President Darcy

by Victoria Kincaid

  Her eyes were cold and flinty as she stared back. “I doubt you could benefit from my opinion. I’m a bit of an intellectual lightweight, as you know.”

  Jane’s eyes widened in shock. Bing started coughing. Before anyone spoke, Elizabeth held up her phone. “Sorry, urgent call. Please excuse me.” She turned away from them and was immediately swallowed up by the crowd.

  Jane’s eyes were focused on her wine glass. “Elizabeth, um, wasn’t feeling well today.”

  “That’s too bad,” Bing said sincerely, careful not to look in Darcy’s direction.

  Darcy did not respond. “Intellectual lightweight.” The phrase niggled at his memory. Where had he heard it recently?

  Not that it mattered anyway. He’d probably imagined any connection between them—wishful thinking brought on by too many lonely nights in the Residence. Firs, she babbled, and then she acted like he’d killed her cat. Perhaps she was just a strange person.

  Then he recalled he had used the phrase in describing Elizabeth to Hilliard. And somehow, she had heard him.

  Shit.

  Double shit.

  No wonder she had been icy and distant. Darcy was lucky she hadn’t flung a drink in his face. His cheeks heated and his chest tightened as he imagined her overhearing his uncensored remarks. Now that he knew she wasn’t a pampered rich girl, his comments were even more egregious. He grappled with an intense desire to leave the room—or hide behind one of the eight-foot-high floral arrangements.

  The proper course would be to follow Elizabeth Bennet and apologize. But he certainly couldn’t chase after her, Secret Service agents in tow, begging for a moment of her time to explain—what, exactly? He couldn’t claim he hadn’t meant the words; there was no denying he had said them. She probably wouldn’t even listen to a convoluted explanation about his annoyance with Hilliard, let alone believe it.

  However, it was equally unimaginable not to apologize. Darcy started after her, but a hand on his elbow pulled him back. Bob Hilliard yet again. One glimpse of the man’s white-lipped frown and tense shoulders prevented Darcy from voicing his complaints.

  Without a word, Hilliard pulled Darcy to an unoccupied table, where they were immediately joined by Caroline. Hilliard handed Darcy a scotch on the rocks—a bad sign. Hilliard spoke in a low tone. “Sir, we have a potential situation on Twitter.”

  Darcy frowned at Caroline, who handled social media. His predecessor in the office had been a disaster on Twitter, but most of Darcy’s tweets—posted by his social media staff—were about his policy positions.

  “Not your Twitter account,” Caroline clarified. “There’s a guest here tonight by the name of Lydia Bennet.” Darcy couldn’t recall which sister she was. “She has a picture of herself with you.” Darcy shrugged; people posted pictures with him all the time.

  “She also complains that you ‘threw shade’”—Bob used air quotes—“at her sister Elizabeth. Supposedly you said ‘she is stupid and not pretty enough to dance with.’ It’s been retweeted 800,000 times.” He checked his iPad. “Wait a minute…800,015.”

  Darcy was suddenly nauseated. Not only had Elizabeth overheard, but her sister had tweeted it? “That’s what I said when—” Hilliard nodded knowingly. Darcy gratefully gulped scotch before scowling at Hilliard. “That area should have been cleared before we talked.”

  Hilliard grimaced. “The Secret Service should have cleared it, but apparently they didn’t check the ladies’ room.”

  Darcy tossed back some more scotch. “Elizabeth Bennet heard me insult her in person?” Hilliard nodded, and Darcy stifled a groan. He had harbored a small hope that she had heard it from a third party. I’m lucky I got off with a cold shoulder instead of a slap to the face.

  “The Washington Post wants to know if we have a comment,” Caroline said.

  How soon was too soon to leave his own state dinner? This had been a series of fiascos. “They want us to respond to a tweet from a high school student?”

  Caroline consulted her phone. “Her profile says she’s at GW University. The Post wants to know if you actually said her sister was ‘ugly and stupid’ and if you said it to her face.”

  “No!” Darcy practically yelled. “I would never—” Several heads pivoted in their direction; Darcy lowered his voice. “Obviously I didn’t know she was there.”

  Caroline frowned. “Her father is a big donor. Can we issue a denial?”

  Darcy’s predecessor had been notorious for his falsehoods, and Darcy had been scrupulous at avoiding any appearance of being less than truthful. It was one of the ways he had gained the public’s trust and restored faith in the presidency. “No,” he said wearily. “I did say it. I haven’t lied to the press before. I’m not starting now.”

  Caroline took notes with brisk efficiency. “We can say ‘no comment,’ but perhaps we should get someone working on damage control.” She shot a quizzical look at Hilliard, who nodded.

  Darcy rubbed the back of his neck where the headache had now taken hold. He couldn’t help imagining Elizabeth’s reaction when he had uttered those words. How had her face looked? What had she thought? Had he made her cry? God damn it! Darcy scrubbed his face with his hands. “Can I issue an apology?”

  “What?” Hilliard’s voice squeaked, and Caroline barked a laugh.

  “I was irritated at you.” He waved at Hilliard. “And it was an insensitive thing to say. I didn’t even mean it.” Darcy’s breathing constricted just thinking that she might believe those ill-considered words. They were beneath him and beneath the office of the president.

  “No, you can’t apologize!” Hilliard hissed. “An apology would only confirm that you said it. That would be the surest way to transform this into a media circus. It would be breaking news on the cable stations. Rule number one of the presidency: don’t admit mistakes.”

  “Stupid rule.” Darcy hated to maintain a façade of infallibility. Presidents were human and made mistakes. Pretending otherwise was idiotic and counterproductive, but admitting to errors gave your enemies too much ammunition. He gripped the scotch glass so tightly that his fingers turned white.

  “If we don’t say anything, it will likely die down,” Hilliard said.

  Darcy stretched his neck, willing the muscles to loosen. Hilliard was right, but still. “Can I at least apologize to Elizabeth Bennet?”

  “Why bother?” Caroline asked sharply.

  He drained the last of the scotch and slammed the glass down on the table. “Because it was rude and inaccurate. She’s neither stupid nor ugly,” he growled at Caroline, not even caring when she drew back slightly.

  Hilliard shook his head sadly. “No. You can’t apologize to her. It would be the first thing she’d mention if the media contacts her. It would be best if you didn’t have any conversations with her at all.”

  Darcy thumped the glass on the table, startling Caroline. “Great. Just great,” he muttered to himself.

  Elizabeth would continue to believe that he thought she was unattractive and dumb, and the whole world would think he’d insulted a woman he barely knew. And he’d been barred from speaking with the most intriguing woman he’d met in years.

  Sometimes being president sucked.

  Chapter Five

  Elizabeth’s mother sounded frantic on the phone. “It’s a disaster! We’ll soon be begging in the streets! Starving in the hedgerows!” Elizabeth didn’t even know what hedgerows were, let alone why they would cause starvation. Every question she asked was drowned out by wailing and dire predictions until her mother claimed that a racing pulse and faint feelings would keep her from speaking. Mr. Bennet came on the line and begged Elizabeth’s presence at home, hanging up before she could ask for an explanation.

  As Elizabeth navigated her Prius across Roosevelt Bridge and into the Virginia suburbs, she tried calling Kitty and Mary—the two sisters who still lived at home—but neither answered her phone.

  Her biggest concern was that it had something to do with that stupid incident at
the White House three weeks ago. Was it possible that the event was somehow having repercussions now? Lydia’s tweet had been retweeted more than 1.5 million times, and Elizabeth worried that her name would be forever linked with the president’s. Her days were haunted with visions of People magazine covers showing her and the president side by side in little rectangles and cable news shows with psychological experts diagnosing her state of mind at the time of the insult.

  And if the media ever learned about the closet incident…? Elizabeth winced whenever the thought crossed her mind.

  Fortunately for Elizabeth, the day after the state dinner, a senator had been arrested with a prostitute and North Korea had nearly hit an American ship with a missile. So Lydia’s tweet and Elizabeth’s identity were relegated to late-night comedy show punchlines, and even that quickly withered away when no more information was added to the story.

  However, Elizabeth had not escaped unscathed. On social media she was known as “POTUSdissgirl,” and her coworkers teased her about it unmercifully. She always laughed along as though she never tired of the reminder that the leader of the free world thought she was stupid and ugly.

  The disastrous evening had produced one good result, though. Jane had been on four dates with Bing, and their relationship was flourishing. Jane hadn’t been lucky in love, and Elizabeth rejoiced to see her sister so optimistic.

  After twenty minutes of speculating about the nature of her mother’s disaster, Elizabeth’s neck and shoulders were stiff with tension by her arrival at her parents’ house. She navigated her car between the large faux gold-leaf lion statues guarding the end of the driveway, marveling once again how she could have been raised by two people who thought they were an essential part of a “dream house.”

  Another unfortunate design choice was echoing the lions’ gold leaf on the roofs of the rhomboid “turrets” at the front of the house. The shiny gold turrets, not to mention the gilt dolphins by the front door, were a rather jarring contrast to the house’s otherwise staid suburban colonial architecture with its slate gray shingles.

  Elizabeth had been only thirteen when her parents designed and built the house, but when she thought of “home” she still pictured the modest split-level they had occupied in her early childhood. That house had been small for a family of seven, and the zip code wasn’t close to being fashionable, but Elizabeth still missed it.

  Elizabeth was barely through the front door when she encountered Jane juggling a tea cup, an aromatherapy candle, and a hot water bottle. Yup, her mother was having another one of her “episodes.”

  Jane’s shoulders sagged when she spotted Elizabeth. “Oh, thank God you’re here! Please tell Mom it isn’t as bad as it seems.” That always seemed to be Elizabeth’s role in such crises. For various reasons, the other sisters weren’t very effective during Fanny’s fits of anxiety; only Elizabeth ever managed to calm their mother through a combination of cajoling and tough love.

  “No problem,” Elizabeth retorted. “As soon as I find out what ‘it’ is.” Jane nodded sympathetically but rushed up the wide marble stairs before she could answer any questions.

  Elizabeth shrugged out of her coat and hung it in the front closet before following Jane upstairs and down the plushly carpeted hallway to the master bedroom. The bedroom could serve as a parking garage for at least two cars; its grand scale was matched by the adjoining master bathroom, which could have held fifteen people comfortably—although Elizabeth had no idea what good that was.

  The bed was faux French Provincial with an enormous white wood canopy that was accented with gilt furbelows. In her pink bathrobe with the fake fur hood around her face, Elizabeth’s mother was dwarfed by the enormous bed, surrounded as she was by dozens of pillows and blankets. “Lizzy! Thank God you have come! Nobody understands how I have suffered. I have a nervous condition, you know.”

  Elizabeth nodded solemnly. “I know.”

  “Here, Mom.” Jane handed her the tea cup. “It’s chamomile. And I brought your lavender candle and your hot water bottle.”

  Mrs. Bennet patted her daughter’s hand. “You are very good to me, but I doubt it will be of much use. My nerves are completely shot.”

  “Have you taken your Xanax?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Of course!” Fanny lifted her head indignantly. “I remember what Dr. Burgeron said. I had one right away.”

  “Just one?” Elizabeth asked.

  Mrs. Bennet fluttered her hands. “I didn’t want to sleep until you arrived. It’s important that you understand how we’re all ruined!”

  Such words should have struck terror in Elizabeth’s heart, but her mother was prone to doomsday pronouncements, and Elizabeth had developed something of an immunity so was only mildly worried. “Mom, you can tell me later. You should rest.”

  “No! No! I can’t rest until you understand.”

  Jane shrugged helplessly at Elizabeth. With a sigh, Elizabeth sat on the edge of the bed. “So what’s the problem?”

  “Do you remember Stanley Yerger?” her mother asked in a quavering voice.

  “The accountant?” He did the finances for On-a-Stick, Inc.

  “He isn’t an accountant!” her mother shrieked, wiping her eyes with a tissue. “He is a devil sent to torment us.”

  Huh. Elizabeth remembered him as short and plump with saggy jowls. “What did he do?”

  “He took the money! He took all the money!” Mrs. Bennet blew her nose noisily into a tissue.

  This response was just vague enough to produce maximum anxiety while providing minimum information. Elizabeth took a deep breath. “What money?”

  “All of it!” Her mother waved impatiently. “It’s gone!”

  “He drained the reserves,” said Mary from behind Elizabeth.

  Elizabeth turned as her sister joined her at their mother’s bedside. She was again wearing all brown, but today her blouse and pants were uncharacteristically rumpled.

  “The reserves?” Elizabeth asked.

  “On-a-Stick was setting aside money for new factory equipment. Stan skipped town with it.”

  Elizabeth’s stomach lurched. Stan Yerger was a friend of John Bennet’s from college, and his firm had done the books for On-a-Stick, Inc. since its founding.

  Mary’s lips were set in a thin, white line. “We found out yesterday. Charlotte Lucas came over.”

  Elizabeth suddenly remembered that Stan also did the books for Lucas and Lucas. Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh no!”

  “Yeah. Walter found some accounting ‘irregularities.’ When Walter went to Stan’s office for a meeting, he was gone.” Mary grimaced. “He cleaned out Lucas and Lucas, too, and then took off for parts unknown. The police have a warrant out for him, but if he’s smart, he went to a country that doesn’t have an extradition treaty with the U.S.”

  “We’re ruined!” her mother howled. “We’ll be homeless! We’ll be living in the poorhouse!”

  Mary put her hands on her hips. “Get real, Mom. They don’t have poorhouses anymore.”

  Their mother wailed even louder.

  “Just a thought, Mary, but don’t take up counseling,” Elizabeth said.

  Mary shrugged.

  “It’s not that bad, Mom.” Elizabeth raised her voice to be heard over her mother’s cries. “I’m sure it’s not that bad.” She glared meaningfully at Mary.

  “Oh! No, it’s not that bad,” Mary assured her hastily. “We’ll be able to weather this without halting construction on the fourth factory or laying off workers or selling the house. I’m almost sure. Mostly sure.”

  Their mother continued to bawl. Elizabeth was beginning to remember why calming Fanny wasn’t Mary’s job.

  “Mom,” Elizabeth used her most soothing voice, “why don’t you take another Xanax and try to sleep?” She gave another pill to her mother with a glass of water from the bedside table. “We’ll talk about it when you wake up.” From long experience, Elizabeth knew her mother would be more willing to listen to reason and less fra
ntic after she rested.

  Her mother nodded and swallowed the pill. The daughters waited at Fanny’s bedside until she fell asleep and then quietly filed out. In the kitchen, Jane put on the tea kettle.

  “How bad is it really?” Elizabeth asked Mary.

  Mary pressed her lips together. “It’s bad. Dad’s been using the cash reserves to capitalize the launch of Spaghetti On-a-Stick…and…well…we’ve been having development problems with it.”

  “Whose idea was Spaghetti On-a-Stick anyway?” Elizabeth asked. Surely there were hundreds of foods that were better candidates for being put on a stick.

  “Dad’s,” Mary replied. “He’s very enthusiastic. He had this idea for wrapping the noodles around the stick that was very innovative—something nobody has ever done in the industry.” Elizabeth exchanged a glance with Jane and knew they were thinking the same thing: maybe there was a reason nobody had tried it. “But it turns out that spaghetti is kind of slippery, so R&D has been having trouble getting it to stick to the stick. And with building that new factory out in Duluth…We’re out on a limb financially.”

  “Shit,” Elizabeth said, feeling suddenly unmoored. She was the only Bennet who didn’t depend on the food company for a livelihood; if the business cratered, the whole family would be in straitened circumstances.

  “Without new products to market, sales have been lagging. And we lost the City of Chicago contract to On-a-Rod, Inc. I don’t know what we’ll do if sales don’t pick up. Dad doesn’t want to sell to one of those big conglomerates, but—”

  “He can’t sell the company!” Jane cried. “It’s all he ever dreamed about. And now it’s finally a success!”

  Mary shrugged. “I don’t know how we’re going to survive. We only have about a couple months’ of business expenses in the bank, and nobody will give Dad another loan.” She slouched into her chair. “What we really need is a steady customer to provide a stable stream of income.”