Ah, Mr Darcy. He is that most excellent specimen of man – noble, fair-minded, dependable, and superior to all other members of the male sex. He always Does the Right Thing. He protects. He perseveres. He loves deeply and with his whole heart.
And if he were my husband? I have no doubt I’d divorce him within a week.
I can hear the ladies now, gasping and protesting in flustered outrage. I can see their indignant expressions and their skyward-reaching eyebrows. Heresy! Sacrilege! To cast aspersions on the great, the unassailable Fitzwilliam Darcy himself! It is simply not to be borne.
But…hear me out.
Can you imagine living with such a paragon, day in and day out? I mean, really imagine it?
“Good morning, darling,” I call out as I come downstairs on Monday morning to see Mr Darcy sitting at the kitchen table. “Did you get the newspaper?”
He gives me a withering glance. “That,” he replies, “is what we pay the servants for.”
“But my dearest,” I object, “we don’t have any servants. Your ex-wife Elizabeth got every penny of your vast fortune.”
“Then that is a lack we must correct at once.”
“What? The loss of your vast fortune or the lack of servants?”
“Both, I suppose. And we must have servants.”
I cast him an irritated glance. “And how shall we manage that,” I ask, “without your vast fortune, or without consulting the classified ads? Which are contained inside the newspaper, which – I might add – is still lying outside on the doorstep.”
He looks at me blankly. “Classified ads? I am not familiar with the phrase.”
“I’ll just go and get the paper,” I mutter.
“I did not hear you,” he says, and levels a look of condescension upon me. “You must speak up, or I cannot properly understand your meaning.”
“I’LL JUST GO AND GET THE PAPER.” I stalk to the front door and fling it open.
And that’s just breakfast.
Can you imagine watching television with Mr Darcy?
We’re settled in our respective chairs; the TV is on and the remote is clutched in my husband’s hand. (Mr Darcy WILL have his remote…even if he isn’t quite sure yet what to do with it. And after a short time spent watching him flick relentlessly through the channels, I’m more than ready to tell him exactly what to do with it.)
“This sounds promising,” he remarks, stopping on an episode of Game of Thrones. “A nice drama about the royal family should prove enlightening.”
Five minutes later? “My God,” he exclaims, his face pale. “The violence is appalling. That’s enough of that.” Flick. On we go to Dancing With the Stars.
“I enjoy dancing, when I am not obliged to join in,” Darcy says. He sees Fergie strut out onstage, wearing a few bits of spangled cloth as she begins a sexy tango with Adam Levine.
He leaps out of his chair and endeavors to cover my eyes. “Madam, I would not wish you to see such unbridled lewdness as is currently on display. I will inform you when it is safely over.”
I can’t help but notice that he doesn’t cover his own eyes, but continues to watch Fergie’s spangly bits twirl and gyrate until he can assure me that all is ‘safe’ for my own delicate eyes.
Then, it’s time to turn off the TV and go upstairs to bed.
Ah, I see you ladies thinking, now there’s the best bit about marriage to Mr Darcy – sharing the bedroom. Imagine his impassioned kisses; his romantical murmurings; his professions of undying love as he tenderly claims his Mrs Darcy, body and soul, and makes her his own.
He stops outside the bedroom door and brushes his lips chastely against my cheek. “Goodnight, Mrs Darcy.” He turns to leave.
“Where are you going?” I say quickly, and grab his hand.
“To my room.”
I explain in all haste that sleeping in separate rooms ended ages ago and that a married couple is now expected to share the same bedroom and, indeed, even the same bed. He is shocked, then considers the idea. A look which can only be termed as roguish crosses his face.
“I must confess,” he admits in a low voice as he takes me into his arms, “after my initial shock, to feeling a certain anticipation at the thought of sharing a bed with you all night.”
“That’s good to know.”
He lays a rousing kiss on me that leaves me not only reeling, but weak and trembly in the knees. This is more like it. We end up naked in bed (as you do) and he makes incendiary, passionate love to me until I’m quite, quite spent and tired, but deliciously, deliriously happy.
“That was…amazing,” I sigh, and snuggle against him. “Incredible.”
He kisses the top of my head. “You are all that is pleasing, Mrs Darcy. I am truly a lucky man.” Then he yawns and rolls over.
“Goodnight, darling,” I whisper, and smile dreamily in the darkness.
He mumbles something, already half asleep.
I lean over him, still smiling. “What, my dearest love? I did not hear you.”
“I said, g’night, Fergie,” he murmurs, and drifts off to sleep, no doubt to dream once again of those gyrating spangly bits. Then he begins to snore.
Well, it could be worse, I suppose as I stare glumly up at the ceiling.
He could’ve called me ‘Elizabeth.’