8 March, 1894 — Ford & Jemima's Honeymoon Room, Sanditon Resort
"Two-fourteen — this is it," he muttered to her in the hallway outside their room, as he fumbled to fit the key in the lock. It was just the two of them now, and Ford had felt his nerves climb this evening each time the group size had been reduced. He'd thought he'd been nervous before, during the wedding and the reception, but then there had at least been outlets for the nerves in the form of other people to talk to. As their friends had departed in small groups the pool of available distractions had shrunk; smaller still when his family left. Ford had thought being at the Farley residence with only her and some of her family would have been unbearable, but then when they'd switched the Farleys for the desk attendant at the hotel he'd realized he was even capable of missing that. He did not think any of the Farleys liked him or ever would, but they had committed to being polite, and he could fill the air with polite conversation while she said her goodbyes and both of them could be preoccupied with something other than each other. At the front desk he could focus on talking to the hotel clerk, but there was nothing for her to do but observe the conversation, and he was keenly aware of her attention. And now, of course, he'd lost even the flimsy shield of the desk attendant; now it was just the two of them in the hallway, and all night it would be just the two of them together in the room.
He had been fighting the urge to say ridiculous things ever since they'd left the lobby, just to fill the air. He knew it was driven by the nerves, and knew if he gave in to any of these impulses he would probably only make himself look ridiculous (and while he did not expect her to like him, he did think he would prefer if she didn't think him ridiculous). I heard the Head Auror met his wife at the Sanditon hurricane, he had nearly blurted on the stairs, but presumably the Head Auror had effected a very dashing and heroic rescue of some sort during the event that had swept the lady off her feet, and Ford certainly had done nothing of the kind, so it was probably best not to invite comparison. Do you speak any Mermish? They have sirens here, was another thing he'd stopped himself from saying. Obviously, Jemima nee Farley did not speak any Mermish. Ford did, but wouldn't have wanted to mention it for fear that she would ask him to say something — there were few things less appealing than the sound of Mermish spoke above water. This was your father's suggestion — do you like it here? he had nearly asked, before thinking better of it: Mr. Farley's suggestions during the engagement period had been nothing but practical, and he had probably suggested the Sanditon for no other reason than it was easy to book on short notice at this time of year — and if she didn't know that her father had recommended it, he thought telling her would maybe only be salt in the wound.
Now they were inside. Ford had held the door open for her and closed it once she'd entered. Their things had been sent ahead, and apparently unpacked by someone from the hotel, so there was nothing to do except —
"Oh, there's a chaise," Ford said with obvious relief. Which might have been mortifying, except the alternative — the thing he had kept himself from saying — was so much worse: Are we actually going to sleep with each other?
He had been thinking a lot about the question.
He had been fighting the urge to say ridiculous things ever since they'd left the lobby, just to fill the air. He knew it was driven by the nerves, and knew if he gave in to any of these impulses he would probably only make himself look ridiculous (and while he did not expect her to like him, he did think he would prefer if she didn't think him ridiculous). I heard the Head Auror met his wife at the Sanditon hurricane, he had nearly blurted on the stairs, but presumably the Head Auror had effected a very dashing and heroic rescue of some sort during the event that had swept the lady off her feet, and Ford certainly had done nothing of the kind, so it was probably best not to invite comparison. Do you speak any Mermish? They have sirens here, was another thing he'd stopped himself from saying. Obviously, Jemima nee Farley did not speak any Mermish. Ford did, but wouldn't have wanted to mention it for fear that she would ask him to say something — there were few things less appealing than the sound of Mermish spoke above water. This was your father's suggestion — do you like it here? he had nearly asked, before thinking better of it: Mr. Farley's suggestions during the engagement period had been nothing but practical, and he had probably suggested the Sanditon for no other reason than it was easy to book on short notice at this time of year — and if she didn't know that her father had recommended it, he thought telling her would maybe only be salt in the wound.
Now they were inside. Ford had held the door open for her and closed it once she'd entered. Their things had been sent ahead, and apparently unpacked by someone from the hotel, so there was nothing to do except —
"Oh, there's a chaise," Ford said with obvious relief. Which might have been mortifying, except the alternative — the thing he had kept himself from saying — was so much worse: Are we actually going to sleep with each other?
He had been thinking a lot about the question.
Set by Lady!