by Iris Lim
I sigh. I'm never alone in this house — there's always a servant or sister or footman or cook here and there. When Mrs. Reynolds's gone, Mrs. Anders takes over seamlessly. I feel useless, despite last night's resolution.
Then again, if I really did mean last night's resolution, I'll already be off with Georgiana and the modiste right now.
I bite my lip. It's not as if I don't want to, Georgiana's really nice. But she's not the one I —
I shut my eyes, sighing again. No — I can't drive a guy away and be upset he's not there the next morning. Annoyed at myself for having even thought so, I gather my skirts, desert my seat, and shuffle out the room.
• • •
"Mrs. Darcy, the arms, please."
I try to hide my sigh as I lift my arms. When Georgiana squealed about the modiste, I was expecting an ebullient, effusive fashionista. An Effie Trinket of sorts, maybe. That mental image seems to be much more of a sartorial partner in crime. The dry, quiet, stern woman currently wrapping her measuring tape around my bust — is a far, far cry from even happy.
"Turn around," she orders, like a tired librarian. I comply.
It's not like I could do anything else. Her sketches and 'plates,' so she called them, all looked abstract, old, and boring. The sleeves varied in length and the ribbons in color — but not much else. I mean, among us sisters, Jane's the looks expert (it's literally on her twitter handle, which is like a digital tattoo). I just wear whatever I feel like. And even then, I seldom feel strongly about clothing.
But I sure wish I could ask her for some underwear.
"Shall we use the blue, madame?" Her questions all sound like they're said with disdain.
With her behind my back, I roll my eyes before clearing my throat. "Yes — whatever."
"Whatever?"
Right — that she had to hear. Why was Georgiana all excited for this woman again?
"Wha — whichever color you think works, or suits, or wha— I mean, we can use what you choose." I force myself into a smile. Play-acting is horrible business. Why do people ever want to be actors?
"Yes, Mrs. Darcy." She gets promptly back to work.
I sigh, hands clasping in annoyed frustration. For a supposed mistress of a grand English estate, I feel oddly — trapped. Unknown people bustle around; unfamiliar sounds and textures and materials flood my senses. In fact, other than speaking a variation of the English language (the British would argue that I speak it at all, I'm sure), I don't really know anything at all around here. Nothing and no one — except Gigi.
I look at my pretend sister-in-law. She's flipping designs happily, alternately positioning the draper's wares beside each plate to aide her imagination.
I've got no one except her — and, well, him.
I gulp. Having my thoughts fly to William Darcy, while an activity I surely do not enjoy, seems to be inevitable under these circumstances. He'd taken my rejection well last night, or as well as I'd hoped. He didn't fuss, and he didn't try to force his way into my room again.
But that meant waking up alone this morning.
I flinch as the modiste pulls her measuring tape taut around my waist. The waking up alone part wasn't bad, not really.
I blink. It wasn't bad — but it sure made the place feel even more foreign.
"Lizzy! This would much become you!" Georgiana flits over from her perch on the sofa. Much become? Thank God I'm a nerd enough to understand.
She cozies up to my side, hands lifting the plate. The women in the paintings look mild and genteel — a far cry from my current bewildered state. The dress on the right, laced and detailed, looks gentle and pretty; the dress on the left looks ridiculous — feathered and orange. I pray to heaven Gigi means the first one.
"My brother shall love to see you in this!" Georgiana exclaims next to me.
I offer a pained, reserved smile. "Perhaps."
"You do look lovely in green, Lizzy."
Yes, I do. I know that, actually. Lizzie Bennet is always gorgeous in green, Jane would always say. The recollection has me missing my sister very, very much. I look at the young girl oohing and aahing beside me. Last night's resolve returns.
I smile a little more sincerely. "How about you? What dresses do you want?"
"The simple ones shall do." She smiles shyly.
"Nonsense," a strong male voice — one I know, to be honest — echoes from the hallway. Darcy emerges into the sitting room. I feel my breath shorten. "My sister shall always deserve only the best."
I try not to be dramatic about it as Darcy embraces Georgiana without so much as a glance at me. Maybe he knows I'm not really his wife?
"Lizzy," he calls me out of my sour grapes-ness.
I smile a little. "Darcy."
Face blank, he tilts his head forward in a miniature bow. I don't know if I'm supposed to do the same.
Dressed in his colored day wear, he looks as handsome as ever — the hair ruffled just right, the height duly emphasized, the chin perfectly framed. His impeccable outfit implies his having plenty of time to dress up this morning.
But, when I look closely, I see the dark circles under his eyes as he looks away. I see his hands fidgeting behind him.
I wonder how I look to him.
"Enjoy the modiste, my dears," he states simply. Then he bows, more formally this time, before walking away.
Beside me, Georgiana resumes her worship of the latest designs. I try very hard not to think of her brother instead.
• • •
In theory, a day where Darcy ignores me completely is supposed to be total bliss. I've spent every waking moment ever since I got transported here trying to evade his advances. The soft kisses on the head, the warm grips of the hand — they've been, well, confusing at best. I'd much, much rather not have to deal with them.
So it's to my incredible annoyance when, sequestered by myself in the library all afternoon, I find myself feeling — neglected.
My hands flip page after page of Pilgrim's Progress, its borderline disturbing imagery exerting zero effect over me. I don't feel bothered, and nor do I feel happy. Everything on the page, in the luxurious decor of the book-room, do nothing for me. There's no thrill, no awe, and no tension. The page, like my head and heart, might as well be blank.
"Mrs. Darcy." Lilieth appears at the door. I look up, frowning, wondering how I could've missed her usual signature knock. "Shall we dress for supper?"
I turn my wrist around to view my non-existent watch. Not exactly learning the time from that gesture, I look at the dusky sun beams from the window. Did I seriously melodrama the whole day away? Who am I — Lydia?
Or Charlotte.
Or Jane.
I sigh, suddenly feeling the need to blink very fast and very much. Georgiana is great, and Darcy is definitely interesting, but I miss my other staples. Where are my sisters and besties when I need them?
"Mrs. Darcy?"
I look up. For the first time, I exert effort in taking in my 'handmaid.' Her apron and plain beige dress highlight our distinction in rank. Her small frame implies either very slender genes or, more probably, very young age. She looks small and scared and anxious.
Her eyes and nose also look very much like Cousin Mary's.
"Mrs. Darcy?" She tries again, much more quiet than before.
I lower my head, hiding my sigh. "Sure — alright."
I keep my head down the entire trip to my room (for trip it was — being that long). Lilieth doesn't say much as she picks my clothes, helps me change, and does my hair. I can't help wondering if she's actually my kindred spirit around here — a young girl trapped in a large estate. I don't find anything to say either.
"Mr. Darcy shall find you most lovely, madame." Behind me, Lilieth says her typical motivational line as she taps my completed, elaborate hairdo. I remember again how my hair looks brown around here — and it's slightly off-putting.
"Thank you, Lilieth," I say, genuinely grateful.
She beams back at me like a kid
on Christmas morning. "Thank you, Mrs. Darcy."
I try to smile, seeing her that happy and all, and I don't complain a word as we make our way downstairs. The number of meal times over the past days has made me more familiar with this route than any other in the house. The Darcys are seated by the time I arrive. I feel strangely in the center of everyone's attention.
"Lizzy, are you alright?" Georgiana asks first as I try my best to sit gracefully.
"Yes," is all I say.
"You stayed at the library all day," she continues, sounding both innocent and sincere. "You visited neither of us, Lizzy. Are you certain all is well?"
Ah — cuz that's what Mrs. Darcy does.
I gulp. "I'm fine, Georgiana. Don't worry."
I meet her eyes when I look up. She's frowning, completely puzzled. I fight the urge to look at her brother.
"Now, Georgiana. Do not bother your sister so." His deep baritone sends chills down my spine — from nervousness or something else, I don't know. "Come, let us say grace."
I don't say another word until we relocate to the music room.
• • •
Whatever blankness I felt this afternoon has evaporated and left in its place a horrible agitation. Despite how quiet and calm he usually is, Darcy still managed to surprise me tonight — first by singing along to the song Georgiana played, and then by wrapping an arm around me when I shivered from the evening draft. Both the lovely voice and warm touch had been seriously disconcerting.
Then again, evening draft. What am I — ninety?
I shudder at the thought of actually acting as old as the people around me. Sure, as far as they're concerned, they're young and normal in these circumstances. But I know better. I know the world — the real world, the other place — is what's real. Silicon Valley and nepotistic bosses — that's real.
This isn't.
I lift the tea cup to my lips, trying hard to ignore the memory of the sharp pain in my hand the other night at the exact spot I currently occupy. That moment had felt blindingly revolutionary, like generous sun beams after a storm. It's inability to wake me up, to take me out of here, indicated something bigger than a regular nightmare — more real and more permanent. The tea I drink now, minty with a touch of rose, barely calms me.
In fact, it's a good thing I've put the cup down when Darcy walks in — or even my other hand would need to be all tied up.
"Lizzy," he says, voice low and manly. I ignore the shivers that inevitably zap from my neck to my fingertips whenever he calls me like that.
I force a smile, looking up. "Yes, Darcy?"
The tray of snacks beside me, the chairs, the tables, the fireplace, the rugs, the ceiling, the floor — everything.
Everything fades into a blur under the intensity of his gaze. I swear I'm liquifying. Whoever handles the fire in the master suite is a hypnotizing witch.
"Lizzy," he says again, this time gentle and soothing. I gulp as he walks over.
Instead of sitting down, he kneels on the floor beside me, taking my hands between his. My heartbeat sounds louder than the crack in the bell. His hands are warm, large, and comforting. His blue-grey eyes, so haughty in the office, now look open and intimate.
"Lizzy." He drops a kiss on my knuckles, stubble grazing my skin. "I have noticed much amiss. Do pardon my neglect."
He sounds oddly — sincere. I continue feeling, and probably looking, bewildered.
"You, my love, know well how ill-equipped I am to brave the new and unknown," he goes on. "I have allowed my fears to part us. Please, forgive me."
What's with this Darcy apologizing all the time?
"Something must be the matter, darling," he keeps talking, looking up at me with those unfathomable, pretty-boy eyes. He presses my hands. "Would you instruct me on the source of your discomfort?"
The fact that William Darcy just told me he wants me to teach him something goes way over my head. I look at him blankly, stunted by all the surprise. He seems to realize he's not getting anything from me. So, with a massive sigh, he lets go of my hands and stands up to take his own seat. He picks absent-mindedly at the cookies and cakes.
"Darcy," I find myself saying after three quiet seconds. He looks up abruptly, gaze hopeful. I have no idea what I'm doing, but I'm determined not to let this place get the better of me. "Don't — I mean, do not let it bother you."
He frowns a little. His face, sandwiched between the curls on top and the frilly collar below, looks both puzzled and tentative.
"I — I am." I'm what?
For a moment, I sincerely wonder how badly a lie from his 'wife' would affect him. In the off chance that he's not even real — then it wouldn't matter, right?
"Yes, darling?" He's encouraging me, prompting me to share more.
I take a very deep breath, and I let it out. I look down, avoiding the laser-focused eyes. "I'm — sorry, if I've been acting — strange."
I look up, a little braver now. My hands still clutch each other tightly against my stomach. He's neither staring nor glaring. He's actually gazing at me — looking at me tenderly and gently, his chin propped on his hand.
Is this the gorgeous sight William Darcy's future wife will be coming home to?
I quickly kill the thought. "Don't worry about me. I'm — fine."
"Fine?"
Right — because a husband won't put up with his wife's BS. I sigh.
"Look, Wi— Darcy." I pause. He keeps gazing. I try not to shudder too obviously. "I — I'll admit I'm a little out of it. It — look, I'm okay. Alright? There's — nothing going on."
"Nothing disconcerts you, my love?" His voice rolls over the words like warm, melting chocolate. "Come, I shall hear your every pain."
My pain is you — first too near, then too far. I bite my lip, choosing my words. What exactly is my pain anyway?
"Lizzy," he whispers my name, formal yet dear.
I blink a lot, really unsure, breathing heavily. If I really tell him what's going on — that I'm not actually his wife — that this whole thing, that he himself — everything's just a messed-up, inconclusive teleportation nightmare — would it matter?
Would it make things better?
Or worse?
"Lizzy, please," he repeats, and I can tell I'm testing his patience. "Shall you not confide in me?"
I look straight at him. His dark and tired eyes imply how much he actually needs to rest right now — and how he's sacrificing that rest to talk to me. His stubbled jaw, both rough and genteel, makes him look far less intimidating in the firelight.
"I — I am." I falter again. Because, where do I even start? How do I tell him I'm hopelessly praying to God that he's not real — and that in actual reality, he's a pompous jerk that I completely detest? No — no — I breathe out jaggedly as I realize — no, I can't. "I am tired, Darcy."
He looks obviously disappointed. I feel more like a villain than I should.
I sniff. "Thank you for asking. But everything — everything's okay. Really."
He looks wordlessly at me for another few seconds, deciphering, analyzing. I don't know what he concludes, but I can tell when he set his conclusion.
"Very well," he says, eyes sorrowful. "I shall leave you to your rest, my love."
I feel that I should nod, and I try to. But, before I can, he leans over the space between us — over the sweets and the tea and the furniture — and kisses me softly on the lips.
I close my eyes, knowing I have no right to find this soft kiss — the light meeting of the lips — as euphoric as I actually do. But, I do — I really do. I kiss him back, small and lightly, before he pulls away. It's as chaste as a junior-high peck behind the bleachers — but it completes my transformation into a puddle of goo.
"Goodnight, Lizzy," he says. Then he smiles sadly and walks away.
• • •
I sit in the aptly-named sitting room for a good half hour after Darcy leaves. He looked sad — like, genuinely sad. And, honestly, could I blame him? I shove another cook
ie down my throat. It feels disgustingly sweet, but nuance of flavor doesn't seem to be a real thing around here anyway.
To be honest, I've gotten a little more adjusted to things around here — the nice house, the beautiful scenery, among other stuff. It's not that bad. And Darcy's been tolerable too.
But that kiss though.
I gulp down the rest of the cookie. Why the heck did he kiss me?
The saner part of my brain says that he thinks I'm his wife — in fact, everyone else around here has the same delusion. The sheer number of deluded people makes Darcy's perspective seem pardonable. If anything, it makes me the dumb one — the odd one out.
But it's just not true.
My eyes sting. I sniff. Is it so bad to want to survive in peace around here? Could a girl live in 19th-century England without experiencing sexual harassment?
It's a little hard to admit to myself that receiving a kiss — a decent kiss, at that — from a man who's supposed to be my husband isn't exactly sexual harassment. But hey, what do I know?
After a big, long sigh, I pull myself together and head for my room. At least the dishes get cleaned up on their own accord. There really are perks to living among the rich. I'm not gonna deny that. It's not the easy living that bothers me, no. It's the position of — the way he —
I groan as I drop back against the turned-down bed. Gone are the fancy, embroidered duvet. Faithful nightly turn-down service ensures that the off-white sheets are free to welcome my tired soul.
But, even then, they don't relieve me.
I close my eyes, sad for some unapparent reason. Darcy had been trying, I know. He asked about what's bothering me — didn't he? The unsettling little kiss was just the punctuation mark at the end of his attempted pep talk. Obviously, he'd expected to cheer me up more than he actually did.
Instead, he just bothered me further.
I open my eyes and stare at the low ceiling of the canopy bed. All that feminist talk of a glass ceiling — and here I am, literally trapped under a wooden frame with cloth over it. How long would I get away with ignoring my supposed husband? Will he keep trying to comfort-slash-touch me until I give in?
