I don't know who he is, but I hate him

The sun pools in honey coloured squares on the wooden floors. The bees stir and begin to bump about the flowers. The chickens out in the yard begin to scratch and cluck, and just as the time reaches five thirty, Will Darcy wakes up. He stretches and blinks away the last remnants of headache. Then he turns his mind to start resenting how he now naturally wakes up at such a God-forsaken hour. Except that very expression probably doesn't apply on a morning like this. He climbs up out of the roll away bed, rubs his hands over his messy hair, and sets about finding his jeans from the night before. It was one of Charlie's rules, right from the beginning, and it certainly makes it easier today to conform to casual dress weekends, having been forced to wear jeans last night. It hadn't seemed right whilst planning the event, but he was shouted down by everyone else but Caroline, and then the deciding vote by Charlie. Now, he admits, there is a certain freedom in not worrying that his shirt is a bit crumpled, or that the creases have dropped. He pauses and shakes his head. Now, he realises, there is a certain horror in contemplating ones wardrobe with such detail. He pulls on his college sweatshirt and walks slowly through the quiet house, finding to his delight that the coffee pot is already on. He pours himself a mug, and then stands, hands round it, contemplating. The crunching tick of the grandfather clock continues in a consistent rhythm from the hall. There must be a few people up, as there are muffled noises from the stables outside. The birds have begun to sing, and are having a go at deafening each other. He smiles to himself. It reminds him of his father's home. Except it's his home now, he supposes. He sighs and then carefully opens the screen door, and walks out onto the veranda, looking out over the land, down to what he realises is the fence he sat on for half and hour the night before. Some one is sitting there now, and he has an inkling as to who it may be.

I'm shaken from my sleep-deprived reverie by a voice at my elbow. I'm used to Dad there at this time in the morning. Except it's not Dad. It's someone with a very different voice.

"Hi."

I'm so surprised that I nearly throw my coffee over him. Thankfully, I don't. "Oh. Hi."

He leans against the fence, just like Dad does, arms out ahead of him, coffee clasped between his hands, one foot hooked behind the other.

"You found the coffee then?"

He nods. There's silence between us for a minute then, "it's good."

"Yeah." I sip my own and breathe in the steam. "I needed it this morning."

He looks over at me, and raises an eyebrow. "Didn't enjoy last night so much, huh?"

I sigh. I'm trying so hard not to judge him. So hard to not be confrontational. "I really enjoyed last night. It was just quite a long night." I sound like a school teacher. Or someone prim out of Little Women. Amy maybe.

He nods, slowly.

"You're not in a suit," I say. It's a sickness. In the silence I'll say anything, just to break the painful stretch of nothingness. Occasionally the words make sense. More often than not I sound like an idiot. I blame the other person generally. They shouldn't leave such massive gaps.

"No," he says, smiling slightly to himself. "Not on a Sunday."

"That's your rule is it? Some personal dress time?"

He looks at me like I'm crazy. To be fair, I would too. "No," he says. "It's Charles's rule. An attempt to stop us from working too hard."

"Oh." It makes sense. Kind of. "Does it work?"

His smile is rueful and I immediately despise my traitor stomach which flips at the sight of it. "Not at all." Damn those dimples.

"I wouldn't have imagined it," I say. "I'm not sure that Dad owns anything but jeans, and yet he works the hardest of anyone I've ever known."

"It must be."

"Must be what?"

"Hard work."

This conversation is killing me. Long fake coffee sips are the only way to make it bearable. That and real coffee sipping. The caffeine is beginning to make up for a distinct lack of sleep. However, being awake is not making this more bearable. I'd say it's getting worse. "So," I say, casting round for anything. Anything at all. "You're up early."

"So are you."

"I live and work on a farm."

"I'm in politics."

Did we really just have that exchange? You'd think an innocent beginning like 'you're up early' would start some back and forth. But no. Thankfully, he's clearly not enjoying it either, although he needn't make it that clear. What if this was normal conversation for me? What if I thought it was going well. He drums his fingers against his mug, flicking his nails against the handle.

"You lived here long?"

"My whole life."

He nods, and looks out across the fields. "It's quiet."

I bristle. I'm not sure that he's said anything bad directly, but it just feels like it. "You mean boring?"

"No, I mean quiet," he returns curtly.

I take a breath. This really is getting worse. "So where are you from?"

"Here and there. New Hampshire from about seven, Washington from about fifteen, London, Oxford…"

"Wow." What else could I say? Really. He's making me feel like some home-spun character from Little House on the Prairie. "But where were you born?"

His smile is rueful. Again. "Tennessee?" he says, almost a question, more laden with embarrassment than I could have imagined.

"Really?" It isn't a question. It is triumph, pure and unadulterated. I feel less like Laura Ingalls Wilder, more like pulling a smug smile. I manage not to. Just.

"Yeah," he says, scratching his head. "Mountain City."

"You," I begin, so smug now I'm about to burst, "were born six hours from here, upstate Tennessee?"

He smiles, and rolls his eyes. He is unbearably attractive. Damn you Charlotte. I just thought he was annoying yesterday. "Yes," he says, and drains his coffee. "What about you?"

What the hell. I am the 21st century Laura Ingalls Wilder, and proud. "Born in Tennessee, school in Tennessee, college in Tennessee, my first two jobs in Tennessee…" I trail off. His eyebrows are raised.

"You've never left?"

"You didn't let me finish" I say. "Third job, back home on the farm, Tennessee."

He smiles, more to himself than anything else. "Why haven't you ever left the state?"

"I'm wanted in all other forty-nine," I deadpan.

He looks at me, over his shoulder, eyebrows raised again.

"Even Hawaii."

"I'm serious."

I shrug. "I don't really know. I love it here. I love the people, and after my last real job, I didn't really know want I wanted to do, and since not all of us have the money to swan off to London and Oxford…" It comes out meaner than I intended. "Well," I finish lamely. "Nothing has ever drawn me out of here."

His nod is cold, somehow. "You should visit some places," he says quietly. "Wales is beautiful."

I feel bad. He's an ass, and this conversation was going to be the death of me, but I was mean. Unnecessarily so. "OK," I say, smiling at him. "Maybe I will."

He nods again, steps back from the rail, pauses for a second, and then walks back towards the house. I sigh. I can't help it. It was like there was some flicker of humanity between us, and then I plunged it back into the icy depths of stilted, painful conversation. I drain my own mug, and sigh into it, the hot air swirling back up into my face. At least I won't have to see him again. With any luck.

The Dining Room is impressively clean. For the first time that any of the family can remember, there is no pile of books on the sideboard, no bridles lying in the corner, every swirl and swipe of dust is gone, and the air smells slightly of beeswax polish. The smell is abating however with the onslaught of breakfast aromas from the kitchen. As they begin to gather between the dining room and the kitchen, Jane slips an arm around her mother and kisses her cheek.

"The dining room looks beautiful, Mom."

A rainbow of emotions chase each other across her face. She is pleased, proud, and then bristles. "What do you mean, sweetheart?" she says, deliberately and slowly. "It always looks like this." Lydia walks in wearing an outfit which Grandma Bennet (of the lemonade fame) would have had something to say about. She snorts.

Jane, ever the good daughter, turns round and exclaims at the sight of her sister. "Lyddie! Where have you been?" From anyone else it would have sounded accusatory. From Jane it sounds like Lydia is Santa and Jane is the little orphan Annie, receiving her first Christmas present. She throws her arms round her. "You look amazing!"

Mary raises her eyebrows. These days she barely does anything but raise her eyebrows, but still.

"Have you met Mr Bingley?" She drags Lydia behind her towards Charlie. "Mr Bingley, this is my youngest sister, Lydia."

Lydia, slightly aware that Jane crushed her attempts at mocking Mom, had been pouting. Now she turns up the full wattage of her 'seductive smile'. Mary groans and turns away, walking into the kitchen, where Lizzie is standing at the stove, cooking.

"Jane just introduced Lydia to Bingley."

Lizzie turns round, wincing. "What did she do?"

Mary shrugs, and pulls herself up backwards onto the work surface. "She didn't have to do anything. Her top said it all."

"How bad?"

Mary smiles, ever so slightly. "The green one."

"You're going to have to give me more than…"

"The owls. The," using air quotes, "pair of hooters."

Lizzie groans and turns back to the stove. "Oh sweet merciful…Did Janey notice?"

Mary shrugs. "If she had she was pretending not to. It's always been my policy with Lydia."

"Mm. Mine too." She takes out a stack of plates from the cupboard and puts them next to Mary. "What about Kit?"

"What about me?" the girl in question asks, wandering in.

"She wanted to know if you were being as cheap and insufferable as Lydia."

"Mary!" Lizzie winces. "Kit, I…"

"No, I wasn't," she butts in. "Lyds has the gold medal when it comes to flirting and generally getting guys to notice her."

"Oh, they didn't notice you?" goads Mary, kicking her heels against the cupboard door.

"Guys! Will you just…"

The door swings open. "Anything I can do?" Charles smiles as he asks, looking hesitantly between the sisters who are now looking murderous. "Take anything through, or…" He trails off, looking like he wished that he had never opened the door.

Lizzie sighs, and then passes him the stack of plates. "If you could take that through please. Thank you," she calls after him, as he gratefully walks back through to the dining room. She turns to her sisters. "Please, be civil. Just for Janey, for a few hours." She sighs and runs a hand through her hair. "It's not that hard is it?"

Mary shrugs. "Just as long as she doesn't talk to me." She jumps off the side, picks up the plates that Lizzie has already piled high with food, and walks back into the dining room. Kit quickly follows, jugs of juice and coffee in each hand.

On her own, Lizzie breathes easily again. The clink and bustle from the dining room calms her. At least they are getting on with it. She rescues her coffee from behind the wooden spoons and takes a long drink.

"You all right darlin'?"

She turns round, almost straight into her father. She laughs. "I'll be better when this is all over."

He slings an arm around her shoulders. "You're telling me. I've got to go and bare my soul to that perfect stranger in there."

Lizzie grins. "Have you ever had to bare your soul?"

He shrugs. "Your mother likes her men mysterious, luckily for me."

"You're incorrigible."

He laughs deeply, and takes the last plate that she fills with food out of her hands. "Come on. Let's go and do this thing."

Thank you lovely reviewers for your lovely reviews.