by Beau North
“You’ve what?” Richard pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, warding off the headache he could already feel building like a lightning storm in the back of his mind.
“Shhh, keep your voice down! Look…I just want to paint him. He’s agreed. What’s the big deal?”
“Annie! The big deal is he thinks this is more than it is! He thinks he has a chance with you!”
Anne laughed at this. “Oh, goodness. I’m sure you’re wrong.”
Richard tossed back the rest of his drink. Enough sobriety for one day, he supposed. If he was going to live in a madhouse, he might as well enjoy the ride.
“Just…think about what I said, Anne. Don’t lead him on. He needs to know that he isn’t getting…more out of this.”
“You really are making a mountain out of a molehill.”
“Fine, do what you want,” he said. “But be careful. Charlotte has been through enough.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Anne retorted, giving him a scornful look before going to rejoin her guest. Richard crossed the room to the bar cart, pouring himself another drink.
“Some guardian you are.” The thought was his own, but the voice sounded suspiciously like Elizabeth. Richard tossed his drink back and poured another, already feeling the heavy calm of intoxication soaking through him.
Who the hell asked you?
May 26, 1950
The Five Spot
New York City
A night on the town had been Richard’s idea, which was more surprising to him than it had been to her. He’d not thought of actually dating a woman in some time. A few stolen hours after the bars closed had been his standard of late. He’d wanted to lose himself in women; he wasn’t interested in getting to know them. But Abigail was different. He didn’t want to think of why she was different. He told himself it wasn’t the fact that, in the right light, she was a smaller, slighter version of someone familiar. Someone beloved. And so the Friday following the Rothko exhibit, he found himself sitting in an uncomfortably crowded little jazz club in Harlem, Abigail’s choice of venue.
Richard now felt justified in his initial wariness of the place. The music was too abrasive for his tastes; it seemed to cause a dull throb behind his eyes. He dimly recalled Darcy being fond of jazz, but Richard didn’t see the appeal himself.
“Do you like it?” Abigail asked, lips curved into a beguiling smile. Richard was glad he’d been looking at her face when she turned to speak to him. He’d had a difficult time not looking at her legs, clad in a pair of snug black cigarette pants.
“Sure, it’s great!” he raised his voice to speak over the music. She rolled her eyes at him.
“You’re a terrible liar, you know.” He laughed a little at that.
He looked over his shoulder, where Joe sat a few tables back. He wasn’t looking directly at them, but Richard felt his watchfulness all the same.
“Does he have to go everywhere with you?”
Abigail grinned. “You can’t wait to take me home, can you?”
Richard felt himself grinning back at her. “As a matter of fact, I can’t. And I don’t perform for audiences.”
“Okay, okay.” Abigail threw her hands up. “Be back in two shakes.”
She stood gracefully, slipping between tables by turning her body one way and another. Richard watched her walk, loving the way she moved, her seeming unawareness of her own physical grace.
She approached Joe. They soon fell into a close, intense-looking conversation. He argued at first, and, after a few words whispered in his ear, he seemed to relent. He eyed Richard for a moment and then shrugged.
Abigail turned and waved him over. Richard grabbed her purse and coat, following her out onto the frigid street.
“You didn’t want to stay?” he asked, draping her coat over her small shoulders.
She raised herself up on her tiptoes, pulling his head down to meet hers. Her kiss was enthusiastic, sweet, and happily unfamiliar to him. He’d had a lingering question whether kissing her would be in any way like kissing Elizabeth, because of their similarity in looks. But the more time he spent with Abigail, the less she resembled Elizabeth Darcy. He was relieved that her kisses were also her own.
She was the first to pull away, her heavy breath making clouds in the cool air.
“Richard…”
“Hmm…” He nuzzled her neck, his arms pulling her closer.
“Get us a taxi.”
Richard fell back onto the bare mattress, his naked body sweaty and trembling with exhaustion. The pillows and sheets were now in a tangled heap on the floor, fallen victim to the extravagant and astonishing licentiousness that had only just abated. He’d had eager lovers before, more energetic and not as disposed toward coquettish displays of feminine virtue, but nothing quite like what he’d just experienced. He now felt a guilty foolishness for his previous, disappointed notion that women (save one) were all the same.
Beside him, Abigail stretched like a cat in a patch of sunlight. This one was different. He’d had few expectations in taking her to bed, and now his astonishment was complete. He glanced down at his torso where her well-manicured fingernails had marked him in a series of long, red scratches. The experience of it all was intoxicating, thrilling…terrifying, in a way. It was so unlike the safe, almost sacred feeling he’d once felt in Elizabeth’s arms.
Nearly as quickly as he thought her name, he shut that door in his mind, denying himself the indulgence of those memories. Elizabeth was very far away, at Pemberley where she belonged. Good riddance.
Abigail curled herself around him, her teeth nipping at his shoulder for a second before she smiled wickedly and said:
“You keep up pretty well for a gent your age.”
He scoffed. “I’ll have you know, I’m only thirty-two. Didn’t anyone teach you to respect your elders?”
“You can’t have it both ways.”
He grinned as his eyelids closed. Sleep beckoned him. “Watch me.”
June 11, 1950
Dear Richard,
I was surprised to get your letter! Truth be told, it’s been so long since your last, I started to worry. Please don’t go another six months without writing to me―it’s been dreadfully dull without your letters. I am glad everything worked out with Anne and Charlotte and that you three are all well-settled in New York. I hope I get to see it someday.
It sounds as though this Miss Huntington-Whitney must be promising, though I wish you would not call her “awful” (at least not so fondly). People are seldom as simple or as complicated as we make them out to be. I hope that her company brings you some much-deserved happiness, at last.
I envy you a little right now. It’s dreadful cold here, and I miss Sydney and the warm sea. I hope you’ll forgive this personal detail, but Arthur and I are soon to be blessed again. I am happy, and Sadie looks forward to having a brother or sister to play with, but I feel absolutely rotten, tired and sick all the time. I can’t help but think that I’d feel better if I could just be home―and see the blue water. I know that England is an island, but you try to find sunshine and blue water this time of year.
Please, cheer me up with more news of you and your Abigail.
Your friend,
Evie
July 6, 1950
Gramercy Park
New York City
He knew there was going to be trouble when he walked into the room. Anne and Charlotte had another of their silent conversations at the sight of him, carried out in meaningful looks. He said nothing but strode over to the bar cart to make himself a drink. He knew there would be some concern from this quarter, but he wasn’t bothered by it. He’d put Anne and Charlotte through enough with his antics of late; they had plenty of cause to be concerned.
“I won’t speak first,” he told himself. And I won’t apologize for Abigail. In the few weeks that they’d been an item, he’d felt better than he had in years. She energized him, renewed him, took the sting out of his
disappointments. He turned and raised his glass in salute to Anne, grinning at the way her lips compressed, as if she were biting back her words.
“Well?”
“You can’t be serious about this one, Richard,” Anne said as she sat sketching on the couch. Charlotte sat on the other end of the sofa, her legs tucked up under her as she read.
“Serious isn’t a word I’d ever apply to Abigail,” he said with a laugh as he threw himself into the big leather chair across from them. “Besides,” he asked. “What’s so bad about her?”
“Nothing is wrong with her, per se.”
Richard waved his cousin off. “I know, she’s a rude little thing.”
“Among other things,” Charlotte muttered.
He rolled his eyes. “Oh come on! She knows how to have a good time!”
“We’re just worried she won’t treat you well, Richie,” Anne said, her tone gentle. “She’s been very frank about the fact that she has other…friends. And you’ve been spending a lot of time with her lately.”
Richard launched himself out of his chair. What they said was true. Abigail had been very frank about her “little harem” as she’d called it. “Oh nothing terribly serious, darling,” she’d said. “But how dull it must be to spend all your time with one person.” Richard was surprised that this arrangement didn’t bother him. While she’d assured him he was perfectly free to do as he pleased when they weren’t together, he had not spent time with any women other than the two now looking at him in various degrees of concern and frustration.
“Treat me well?” He laughed to himself. “I highly doubt she will. Rest assured, I know what I’m getting into.”
“As much as one can,” Charlotte said absently. She had that unfocused look she sometimes got, her furrowed brow telling him that she was looking back to the still-too-recent past.
“Of course,” he said in a gentle tone. Charlotte’s expression cleared, and she seemed embarrassed before regaining her normal composure.
“Anyway, I feel like I’ve hardly seen you in these past few weeks. What have you two lovebirds been up to?”
Anne’s expression brightened. “Well, Charlotte got a job! At a very chic dressmakers, I might add.”
“A job? Is that really necessary?”
Charlotte laughed. “You rich people. Yes, it’s really necessary. I used to make dresses for myself and my sister, and I like the work. Besides, I need to feel like I’m contributing in some way.” She grinned at Anne. “I won’t be your kept woman.”
Anne sighed. “So I suppose I will have to be yours.”
Richard quashed the surge of envy that rose in him at their simple, loving exchange. More, he felt an unquantifiable confusion. Why should he still feel envy? He was happier than he’d been in years.
“So,” he said, clearing his throat. “Tell me about this job, or better yet, why don’t we celebrate?”
November 10, 1950
Dear Darcys,
I know I’ve been remiss in writing. I’m sure Anne and our Charlotte have kept you abreast on all the goings on here in my stead. I’m writing to offer something that I hope will make up for any neglect on my part. Anne’s got a notion that we should have a family party for the New Year here at the townhouse, and the rest of us think it’s long overdue. Also, I’ve a new—well, not so very new—ladylove, and I think it’s time she were made familiar with the Fitzwilliam dark horse. It may surprise you to learn that she’s Senator Tate Whitney’s daughter. He says he met you a few times at a few of those awful society galas back in your Yale days. I won’t say which daughter, but I will ask that you spare me the lecture ahead of time. We’ve been seeing each other six months now, which may be a record for me, so we should celebrate for that, if nothing else.
Anyway, there’s plenty of room for all, and it would be just the thing for us to ring in the new year together. Bring Beastly and his lovely bride with you, will you? You can come up as soon as the day after Christmas, if you like.
Well, family, what do you say?
Your cousin,
Richard
Darcy wanted to laugh at the letter in his hand almost as much as he wanted to crumple it up and throw it into the fireplace. For months—no, almost a year—Richard had avoided them. At first, it had been a bit of a relief, allowing Elizabeth and him to learn how to live with each other, learn the complexities of sharing their lives with one another. That they loved each other was never in question, but once the initial novelty of their reunion faded, they were left with the realization that life would never be the same, that they each had to make room in their habits and tastes for this new presence in their lives.
Once they’d become accustomed to one another, Darcy started to wonder if this rift in his family would continue forever. He never blamed Elizabeth for it―how could he? It was all circumstance, and he’d held true to his promise that the past was the past. If he were less secure about her feelings, he might have felt some resentment, but he was not. Now, after almost a year of silence, Richard was reaching out. Of course, Anne had kept him aware of some of his cousin’s recent activities, but Darcy always got the feeling there was more she wasn’t saying. She’d at least been angry enough to call Pemberley when Richard had nearly been beaten to death and had relayed the full story to him, peppered with a string of obscenities even he found shocking.
He was also troubled by the fact that Richard was dating one of Tate Whitney’s daughters. He did remember meeting the senator and knew that it didn’t matter which daughter it was; they were all too young for Richard. Still, if he’d moved on, that could only be a good thing…
And of course, there was the baby to consider. The doctor had confirmed the staggering news that they would be parents come summer. Knowing Elizabeth, she would want to travel as much as she could before the baby came.
With a sigh, Darcy folded the letter and went to seek out his wife.
November 21, 1950
Gramercy Park
New York City
“There you are.”
The cushion was yanked out from under his head, surprising him. His teeth clicked together in a painful snap.
“Charlotte! What the hell?”
She stared down at him, hands on her hips, her big blue eyes narrowed. “I should ask you the same thing.”
He sat up, rubbing a hand across his face. “I must have dozed off. You’ll have to illuminate me. What have I done this time?”
“I just got off the telephone with Lizzie. Apparently, you’ve invited them all up here for New Year’s Eve?”
“I thought you’d be happy. You haven’t seen her since the wedding.” I haven’t seen her since the wedding.
“Of course I will be happy to see my best friend, Richard. What I’m worried about is you!”
He put his hands up in a defensive gesture. “I’ll be on my best behavior, Ma. I promise!”
Her face softened. With a shake of her head, she perched next to him on the sofa. “That wasn’t what I meant.”
He sat up on his elbows. God, he felt a thousand years old. “What did you mean?”
She put a tentative hand on his shoulder. He stilled, knowing that she didn’t like touching or being touched by anyone who wasn’t Anne. Her fingers were light as whispers, her palm no more weight than a dollar bill.
She sighed. “When I say I’m worried about you, I mean exactly that. I…don’t know if you’re doing this to torture yourself or…”
He smiled, touched at her concern. He patted the hand on his shoulder with careful affection.
“Thank you, Charlotte, dear. But I’ll be absolutely dandy. Besides, Abigail will be there too.”
“Oh, Richard.” Charlotte shook her head, her thick hair brushing her shoulders as she did. Richard had a mad urge to touch it.
“I know you like to play the fool, but even you can’t think this is a good idea.”
“I don’t really.” He flopped back onto the couch. “But I have to face them eventually, an
d why not now when everything is going so well?”
Charlotte pinched the bridge of her nose. “Richard, you try me sometimes.”
“Aw, don’t be sore with me, Charlotte. I did this more for you than for anything.”
“And I’m grateful. Please don’t imagine that I’m not.”
“It’ll be awkward, sure, but we’re all adults. If it makes you feel better, I invited Beastly and Jane as well.”
Charlotte brightened. The day she watched him give her husband a sound beating, Charles Bingley had cemented himself as one of Charlotte Lucas Collins’s favorite people on Earth. “Why Richard, I had no idea! I’m sorry I scolded you now.”
He took the cushion and stuffed it behind his head. “You can repay my gratitude by turning off the light on your way out.”
She laughed and tugged his hand. “Not a chance. Come on. You probably haven’t eaten all day, and you smell like a distillery. Let’s go get Chinese food.”
He grinned and let himself be led. “No, let’s go to Delmonico’s. I need steak, not chop suey. Where’s Anne?”
Charlotte’s eyes shuttered, as if a door behind them had closed unexpectedly. “She was meeting with Mr. Kelly today.”
Richard reached for her, thought the better of it, let his hand drop. He took her coat off the peg by the front door and held it out for her. “You’re not jealous?”
Charlotte made a face as she slid into the ivory wool coat. “Oh, not in that way. She said she likes to paint him. He’s sort of a muse for her. It’s more”―she combed through her hair with her fingers―“I suppose, it’s more her time I’m jealous of. But, we are together, and I’m happy. My happiness doesn’t require that we stay attached at the hip at all times. I’m learning my way around the city and don’t need a hand holder.”
Richard scoffed. “Learning your way? You know this place better than the cabbies.”
She smiled. “Thanks for that. I know it shouldn’t bother me, her spending so much time with Mr. Kelly.”