I nodded again.
“Let me ask you something, Will. Do you like her? I mean, if all this hadn’t happened, if your pride hadn’t been hurt, would you still like her?”
I looked up at the ceiling. “That’s the problem, Anne. I do. How pathetic is that? I mean, how can I still have feelings for someone who deliberately set out to hurt me? Isn’t that at the core of every abusive relationship? Lack of self-esteem?”
“Will, you have plenty of flaws, but low self-esteem isn’t one of them.” Anne grinned at me over her merlot.
“Low self-esteem isn’t one of them,” I mimicked.
“Do you just want to vent, or do you want to know what I really think?”
“Please, enlighten me with your womanly wisdom.”
“Okay. She flirted with you when she didn’t really mean it. Shitty, yes, but essentially harmless. What’s interesting to me is that she confessed it and apologized. Why do that? What’s her motivation?” Leave it to Anne the thespian to frame the problem in terms of method acting.
“I told you, she was getting an ulcer.”
“For an academic you’re remarkably dim-witted.”
“Just whose side are you on, Anne?”
“All I’m saying is that it took guts for her to do that when she could have pretended it never happened. Why does she care if you know the truth? People don’t act in a vacuum.”
“And yet ironically, people still suck.”
“Why don’t you give it another try?”
“That ship has sailed. Over a waterfall. Where it exploded upon impact, killing everyone aboard. And then it sank.”
She’s So High
I wouldn’t be fooled again, I promised myself. So even if it seemed like Elizabeth was acting more warmly toward me, I refused to consider it anything other than her efforts to be not-enemies. Making someone a cup of coffee just how they like it is something not-enemies do. Saving a seat at lunch is solid territory for not-enemies. Sharing the administrative drudgery of the annual Read-a-Thon might be veering dangerously into the friend zone but was still pretty far from ICan’tStopThinkingAboutYouVille.
I was still in the center of that town though, and it blew. It blew worse
than her hating me, because now that I was on the receiving end of… I reiterate…it blew.
“That’s strange.” Elizabeth chewed on the end of her pen, looking over the spreadsheet before her.
“Hmm?” All I could think was how I wished I was in that pen’s place.
“The tally sheets. There’s money missing.”
“What?” I focused my attention back on the task at hand—reconciling the Read-a-Thon pledges with the donations received. I wasn’t too concerned. People always pledged and then didn’t follow through. We were always short by a hundred dollars or so; I usually made it up myself. I told her as much.
“No, I don’t think that’s it. I’ve already cross referenced, and these pledges have all been marked as collected. So, where’s the money?”
I sat up straighter in my chair. I don’t usually jump to conclusions, but it was my first thought. Even without any real evidence pointing to him, my internal gyroscope was swiveling again. Like the swaying at the top of the Empire State Building, something was not right.
“Where’s George?” I stood up.
“Yard duty.”
“Stay here.”
“Like hell.”
I strode from the office, Elizabeth in my wake, and made straight for the yard where students waited for their rides home.
I found George and tapped him on the shoulder. “Come with me.”
“Uh, I’m a little busy.” He couldn’t contain his disdain for me any more than I could for him; sarcasm was his cover.
“Do you really want to do this here?” I growled.
“The more witnesses, the better,” he retorted with a sneer.
“Where’s the money?”
“What money?”
“The money you stole from these kids.”
He chortled. “Yeah, these kids worked so hard for that money. Mommy and Daddy paid them to read for an hour a night just to get them out of their hair.”
“I’m not pissing around, George.”
“Relax, I’ll pay it back. I needed rent money.”
“No need. I’ll take it out of your last check. Come get it tomorrow. For now, you need to leave. Employees only, you know.”
“You’re an asshole, Darcy.” I knew he was angry when he used my last name. It had always been profane to him—–an unattainable brass ring, the one prize our father wouldn’t give to him.
“Look, George, I don’t want to call the cops. I won’t press charges if you just clear out.” Of my life.
I turned my back to him and left, confident that he’d be too passive to make a scene. I was wrong.
The next thing I knew, I’d been tackled at the knees and I plummeted to the ground. I twisted and managed to deflect the fist that was aiming for my face; it glanced off my nose and grazed over my right eye. Adrenaline kicked in and in a burst of fury, I managed to flip him off me, roll on top, and land two punches to his face before I was pulled off.
He lunged at me again, but Richard grappled him into a headlock. I could hear him screaming. “I hate you! I fucking hate you! You’ve taken everything from me and I hate you!” It was like watching a two-year-old in full meltdown mode. Seeing him in his rage—his tantrum—brought me back to calm. I’d seen this before, and I was sure I’d see it again. It was just George’s way. But he usually disappeared for a few months after lashing out, so I had that to look forward to.
I didn’t even realize that Elizabeth had led me back to my office until I heard the door slam and the blinds ripple closed.
“Sit.” She pushed me back onto my desk. Her stern voice shook. She must be angry. It was a stupid scene. I’m sure it upset the younger kids. I’d have to quell concerned parents by email tonight and then make some kind of speech at the next assembly about not fighting. Now children . . . no matter how justified, you must never punch a dick. But I had to admit . . . it felt pretty damned good to land those punches in his face. I didn’t even mind that I’d have to teach his class now.
“Head back.” Elizabeth stood over me like Nurse Ratched, cotton pad and antiseptic in hand. Blood had gushed from my nose onto my shirt, and my knuckles throbbed in a mad victory rhythm. I obediently pressed an ice pack to my eye while she daubed at my nose. She was muttering about stupid men under her breath.
My right eye was already swollen shut, so I closed the other. My nose was stuffy with caked blood and it hurt like a son-of-a-bitch—excuse my language.
The tender sweep of Elizabeth’s hand over my cheek started a whole new kind of ache—in my chest. She wiped away a smear of blood, and her palm cupped my stubbly cheek. It was a gesture I had often fantasized about. I imagined her lips pressing softly against mine and mine pressing back against hers.
A second later, I opened my good eye. I had not been imagining anything. Elizabeth Bennet was kissing me, her hands holding my face, her thumbs sweeping over my cheeks. I could feel her hair brushing against my skin, the smell of her lotion breaking through the bloody mess that was my nose. The kiss lingered for a moment, and then she drew back slowly, the tip of her nose lightly touching mine.
I cleared my throat. “I’m, uh . . . really . . . confused right now.”
A soft chuckle wafted from her. She nodded. “Me, too.”
My hands gripped the edge of the desk. “I honestly don’t know what to do.”
“Tell me the truth. Are your feelings for me the same that they were in October?” Her question was so tentative, so querulous. I almost wanted to laugh.
“No.” I confessed quietly. She began to step back, but I caught her wrist. “No. It’s much worse now. I feel . . . deeper, stronger. More.” My voice rasped over the words. My throat was tight just admitting it to her; that I’d never stopped feeling for her, that I’d been only . . . existi
ng . . . wanting.
Her lips sought mine again, this time less hesitant. My hands crept to her waist and rested there, pulling her close to me. I couldn’t breathe, and my face felt like pulp, but I’d gladly have died right then, having found myself in a place I’d never thought possible.
I don’t know how long we kissed. It ended with a rap on the door followed by Richard bumbling in, two policemen in tow. Something about George being arrested . . . did I want to press charges? I went through the motions, giving my information and a statement, all the while tasting her on my tongue. I licked my lips; she was there, too. Our eyes met.
Everything had changed.
Paradise
Dinner was gone, the first date done. It didn’t feel like a first date—it felt like a victory, passing my dissertation, running a marathon, and baking a cake all at once. There were nervous pauses and genuine moments of laughter. We shared dessert and called it a night.
Only we didn’t.
She was here with me now, skin on skin, glowing beneath me while I burned over her. Tentative kisses had given way to urgent ones when I walked her to her door. She asked me to come in for coffee and then asked me to stay the night. No was not in my vocabulary.
Clothes came off in fits and starts amid giggles. A button on my shirt did not survive, and I wrenched the zipper on her skirt, then promised to pay her seamstress. Her apricot skin edged with lace left me breathless.
And now, my fingers traced over her shoulder, the smooth curve falling perfectly into my palm. I tested the soft weight of her breast in my hand, and goosebumps rose on my arms when she gasped in my ear. Her thumbs feathered over my nipples and I let out a soft moan, unable—unwilling—to hide my pleasure from her.
I kissed her throat, her pulse thrumming on my lips like a hummingbird taking flight. Our legs caressed, smooth over rough, long against limber. The lines of her waist curved like a cello, warm and smooth, inviting my touch to play a note.
There was nothing about her that I could ignore. Dips and valleys, planes and plateaus, smells, sounds, tastes—I needed to explore it all.
Her hands stroked down my back, fingers digging lightly as she urged me on. She moved sinuously beneath me, her legs squeezing my waist until I pushed deep inside of her.
Time fell away. We breathed together, rose and fell together, moaned and gasped together. Pulse, pause, rhythm, beat. The tempo of our heartbeats became synchronous. The duet went on—melody and harmony, fast and slow— until the crescendo.
I gripped her tight and caught her in a kiss that mingled our exclamations into one. I felt her tense around me, then her wave of release, and I let go, falling down, down, down . . .
Sleepily, she twined her fingers in mine. I curled around her, my nose buried in her hair, and kissed the back of her neck. I felt satisfied but also something more.
I felt…whole.
Sara Angelini is a lawyer living in the San Francisco Bay area with her husband, three kids, two dogs, a frog, some fish, and a few hundred stick bugs. She never went to veterinary school but if she had, she would have been a true proficient. She enjoys writing from Darcy’s point of view in a way that shows his humor and vulnerability. Her first book, The Trials of the Honorable F. Darcy, was published in 2008. She is the co-founder of www.austenunderground.com, where her other Pride and Prejudice-inspired works can be read.
You Don’t Know Me
Beau North
“I have not the pleasure of understanding you”
Mr. Bennet to Mrs. Bennet, Chapter XX.
December 1961
Exile.
I tried not to look at the situation in such grim terms, but there was just no getting around the fact that compared to my sleek office in Manhattan or my Park Avenue townhouse, Buffalo looked a lot like exile. But hey, it was only one year. I could handle anything for one year. I’m a Darcy, for crying out loud. Hell, I’m the Darcy.
It was one moment, one stupid mistake at the office Christmas party that landed me in Buffalo for a year. My whole life turned upside down in less time than it takes to get off the sofa and turn the dial on the television set. The whole affair has made me forswear mistletoe for life. I’d just as soon burn the damn stuff than stand under it.
My boss, Catherine (who incidentally is also my aunt), felt my banishment was important enough to deliver in person the next morning.
“You’re lucky I’m just sending you north for the year while this whole thing blows over,” she said, pursing her lips at my hastily tied robe. Maybe it was my unwashed hair or the smudge of lipstick still clinging to the corner of my mouth where a pretty and eager woman had left her undisputed mark. The culprit was the same woman my aunt had come to inform me was not only married but was also the young bride of Rosings Communications’ biggest client. “Rosings Communications relies on its advertisers. As Head of Accounts, you know that better than anyone. Crawford is one of our biggest clients and we have to keep him happy, and that means not manhandling his wife. He wanted me to fire you, so what you should really be saying right now is ‘Thank you, Catherine.’”
“I had no idea that woman was his wife. And she kissed me!” Recounting the facts proved useless; Catherine wasn’t buying. Truth be told, I had been tipsy that night. I believe “blitzed” is the word the kids are using nowadays. Gritting my teeth, I let my eyes settle on the painting that dominated my living room—one of Kandinsky’s Compositions—trying all the while to ignore the one-two punch of a splitting head and a queasy stomach. Even I couldn’t say what was worse: my hangover or my aunt’s continuing lecture.
“Will, dear. Your father was half owner of this company. He and your uncle built an institution that has outlived them both. A legacy. I’ve spent your adult life grooming you to take over for me, and to do that you’re going to need to know how all levels of the business operate. So, I’m giving you a station to run. We just acquired”—she looked down at the folder she’d brought with her—“ah, yes . . . WPNP in Buffalo. We got it for a song, but the numbers are wretched. We’ve hired a full roster of new on-air talent, but I want you to get up there and bring this station up to Rosings Communications’ standards. If you do well, I might consider an early reprieve.”
The jab about my father rankled. I knew exactly what he’d left me. The company that had been his everything. The true love of his life. I was in no hurry to step into his shoes. I wanted to enjoy my life.
If only it weren’t for that damn legacy clause in my trust fund: as long as I stay with Rosings Communications, I get to keep my money. So instead of pushing back, I decided to take my licks like a big boy and move to Buffalo. Keep the peace, keep the dough rolling in.
A day later, I was standing on a train platform with a steamer trunk and two suitcases. There are only three words I could use to describe Buffalo in late December: Hell on Earth. There was a tang of metal in the air, air so cold it cut through all my layers of clothing. A smiling man with a shock of russet hair approached me. The first thing I noticed was his comically large earmuffs; the second was that his smile was earnest, not at all forced, despite the chore of picking up the new boss at the train station in sub-zero weather.
“Charles Bingley?” I asked, holding out a hand. He took mine in his own and gave it a good shake, no small feat considering my gloves and his mittens.
“Charlie, please. My ma is the only person who still calls me Charles. Will Darcy, is it? Nice to meet you! You picked a helluva time to get here!”
Charlie was the sales manager for WPNP and had been acting as interim station manager until Aunt Catherine could appoint someone. I soon discovered that he hailed from Brooklyn, spent four years in the Army, and had been working for Rosings Communications since his return from what he called “a bit of a wild stint” in Japan. Ordinarily I would find that sort of loquaciousness tiring, but Charlie had a certain affable charm that made him impossible to dislike.
It was Charlie who had arranged for a New Year’s Eve celebration—“Seeing as
how everyone at the station is still pretty new, it would be a good way to break the ice.”
I smiled and nodded and watched as the ugly, grey city rolled past my window, the dirty snow piled up on either side of the road, a fitting welcome to my new home.
One year and counting.
January 1962
“The one thing I can’t get used to is the noise.” I have to yell over the din in the bar in order for Charlie to hear me. You’d think with his big, goofy ears he’d be able to hear a pin drop over all the racket.
“The people are always shouting, the cars are always honking, and here I thought Manhattan was loud! Don’t know if I’ll ever get used to it!” The irony of my having to shout in order to complain about people shouting was not lost on me, but the people of Buffalo seemed to have one volume without variation. Charlie grinned at me and shook his head.
“It’s all part of the charm, don’t you think?” Maybe a kid from Brooklyn would feel right at home in Buffalo. What did I know?
“One thing you have to admit,” Charlie said, looking around the smoke-filled room. “The ladies here are pretty as a picture.” He nodded at two women seated on the other end of the table, who seemed to be carrying on a conversation despite the chatter of the crowd and Frank Sinatra droning away on the jukebox.
The fairer head belonged to my new secretary, Jane, who was prim, polished, and always looked like she’d just stepped out of the pages of a fashion magazine. She was polite and personable but not terribly interesting. The other woman, however, was a little too interesting.
Eliza Bennet was a tall young woman with a bony figure and a mass of unkempt dark hair that she kept tied back with a colorful scarf. She dressed head to toe in black, from her slim cigarette pants to her slightly off-the-shoulder blouse. When she spoke, her voice carried as loud as anyone else in the room, but I caught a bit of a lilt in her voice that told me she’d had some vocal training like the girls from finishing school.
The Darcy Monologues: A romance anthology of Pride and Prejudice short stories in Mr. Darcy's own words Page 31