From Pemberley to Manhattan [COMPLETED]

Chapter 13

Nat

Darcy thought himself a funny guy. It would've annoyed me to admit he actually was, if I were not having so much fun in his company. Still, he was a smartash.

So could I be, if I wished to. And I most certainly did.

After walking for over an hour under the cloudless sky, we decided it was time to buy something to eat and rest for a while under a tree. We got ourselves tuna sandwiches and orange juice and chose a spot with a view to the calm waters of the reservoir, between the running track and Bridle Path, a few feet from the playground.

Children's laughs were one of my favorite sounds in the world, which was one of the main reasons to choose this precise location. I grabbed the picnic towel in my as-impossibly-deep-as-Mary-Poppins' backpack and placed it over the grassy ground.

Toto slept through our snack time, only waking now and then as another dog passed by to greet him. People who say animals don't talk believe that simply because they can't understand them. I, for instance, could translate everything Toto said to his dog fellows.

To a poodle with a pink loop he said, "How are you doing?", à la Joey Tribbiani. To a happy golden retriever running with his athletic owner he said, "Good running, dude!" To a Chihuahua wearing a dress with floral printing (you read it right: a dog was wearing a dress in Central Park, in the summer. Some people didn't deserve having a pet...), he tried to say "Hello, gorgeous!" but was completely ignored. As she moved away, he said, "I didn't like you anyway, bitch!"

I told you I could be funny, not tasteful. He-he-he.

Providentially, Darcy brought me back from my reverie. "I could read for us, if you feel inclined."

"Read for us? Like, out loud?" As he nodded, an evil idea crossed my mind. I'd found the moment to get back at him for all the previous jokes. Especially the one about gentlemen not picking up dog's droppings.

I turned my Kindle on and selected the e-book I wished him to read for us. I had bought it after many of my friends insisted I just had to read it; Fanny had been quite excited about it, so I'd had a hunch it was full of scenes inappropriate for minors and I'd been right. The book was capable of making even my grandma blush. I searched for a particular chapter, and offered it to him.

"If you don't mind, I have already started it," As his eyes became a little disappointed, I continued, "But don't worry. A smart guy like yourself will catch up pretty quickly."

Oh, I could be evil.

Darcy cleared his throat and sat straight. He cocked his brow and stared at the device with suspicion. Then he glanced at me, pleading mercifully for help. Of course, a man such as Darcy wouldn't know how to use a Kindle. He was probably one of those people who refused reading anything digital.

I showed him how to turn the pages, which made him quite impressed, but still doubtful. After a few more moments of testing the Kindle, he started reading it, from the chapter I had pinpointed.

"The first thing I notice is the smell: leather, wood, polish, with a faint citrus scent", he recited smoothly. Darcy was a good out loud-reader; he changed the intonation when required, his tones varying so one didn't feel like falling asleep. He described the infamous Red Room of Pain without the least suspicion of what it really was. Either that or he was testing me to see if I would get embarrassed and beg him to stop reading Fifty Shades of Grey in the middle of Central Park.

You wish, Darcy.

He kept reading as if it were a Thomas Hardy novel, until a word caught his attention. "It's called a... flogger?!" A deep line appeared between his blue eyes, an indication he really had no idea what he'd gotten himself into. He now kept the words to himself, looking more and more offended as he read further. Then a line from the book made him scream in fury, "'I do this to women who want me to?' This Mr. Grey is no gentleman, Madam. I must beg you to forgive me, but this", he indicated my poor Kindle with disgust, "is not appropriate for a lady. For any polished society, I dare say."

"It was a lady who wrote it, Darcy", I informed him calmly, laughing inside at his yet more furious face.

"A lady?" He was incredulous, even when I nodded. He looked hilarious, as if he were acting as a maiden – instead of a gentleman – from the nineteenth century who had just been violently and humiliatingly ruined by Mr. Grey.

"I can't take it anymore", I finally laughed, and took a picture of him with my cell. Then I showed him the result, "This is your face right now, Darcy. It's priceless, really. I know I said you shouldn't act today, but I've gotta admit: I'm loving it!"

Suddenly, his whole focus turned to my phone's screen. He observed it as if it was the first time in his life he'd ever seen such a technology. Gingerly, he took it from my hand, careful not to touch my fingers. After a few moments studying his own picture closely, he said, admiration all over his features, "The likeness is remarkable. Who is the artist?"

Two could play this game. He'd beaten me to it for far too long.

"It's by Apple", I told him, seriously.

"The fruit?", his brow went up. Good acting, Mr. Darcy. I could do better.

"The fruit and the artist", I emphasized, a half smile on my lips.

"Where is his signature? I cannot find it anywhere." His eyes were affixed on my cell's screen, searching and studying it with great interest. Oh, he was good.

"Right on the back, Darcy", I told him, showing the bitten apple. His expression of amazement seemed so natural and authentic I had to laugh.

"This is laughable indeed, Miss Nathalie." He was now serious. "No respectful artist should sign his masterpiece in such a fashion."

That was it. He'd won. Yet again.

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