Light flooded my eyelids.
Why the light. Why the light?!
I squeezed my eyes shut as tightly as humanly possible, but the light remained and I wondered if it were possible that I was having an angelic vision of sorts - I peeked an eye open.
Nope.
Just natural morning sunlight, the perkiest of all the sun lights and the natural-born enemy of late-sleepers everywhere. And it was flooding through in the bucket loads.
Or the windowfuls?
What was the collective noun for sunbeams?
Opening the other beseeched eye, I spied the cause of my wakefulness – the unclosed curtain from the night before – and cursed my inherent love of astronomy and patience for eligible bachelors, respectively. Without either, I would have still been sleeping at this pretentiously early hour of the morning, and that would have been a great, great thing.
With the minimised effort of movement that would make any Parkour Master proud, I stood, walked, closed curtains and returned to the correct sleep position of late-sleepers, without nudging too firmly the still-sleeping subconscious.
The subconscious was asleep. The stomach, however, was not.
"Shhhh," I hushed it, worried it would wake Sub-Conscious.
"Food! Glorious food! Hot sausage and mustard!" roared my stomach, because it also had a penchant for musicals.
"You don't even like mustard…" I moaned.
"Cream colored ponies and crisp apple strudels, doorbells and sleigh bells and schnitzel with noodles..."
"Mmm, I could go for some crisp apple strudels… no, wait, stomach, go back to sleep..."
"I want a feast, I want a bean feast, cream buns and doughnuts and fruitcake with no nuts - so good you could go nuts!"
"Okay," I finally relented, "you had me at doughnuts."
Wearied feet fell onto the worn mat and carried my barely conscious self downstairs and towards the kitchen.
There may not be doughnuts, I reasoned, but the musical interlude of persuasion just performed in my head had convinced me that even a glass of milk and a slice of bread would suffice.
It's true, I'd forgotten something. Bare feet padded into the kitchen as I remembered that Will Darcy resided here too.
Bleary-eyed and still slightly wobbly, I wondered if it were too late to turn round and risk the journey back, sprinting at high speed and low coordination.
Then he looked up at me. Yep, definitely too late.
"Good morning, Lizzie."
So, how was it exactly that at six o'whatever o'clock in the morning, Will Darcy could look like he'd just walked out of a Men's Fashion Catalogue?
Jerk.
I had to put away all feelings of jealousy as the social convention of replying slammed into me with about as much coordination as I currently possessed.
"Hey."
It was more of a grunt really.
I stared at him as he stared at me. Early morning conversations never get any help from my way.
"Did you sleep well?"
"Yeah."
It was, again, more of a grunt really.
And then, again, more staring.
With as little brain power as necessary, I tried to remember what I'd come downstairs to do. Oh, right. Food.
Two strides to the fridge and I pulled out the milk, and judging from the continued staring of Will, drinking it straight from the carton probably wasn't going to cut it this time.
Thirty seconds later and I was left awkwardly in the middle of the kitchen with a glass of milk and a plain piece of bread. Will was still watching me.
"Would you like to sit down?" he asked, possibly now talking to me like I was a child, but since my response times had been elongated, I simply nodded and took the stool beside him. For the first time, I noticed that there was a book in front of him.
I took a gulp of the milk and calmed my melodious stomach. "What are you reading?"
A hidden smile peeked from his face as he turned to me, lifting the cover of the book.
The Holy Bible.
Oh. Holy points for you, I guess.
"You read it much?" I enquired further, trying to place the last time that I actually read mine.
"Most days…" he answered, before flitting his vision away. His expression changed - it resolved something - and then he turned back to me, looking shy. "Every day, actually. I don't know what I would do if I didn't give over my day to God, every day."
It was suddenly very strange to hear spirituality come out of his mouth, because basically we'd just kept our conversations to Perth, how not to dance and oh, yeah, did I want to be his wife?
I suppose I'd known that he had some kind of faith, especially since everyone had gone to church the other day without me, and I had some small vague impression of him joining us at church in Perth.
But to hear it expressed so openly, so vulnerably… well, it was kind of endearing.
I grinned with what I knew was a silly smile, because early morning cheerfulness is not a language I am fluent in.
"You can't have too many worrying problems to hand over, can you? I mean, you're Will Darcy, CEO."
He didn't answer straight away and for a moment, I wondered if in my fogged brain state, I'd said something wrong. There was the smallest of frowns, but it was a sad one.
"CEO's have just as many problems as everyone else, Lizzie. Maybe more… You know what it is like to be working with people, they are not as simple as machines. You can't push a button and they will behave a certain way." He shook his head, clearly disturbed. "Some bring with them their personal issues or their insecurities, and while we expect them to react like adults, many of them behave like children. I can't work with them effectively if I also act on impulse; I need God's grace to get me through it."
I felt like I'd been punched in the gut.
Here was Will Darcy, CEO, Supposed Grand Master of All Things Proud and Aloof, sitting before me declaring, in his vulnerability, that he needs God's grace everyday.
And who was I to think that I didn't also?
I really wanted to acknowledge the openness and depth of what he'd just shared, so I said,
"Oh, well, yeah."
Urgh, I cursed myself, I'm not good with deep introspective responses this early in the morning.
Say something else!
"Umm…"
More than that!
"…that's cool." And at the risk of sounding like a condescending primary school teacher, I finished, "…thanks for sharing."
I cringed inwardly, but Will still nodded his acknowledgement.
The thin film of milk lining my glass drained tiny rivets of white colloidal solution to the base and tiny crumbs now scattered the bench that was once before so clean. Most importantly, the stomach was completely satisfied.
"Hmmm, so, thanks for the chat, I'm going back to bed."
"Okay."
I hopped off the stool, placed my glass in the sink and was about to leave when he called my name.
"Yeah?" I turned back, almost out the door.
He smiled, with coyness. "Nice pyjamas."
I looked down at my shirt. Emblazoned across the front were the words 'Girls Rock' and a cartoon of an anthropomorphised rock wearing a skirt.
I lifted my head, folded my arms and returned his gaze.
"It's true, you know."
"I know."
It wasn't until I'd returned to the correct position of late-sleepers, flagrantly sprawled across the bed, with a stomach that had retired to its dressing room until its matinee performance, that my drowsy sub-conscious poked at me.
I was supposed to ask Will something…
Yeah, something confusing…
Something unsure…
Something…
And then it was lost to the sweetest early morning slumber.
"Punch him in the crotch, Lizzy!" I cried at the novel, second session in of reading Jane Austen's classic and infuriated with the social conventions that required Elizabeth Bennet to behave nicely and not punch Mr. Collins in the crotch. You've got to admit, it would have conveyed her refusal a lot more effectively.
But that was not the way of Jane Austen, as far as I knew, and exhaling my acquired angst, I convinced myself that it was a matter of national security and vitally important to the functioning of human society as we know it, that I finish reading the catastrophe that was Mr. Collins proposal.
And, as usual, he gave his cringe-worthy performance.
Closing the book softly, I flicked my eyes to the clock. Half an hour until Fiona finished her study and just enough time to send off an email to Anna.
Bounding down the stairs two at a time and almost beginning my time as Tom Price's Most Newly-Inducted Hospital Patient, I skidded to a halt at the bottom of the stairs and hung a left. I followed the directions of Fiona exactly, a sitting parlour, through to the Theatre Room and second door on the left. And there it was: Will's study.
Glancing down the hall conspicuously, so as to pretend that I was in a bad 70's cop show, I followed this action with another over-exaggerated spin to the left to check for witnesses.
There were none.
It really wasn't worth the drama if there were no witnesses, I concluded.
Shrugging off the theatrical edge with a shudder, I inched the door open.
I was met with Will's sleek glass desk, facing toward me, black leather chairs facing said desk and me again facing the ludicrousness of the situation I was currently in.
Books covered the east wall, their titles varying from Business and Economics in the Twenty First Century to The Life of Chopin to A Dictionary of New Testament Letters. It was diverse, to say the least.
On the opposite wall, lever-arch files were stacked and slotted, presumably numerically and alphabetically and probably not colour-chromatically.
Finally, my gaze rested on the large window behind Will's chair, letting in the morning sunlight - at this hour, the annoying perkiness had gone and was instead replaced with loveliness. I stepped into the sunlight and closer to the window. Will had a permanent view of the undulating landscape; the iconic colours of North-West Australia, his naturally hung artwork.
I smiled, wondering how he ever got any work done.
The super-executively-looking leather rollie chair beckoned me and I lowered myself in. Again, pausing for a moment to make sure no one was watching, I grinned and pushed off, spinning around several times, thrusting my arms out and in several times.
I adored The Conservation of Motion - a fun and slightly nauseating scientific principle.
Finally slowing myself down (arms out), I glided to a stop and spun myself around to face the computer on the glass desk. I found the largest button and pressed once.
As the computer beeped and whirred and I tried to control the excess residual spinning in my head, words necessary to my email fluttered through the cerebral vortex.
Logging in and taking a breath, I began to spin a tale so vague, even I wondered if she wouldn't just call me to make sure that I was okay. Psychologically, I mean.
To: annabanana
Anna!
Greetings from Tom Price! Sorry I couldn't talk on Sunday, we had church and stuff on, but great to hear your voice…
Here in the Pilbara, day runs into another glorious day and with so many things to do, I'm not lamenting the rainy cold of Perth too much - save your company! The ranges and plains are exactly how you'd imagine, you know, sweeping and mountainous… I don't think words could ever do them justice. The people are very friendly, we met some really nice American girls and I sailed on a yacht! So classy, right?
Garyand Lindy are the same, one is sane and one is nutty – guess which is which ;)
Go to run, lunch is on!
Hope you're well, shoot me an email with all your news,
L-dawg.
SEND.
I am such a liar.
Lunch was humorous and delightful and Mrs. Mayfair began to tell us stories of her youthful days, until some of those stories began to finish with humorous, delightful and yet slightly questionable morals, and then she left, warning us that we should learn from other people's mistakes, and not just from experience.
I seconded that motion, convinced that my five years head start on Fiona had taught me a lot of useful information - one piece of that information being that she needs to stay the heck away from Jimmy Reilly.
Perhaps I'd get to tell Fiona that one day, after I'd talked to Will.
That is, if Will, my brain and I were ever in the same room at the same time.
Two o'clock loomed and Fiona departed once more for a ballet lesson. Well, a skinny lady with perfect posture came into the house and the two of them flit upstairs, so I'm just assuming the rest.
Tracing my fingers along the spines of hundreds of DVDs, ranked alphabetically across the shelves in the Darcy's theatre room, I pulled out a classic and set about the enormous task of figuring out their entertainment system.
Five remote controls. Who needs five remote controls?
I'm still trying to find the light switch, brain.
An ominously large figure stood in the doorway, blocking the light. Fists poised against large hips and the head was cocked. Mrs. Mayfair's housekeeper tone rang out.
"Lizzie Bennet, are you all alone watching this movie?"
"Uh… no, I'm with James Marsden and Katherine Hei-.. Hie-… Hedgel-… yeah, I can't say her last name."
"Heigl."
"Right… how do you know about her?"
Mrs. Mayfair gave a knowing smile as she came in, seating herself on the edge of the couch. "It was one of Fiona's favourite movies. She used to talk about James Marsden quite often."
"And now?"
"Now it's Liam Hemsworth."
"Or Josh Hutcherson."
"Oh yes, the camouflage boy."
"We all love the camouflage boy."
Mrs. Mayfair gave a little smile to humour me before explaining her real reason for coming to find me. I pressed the OFF buttons on all the TV/DVD/projector/sound system electronics/light switch and wandered behind Mrs. Mayfair as she led me out of the theatre room, down the hall and upwards on the fairytale staircase. My curiosity grew as we continued through the second floor and finally reached another staircase, this one decidedly less extravagant.
"She'll be waiting for you," informed Mrs. Mayfair succinctly, nodding and gesturing towards the staircase. "It's the double door on the right."
Offering my thanks, I wandered up the plush carpet staircase and reaching the top, snuck a look to see if Mrs. Mayfair was still watching. Nope, she'd gone off to finish cooking. I was alone again.
Turning back, a long white corridor spread before me, one side completely lined with mounted photos in black frames of varying shapes and sizes. Taking in the chaos of the photo wall, I couldn't help but smile. Ancient photos flagged the hall entry, men and women in old-fashioned dress, in old-fashioned poses.
Generations of Darcys.
As I tread slowly down the corridor, eventually I began to see faces I recognised, cleverly disguised as children; a young Will, barely seven years old, his face peeking out as he hid behind the leg of a caring woman. I smiled - it was his mum. She was beautiful.
There was a cheeky pre-pubescent Daniel on the bow of a sailboat, wind-blown and smiling. And soon I came to Fiona, just a baby, lovingly held in the centre of a family photo – Mum, Dad and the kids. Just a normal family.
Lost in sentimental thought, I stumbled back into the wooden door behind me and snapped back to reality.
Right, not here to learn the Darcy Family History 101.
Without thinking, I turned and opened the door behind me, stepping inside.
"I'm here…" I called and my voice fell on deaf furniture, "…oh."
I gulped. I had definitely stepped into the wrong room. And by 'wrong', I didn't mean incorrect; by 'wrong', I meant oh my WORD I should not be in here.
Lizzie, why are you in Will's bedroom?
Totes awkward, brain.
Heavy maroon drapes had been pulled back and allowed glowing light to fill the room, illuminating the mahogany-themed furnishings and decorative wrought-iron flourishes. A large black bed matched the black leather couches on the opposite side and another study desk was positioned against a wall.
With a groan, I concluded that Will's bedroom was, in fact, probably bigger than my entire house and possibly even my neighbourhood.
Chuckling to myself, I spun on my heel and bid adieu to the bedroom of Will Darcy. I didn't think I'd be seeing it again in my lifetime.
The door closed silently and further down the hall, I spied a large wooden double door.
Right, Mrs. Mayfair, double door.
Skipping past the array of photos on the wall, I knocked twice and was bid entry by a sweet sixteen year old.
I almost chocked as I walked in. This third floor was one giant mystery to me. First an extravagantly proportioned bedroom and now a huge dance studio, complete with polished wooden floors and wall-long mirror. Oh, and a complementary dancing ballerina, for your added enjoyment.
"Lizzie! Hi!" smiled Fiona as she dashed across the room, coming to stand beside me and rising up on her pointe shoes with a grin. I looked up at her now taller figure.
"Hey there, tallie."
"Hey there shortie."
"You know, with great height comes great responsibility." Fiona cocked her head, unsure. "Never mind."
"Okay."
With a smile and a clap, I asked, "So, am I going to get to see you dance, or what?"
Fiona's face lit up. "Right now?"
"Yeah… I think I can squeeze you in."
"Great! I'll cue the music, can you start it for me?"
I agreed and after pressing play, raced to the centre of the mirrors for the best vantage point possible. Quick, dramatic string music filled the hall, and after a momentary introduction, Fiona danced. I almost couldn't think while watching her, she was completely captivating. She flitted across the room like feathers falling, then suddenly flying as she leapt and traversed the space. Spinning, bending, stretching, reaching, and all of it controlled.
The orchestral melody slowed and quietened and eerie woodwind tones soon replaced the strings; discordant melodies floated and drifted around Fiona as she moved, almost as if the written music were making room for her.
A grande jeté, a pas de bourréeand continuous series of fouettes later, the legato notes gradually carried their voyage to a conclusion.
Applause spilled from me as Fiona changed from an open fifth position to first, and gave a little curtsey. "Bravo! Bravo! Oh wait, you're a girl… Brava! Brava!"
Fiona just smiled and blushed and looked totally embarrassed.
"You're amazing, Fi, that was-… you were-… and then you-… amazing."
"I'm not that good," she refuted, approaching me, "Madame Plume says I still need to get more height in my leaps, and also I messed up the footing a little in one of the changeovers."
"I saw none of that."
"You're being kind."
"Well, I am fairly ignorant to the intricacies of really talented ballet techniques, so okay," I smiled, "I'll concede that, just this once."
We walked over the double door, where Fiona had a bottle of water half-empty and waiting for her. As she glugged away, I took in the studio again. Light poured in and reflected off the mirrors, and despite being on the third floor, we were not warmer than usual. I noticed two discreetly placed exhaust fans in the ceiling.
"Do you like the dance studio?" Fiona asked, finishing her water, removing her pointe shoes and stretching out – I swear that girl's bones were made of rubber. "Will had it put in before I moved here."
Of course, I mused, what house is complete without a dance studio?
"I do, I wish my house had one exactly like this."
Fiona laughed and looked over the room. "I'm glad he did. Without my ballet, there wouldn't be much to do in this house. I can practice every day and Madame Plume comes three times a week and gives me lessons."
"Would that be the lady with the perfect posture?"
"Yep."
"She does have great posture," I mumbled. "Does she live far away?"
"No, just in Tom Price," Fi answered, as she picked up her empty bottle and opened the double door, stepping out, "but Will made sure I would have a ballet teacher while I lived here."
I followed her out, closing the door behind me.
"Oh, Lizzie! Have you seen our photo wall?" asked Fiona excitedly, all thoughts of ballet now forgotten. "It was my pet project last year, oh, but Will helped me with it."
"You put this together? That's a great effort."
Biting her lip and holding back a giant grin, Fiona gleamed at me. "I even put a few of my own photos up here, too. Look, like that one."
My vision trailed the length of her arm and rested on an 8x4 print of Will, dressed in a tuxedo, leaning on a kitchen bench, the expression on his face one of amused frustration.
Fiona giggled. "I took that one before a benefit gala that Harry forced Will to go to. They were waiting for Chrissy to finish getting ready so I just took lots of photos. Will was a bit sick of me putting a camera in his face by the end." More giggles.
I laughed with her and conceded to myself that Will Darcy looked very handsome in a tux, even if slightly irritated.
"What's the story with this one?" I asked, now suddenly distracted by an image to the side. In stark contrast to the previous photo, Will now appeared dirty, scruffy, tousled and yet, extremely carefree; Daniel and Will laughing at the camera, arms around each other, surrounded by a whole school of smiling African kids, greeting me with cheers.
"Oh, Will and Dan went to Africa together. He was there for four months before… before he had to come back. Dad died and Will had to take over the company."
"Oh."
"Look at this one, this was during a holiday to Paris…" and as Fiona continued talking about fun times past, my thoughts were held back at the idea of Will in Africa. And for four months! I honestly would not have thought he could have lasted without his stores open all night and all-area mobile phone reception. Perhaps there was another side to Will that I'd not been privileged to see.
Perhaps, after all, he did know the one-leg, two-leg dance of trying to pull up undies in a wet shower.
A/N - Well, well, well. You're just a little layer-cake, aren't you, Will Darcy?
S/Os to Jessy and kmart92. YOU GUYS!
Tomorrow is my birthday, and I'll even find time out of my hectic partying (*cough* looking up cat photos on the internet) to post the next chapter. Because it's all on from here. Are you with me? ;)
M. xo