1. The squeamish sort. This gentleman is just as bashful as his bride and perhaps more than a little too proper. Activities will be conducted in complete darkness. He will push up his bride's night gown only as much as necessary and then shove in his bayonet without preface (bayonet is Mama's word choice not mine). The whole mortifying process will be over in a matter of minutes, but every second of it will be martyrdom.
2. The experienced and unabashed lover. This gentleman knows what he is about either through direct practice (the most likely scenario) or through the rigorous study of available literature (I was surprised to find there are books on the subject and voiced my desire to read one—a book would be much more instructive than my mother, I'm sure—but Mama refused to speak any more about it and I wonder if the scholarly approach is just a bit of mythology invented by mothers to mitigate their daughters' shock at finding their new husbands too knowledgeable).
Regardless of the origin of his knowledge, this sort of gentleman will probably wish to see his bride disrobe and, as shocking as that experience will be, according to Mama it will certainly be worth it. There will be all manner of preface and the entire process (even the bayoneting part) will be pleasant.
Mama went onto explain how exactly Mr. Darcy will plow my fertile valley (once again, her word choice, not mine). A process which I think is perfectly obvious to anyone who has lived around livestock as long as I have.
What I really wanted to know more about was preface. Specifically what it is and how one goes about it as I am fairly certain livestock do not engage in it and from what she told me it is what makes all the difference.
In true Mama fashion she absolutely refused to discuss it further, saying only, "Mr. Darcy will know what to do. Or he won't."
How comforting!
Though I would not call Mr. Darcy squeamish, I would say he is indifferent to my feelings. If he finds engaging in polite conversation too much a chore, is he likely to waste his time on preface?
I fear not.
Mama also seemed convinced he was the first type of gentleman. With a pitying glance, she gave me an affectionate pat upon the hand and said, "It might be best to have a glass of wine or two before he visits you. And once he arrives just be a good girl and lie still and think of all the lovely things you can buy with your pin money."
Perhaps I should call for a glass of wine? I had one with dinner, but its affects have all but worn off. Another might serve to settle my nerves.
Settle my nerves? Goodness, I am turning into Mama.
As over-dramatic as she may be, on occasion she does have the right of things and I think this may be one of those times. A glass of wine would be helpful, yet I really did not want to ring the bell and trouble the servants for such a trifling thing, especially on my first night here.
I decided to go to the kitchen and fetch the wine myself. It was not until I was on the second landing that it occurred to me the servants were probably still very much awake and going about their duties and my appearance in the kitchen—in my night rail and dressing gown, no less—would disturb them.
I was about to turn around and trudge back up the stairs when I noticed the first door down the hall was slightly ajar. The door of Mr. Darcy's study. A gentleman keeps his private supply of liquor in his study, correct?
I crossed the hall and peeked through the crack in the door. Seeing no occupants in the room, I cautiously eased open the door, driven more by curiosity than by any desire to pilfer my husband's alcohol.
The study was immaculate. Which did not surprise me exactly. One would expect any room designed for the primary use of Mr. Darcy to be tidy. But it was just so terribly . . . bare.
There was nothing personal at all. No paintings. No ornamentation beyond the smallclock upon the mantel, and even it was rather plain. At the center of the room there was an imposing desk and behind it a chair that did not look at all comfortable. By the fireplace there were two more chairs, these were at least upholstered and slightly more promising of comfort. Between the chairs there was a little table on which sat a decanter filled with an amber liquid of some sort and beside it was a tumbler.
And that was everything. In the whole room. A room that could not exactly be called small. And everything was all so very ivory. And gold. But mostly ivory. Men usually preferred sumptuous shades like red for their rooms as it is less likely to be discolored by cigar smoke. There was no discoloration on those walls. Nor did the room have that masculine smell of lingering tobacco. Mr. Darcy, I concluded, did not smoke.
But he did drink.
My gaze returned to the decanter. The liquid within it glowed warmly in the candlelight. I should have a drink, I thought. That was what I came for, wasn't it?
It wasn't. I had hoped to discover something about my husband. Something personal. Some little secret that might make him seem more human. And all I had managed to glean was that he did not smoke.
I sighed, resigned to return to my chambers lacking in both wine and information, but then I heard footsteps on the stairs. It was probably just a servant come to snuff out the candles, but I did not wish to be caught snooping. Impulsively I grabbed the decanter and tumbler and quit the room in all haste.
Some minutes later in the safety of my chamber, I stared at the decanter which now sat on my dressing table, taunting me for my rashness. You've already stolen me, it whispered, you might as well work up the courage to have a drink.
Proper ladies did not drink liquor. Wine was acceptable, in moderation. But liquor was out of the question. Then again, proper ladies did not find themselves married to gentlemen they barely knew because they had been caught with their bodices ripped. I reached for the decanter, pulled the stopper, and sniffed.
As expected the sharp scent of strong alcohol assailed my nose. I had tasted liquor once before when I was twelve and had sneaked a sip of Papa's Scotch whisky, only sheer determination had got me past the acrid smell. But this time there was something else beyond the harsh odor, something fruity.
I had stolen brandy. Well, brandy wasn't so bad. It was just distilled wine. People pressed it upon ladies who had swooned. It could not be too strong, could it?
I poured a little into the tumbler and took a tentative sip. There was a slight burn, a pleasant warmth, really. I drained the glass. How much did one need to drink in lieu of proper preface? Certainly more than I had just partaken in. I filled the tumbler again, this time filling it to what was in my estimation the equivalent of a glass of wine. I sipped. Ah, yes this should do nicely.
Twenty minutes later
I absolutely loved brandy. It must be the absolute best thing ever to have been made in the history of great things that have been made since the beginning of absolute ever.
