3rd December, 1811
In the matter of one week I have moved from the state of utter ruin to triumphant wifehood. Having accomplished that which is supposed to be the ultimate goal of all women, I ought to feel overjoyed. Or at the very least content. Yet I feel nothing of the sort.
It is true there is a certain relief at being done with it all. Mama has been unbearable since Papa received a letter from Mr. Darcy on the 29th of November stating the particulars of the settlements and Darcy's wish that the wedding should occur on Tuesday. Today.
What followed the arrival of the epistle was four days of Mama shifting between lamenting how little time she had to plan the wedding (and abusing Mr. Darcy for his impatience) and exclaiming how wonderful her future son-in-law was, how rich I would be, and how clever she was for having engineered the whole thing (the last was news to me, but if she wished to claim my foolishness I was perfectly willing to give her the credit).
We visited every shop, every neighbor Mama boasting mortifyingly to everyone she met that I was to be the grandest lady in Derbyshire. So, yes, having the wedding over is a relief. Having the marriage started however gives me no pleasure at all. But I am determined to make the best of it. Mr. Darcy, if his silent brooding is any indication, is not.
My husband has spoken exactly thirteen words to me since we were wed five hours ago.
I imagine the first words most husbands speak to their brides directly following the wedding ceremony are declarations of joy or compliments or at the very least, even in situations where there is little affection between the couple, a conversational remark on how surprisingly pleasant the weather is.
Mr. Darcy, it would seem, could not find solace in the miraculous golden day. Instead, as we stood on the steps of the church surrounded by the well-wishings of my family and neighbors, he heaved a great sigh and said in a tone of resigned despair, "Well . . . we are wed."
I suppose I should forgive him for the obviousness of that observation—it does seem rather extraordinary we should find ourselves eternally bound when can barely tolerate each other—but I must say I expected something better from my new husband. His comment displayed an uninspiring lack of creativity. I do hope it is not indicative of his future conversation. It would hardly be fair for him to be condescending and dull.
Worse still, he refused to look at me as he spoke, making it more of a general pronouncement rather than a comment to myself in particular, however I am going to count it else my total will be only nine words and that would be simply intolerable.
At the wedding breakfast, he said "I would like to leave by half one." Eight whole words. An absolutely stunning display of verbosity for Mr. Darcy.
This loquaciousness, however, clearly drained him for once we were in the carriage he pretended to read. I can only believe he was pretending because the roads were so terrible he could not possibly have been focusing on the page whilst being jostled so violently and indeed he kept looking up to glance out the window, making a concerted effort not to let his eyes stray my way in the process.
"I do hope the fair weather holds all the way to London," I said.
Banal words, perhaps, but when one is trying to keep things cheerful I find the weather to be a perfectly safe topic, and most people understand when one person makes an observation about the weather it is then the responsibility of the other to make some little remark of his own so that the pair might at least pretend to have a sensible conversation.
My husband is apparently not at all like most people. He said, "Uh-huh."
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, I believe. 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 read Michael 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 did feel like 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.
Why a man who has everything to recommend him (excepting an amiable countenance) should be anything but self-assured I could not say. But I suppose it is not for me to judge. I do far too much judging.
I suddenly feel much lighter. I haven't married a disagreeable man at all. He is really a kindhearted, wonderful man who is simply hiding all his good qualities so he does not have to talk to people.
I am also feeling a little proud of myself for considering his character so rationally, so removed from my own assumptions. Marriage agrees with me. From here on out I will be more rational and less apt to jump to conclusions. I will be gentler with Mr. Darcy, more patient, more understanding, more—
"I do not wish to converse at this time. I do not understand why that should be such a great imposition to everyone or why I should forever be defending my lack of inclination, but here it is: I do not wish to converse."
"I'm sorry?" I asked, bewildered by his sudden declaration.
"I know you are punishing me for my lack of conversation with your humming. Tuneless humming. What I must assume is intentionally tuneless humming as I have heard your singing and know you are perfectly capable of carrying a tune if you wish."
Oh, goodness. I had really thought I had cured myself of that bad habit.
"I wasn't humming." It is always worthwhile to try denial first, just in case it works.
"You most certainly were."
"I was not humming intentionally, tunelessly or otherwise. Sometimes when I am thinking deeply I hum. I don't even realize I'm doing it."
"Wonderful."
He put so much disdain into that one word every promise I just made to myself about being kind and patient and understanding flew straight out of my head.
"Oh, yes, I am sure you are completely without any bad habits. It must be lovely to be utterly perfect and thus able to look down on the rest of us mere mortals."
He rolled his eyes—yes, he actually rolled his eyes—and then looked out the window wearing his bored/irritated/tired/contemptuous/haughty face. "Do you plan to once again enumerate all my failings. I would think by now you've done that thoroughly, but perhaps you have new grievances?"
Perhaps I did.
I had endeavored not to say anything because it had all turned out . . . well, not right but settled. It had all been settled and the past wasn't worth dwelling on and of course I had to be so, so, so, so bloody grateful he had condescended to come back at all but—
"Why did you abandon me?"
His expression shifted to a look of bemusement.
"At the Netherfield ball. You left without telling me your plans. Without a word."
"I sent your father a missive once everything was arranged," he replied calmly. There was not even a hint of defensiveness in his tone, just a statement of fact. His words were a verbal shrug.
"Yes," I spoke patiently, but it was the sort of patience one might employ when speaking to a small child one suspects to be slow witted, "but that was two full days after the ball. Did you not think of how I would feel during that time, not knowing what you intended to do?"
"How could you wonder at my intentions? What else was there to do? I went to see my solicitor to draw up the settlement then I applied for a license. I do not think either of those tasks could have been completed with more celerity"
"I am not challenging the rapidity of your performance, I am expressing dissatisfaction at your lack of communication. You left me to face the consequences alone. I thought myself—and my sisters along with me—completely ruined."
A flicker of remorse crossed his features, but then his usual cold severity came rushing back. "I returned. What more do you wish of me?"
"Nothing. I wish absolutely nothing of you," I replied. I was right from the first, he is an unfeeling, haughty, horrible man.