Unfortunately for him I am not easily deterred. "We have had terrible winters of late, I do hope this one will be better."
By way of reply he murmured unintelligibly. In retrospect I cannot say I fully blame him. It was hardly a comment bound to inspire much in the way of discussion. What was he supposed to reply?: "I, on the contrary, am hoping for a particularly frigid season. Nothing would please me more than another January in which the Thames freezes solid."
Certainly not a prime example of my conversation skills. Then again, given his dreary moods, perhaps he would enjoy harsh winters.
For my next attempt I decided to try a different tactic. "Your sister is already in town, Ibelieve. I am so looking forward to meeting her," I said hoping a more personal topic of conversation might inspire speech. I was proved correct. Mr. Darcy felt compelled to use actual language in response.
"Indeed," he said. His thirteenth word in our marriage, and I think it my favorite thus far.
It has now been a half hour since any word passed either of our lips. I am coming to realize my efforts are hopeless. This is not simply natural taciturnity, he is being deliberately uncooperative.
Or perhaps it is a very good book. The title is quite illegible from here. Should I ask him what he is reading? He thought it perfectly normal to discuss books in a ballroom so he should have no objection to discussing them in a carriage.
No. I will not. Though I will certainly admit my own folly caused this dreadful situation, he cannot claim innocence either. He might have left the library upon my entering it yet he chose to tarry. He chose to find words to defend himself against my admittedly impertinent accusations and yet he cannot spare a few now.
Clearly he blames me and means for me to feel my guilt, but I will not bend to such petty vindictiveness. I am determined to sit here silently and enjoy the view as the scenery goes by. As it lurches slowly by. As it wobbles slowly by as we make our way down the heavily furrowed road. Perhaps I will not look out the window. I think it is making me nauseated.
I will look at him. And I will smile. Let us see how long he can remain silent under such scrutiny.
Five minutes later
He just looked up from his book and glared at me. Then he went back to reading. Without a word.
Another five minutes later
Any moment now. Any moment now he will speak. No one could just sit there with someone smiling at them—smiling a smile that at this point must be quite ghastly and cadaver-like—and not say anything. At the very least he should ask, "Why are you grinning like a madwoman?"
Yet another five minutes later
He finally looked up. And glared again. Completely uncalled for his glaring at me. While it is very possible my smile looks like something one would see on a caricature from a gallows broadsheet, it is still a smile. The appropriate response to a smile is a return smile. Even more appropriate would be some manner of pleasant comment. "Kleist is brilliant. Have you readMichael Kohlhaas? I will lend it to you after I am finished."
Is that really so difficult? Just a little comment. It would not have to be a conversation. Heaven forbid.
At the very least he could give me a, "Please stop, you're frightening me," so I would know I had accomplished something in the last quarter of an hour.
I realize I should not expect him to give me anything. He has already rescued my reputation by deigning to marry me. Perhaps that is why I am so annoyed with him. I must be grateful to him.
And I am grateful. Of course I am. But gratitude does not seem a good foundation for a marriage. It would seem the one who had inspired the gratitude must forever suspect any affection on the part of the one whom the aid was bestowed upon, never knowing whether the feelings were inspired by actual admiration or thankfulness.
However, I suppose it cannot matter as Mr. Darcy does not seem interested in inspiring any kind of feeling. To him a wife is just another person to be glared at.
Well, fine. If he is determined to be unpleasant I am done smiling at him. My face hurts anyway.
Once again, Five minutes later
Perhaps I have been too hasty to judge him. I have misjudged him before, have I not?
I certainly have. To the detriment of us both. I will not do so again. I will give him the benefit of the doubt. It may be that he was not glaring at me at all.
Though it really didfeellike an intentional glare. It was a glare that seemed to say, "You inspire a thousand emotions within me—all of them negative."
If he would not point them my direction, I would envy him his bitingly concise expressions. It must be uncommonly useful, especially to one as unsociable as he, to be able to make people flinch away from him with just a look.
Oh! Perhaps I have solved it! He wears his bored/irritated/tired/contemptuous/haughty expression so often to keep from having to talk to strangers he doesn't even realize he is making it anymore.
He has developed a resting bored/irritated/tired/contemptuous/haughty face!
Which makes people think he is above his company, which makes them act coldly towards him, which in turn makes him behave even more disagreeably and it all just goes round in this horrible cycle when really he isn't so terrible at all. He's just shy.
