men depicted in art, Darcy's . . . sword is enormous by comparison."
Rebecca began giggling anew. "I am truly sorry, I do not mean to laugh. Most unkind of me—and laughing is such a dangerous activity when one is this far along with child, one fears at any moment one might accidentally . . . leak a little. It happened only yesterday. Asudden sneeze—quite mortifying—fortunately I was at home. I am always at home now. . . .Though if I am going to be as incontinent as a puppy, I suppose it is for the best," she sighed with great feeling then continued "Now, you see, I have revealed to you my own embarrassment, so we are equal. You may laugh at me if you wish."
I had no wish to. My own mortification was such that I was certain never to laugh at the embarrassments of anyone else for as long as I lived.
"As to art," Rebecca said, "it is not generally done to depict the male organ . . . prepared for battle. It grows, you understand? It is far less intimidating in the flaccid state. A little humorous actually, but do not mention it to them. Men are so very sensitive about that for some reason.
