One of these doors was causing me greater anxiety than the other two. Care to guess which one?
Surely Mr. I-Do-Not-Wish-To-Converse could possibly expect—could not possibly want—would not possibly think—arrgh, I could not even put it to words—it was too horrible. He just could not possibly. There could be no wedding night after such a wedding day.
Things had not improved after our argument in the carriage. He kept to his book and his cold silences and—though I did entertain some rather childish thoughts of intentionally humming tunelessly—I restrained myself, keeping quietly civil.
He did not speak again until we reached Mayfair. At which point he said suddenly into the silence, "In addition to my sister, my aunt and her two young daughters are staying at Darcy House. You will most likely meet them this evening." I read the unspoken command in his eyes, "And I expect you to behave with decorum," they seemed to say.
"How lovely," I said though I did not feel the slightest bit of pleasure at this revelation. Though I am usually keen to meet new people, the idea of having another Darcy relation tolook upon me with disapproval was not appealing.
"Mrs. Vane is my father's half sister. She stays on at my London house most of the year with occasional visits to other relation. It is her primary residence."
"She is a widow?"
"Possibly." Only Mr. Darcy could make such an enigmatic statement and think he could leave it unexplained.
"Possibly?" I prompted.
"Her husband has . . . mislaid himself. Before his disappearance he had habits of excess which have led to financial constraints for my aunt. Without assistance she and my cousins would be living in circumstances unsuitable to ladies of their rank."
Notice Mr. Darcy did not say, "My uncle is a gamester who has put his wife and daughters in penury." No, he had to say it much more delicately than that. And of course call Mr. Vane "her husband" rather than "my uncle". He would never lower himself by admitting connection to such a man. It is a wonder he did not introduce me to the housekeeper and butler of Darcy House as "the woman I happen to be married to" rather than "my wife, Mrs. Darcy".
Yet he did indeed introduce me as his wife when we arrived. To the servants at least. To his aunt and sister he simply said, "This is Elizabeth," accompanying the announcement with a sort of vague gesture towards me just in case they were yet unsure to whom he was referring.
Perhaps his indication was necessary. They both had looked stunned as if they had been expecting someone else entirely. In Mrs. Vane's case, I think she expected a temptress, a beguiling coquette whose undeniable beauty would explain her nephew's predicament. Instead she was confronted with the merely tolerable me and did not know what to make of anything.
Miss Darcy expected me to have horns. Possibly hooves as well. And certainly a forked tail.
Miss Darcy hated me. I could see it in her eyes immediately. It was a true, pure outright hatred. A hatred whose intensity I suspected was in direct correlation to her love for her brother.
I could respect that kind of hatred. If some gentleman by some means evil or accidental had trapped Jane into a marriage she did not want I am sure I would feel quite the same way about him as Miss Darcy felt about me. Even If I had been the daughter of a dukewith fifty thousand pounds to my name, Miss Darcy would still hate me.
Mrs. Vane I believed, however, would have been much more accepting of me if my circumstances were thus altered. One could tell straightaway upon meeting her that she once carried the name Darcy and not simply because she, like her nephew, had strong, aristocratic features. No, it was because she had that same pride as Mr. Darcy, a seemingly inborn assurance that everybody and everything is beneath them until proven otherwise.
And I had certainly not been proven otherwise.
Dinner was a frightful affair. Four coursesservice a la russe(who bothers withservice a la russefor a family dinner?) of Miss Darcy's silent hatred, Mrs. Vane's haughty disdain, and Mr. Darcy's . . . resentment? Travel fatigue? Dyspepsia? Or perhaps he still simply did not wish to converse. Who could guess?
I had thought once he was in the company of his relatives he would at least speak to them, yet he answered most of their inquiries with monosyllabic replies. It was most frustrating. I knew him to be capable of conversation, I had witnessed it—I had participated in it!
The wedding was barely mentioned, but of course if either lady had cared to know about the wedding they might have attended—Meryton is an easy distance from London, after all. Most of the conversation—or rather interrogation—centered on my family.
Mrs. Vane was only too happy to point out the deficiency of my relation and connections though she did it with such careful false civility I could not possibly make any sort of rejoinder without looking the villain. But, oh, how I longed to inquire about Mr. Vane.
Yet I behaved myself.
After dinner, coffee was served in the drawing room where Miss Darcy played a selection on the pianoforte. Miss Bingley did not exaggerate in her praise, Miss Darcy is astoundingly talented. At the conclusion of her performance Mr. Darcy announced there was some business he must attend to and went out, Miss Darcy declared herself fatigued and went off to bed, and Mrs. Vane said she must go to the nursery to bid her daughters goodnight. Thus I was left blessedly alone.
So now I find myself in bed at an hour that is absurdly early for London but I am still on country time so I should be tired. And I am tired though of course I will not sleep. Because, as I mentioned earlier—The Door.
I do not hear stirring in the adjoining chamber so I must conclude that Mr. Darcy has notyet returned from whatever business sent him out. It is too much to hope that he will stay out all night.
It is going to happen and I must resign myself to it. Really, I'll be glad to have it done with.
Only it is never actually done with, is it? Nocturnal visits from a husband might cease after the production of a son or two, but until then they are something which must be endured with fair regularity.
Perhaps I will feel better about it once I know which type Mr. Darcy is. Mama says there are two types of men (I understand the dangers of putting much faith in anything Mama says, but hers is the only information I have).
According to her the types of men are:
