“I’m glad you’re here, actually. Could you spare a moment?”
“I don’t suppose I can say no, now can I?”
With a small smile for Eliza, I held the door open, trying not to inhale her delicate perfume as she marched past me into the confines of my office. After Regina Bliss she was, quite literally, a breath of fresh air.
“Please, Miss Bennet, have a seat,” I said dryly. She’d already claimed a chair and sat with her long legs stretched out in front of her. She looked charmingly at home there; all that was lacking was the Sunday Times on her lap.
“I’ve met with the head of the Mother’s Morality League today,” I informed her as I took my seat behind the desk.
Her delicate eyebrows rose. “Oh? So, has our Miz Bliss gotten her fondest wish at last?”
I felt my face start to burn. Good lord, was I blushing? “Er . . . her fondest wish?”
“My head on the chopping block, of course!” She sighed dramatically, and my heart resumed its usual rhythm. “You’d think with a name like Bliss she wouldn’t be such a humorless prig. Shall I expect a lecture now or should we just skip to the pink slip?”
I shook my head. She talked too much for her own good. “I know you think I’m your enemy, but I’m trying to help you here. I’m not firing you, but you could just play along and not antagonize her by playing . . . well, you know.”
“I see. I’m assuming by ‘you know’ you mean specifically black music?”
I nodded once in her direction. She appeared thoughtful before speaking again. “Mr. Darcy, it has never been my intention to play along.” She held up a hand to stop me from interrupting. Infuriating woman.
“Nor do I intentionally antagonize anyone. Well, with the possible exception of yourself. But I’m not here to bide my time or wait out some sort of banishment. Unlike you, I want to be here. And I want to play music. Good music.”
“Miss Bennet—”
“Have you even looked at the numbers?” she asked impatiently. “My show had the biggest listenership before you moved me to nights. People don’t want Pat Boone. They want Sam Cooke and Jackie Wilson!”
This was a point I couldn’t argue. Since moving her show to a later hour, the station’s numbers had slipped noticeably.
“Be that as it may . . .”
She rolled her eyes and threw her hands up, letting them fall back into her lap. “I don’t even know why I bother with you. You don’t even like music. I couldn't imagine anyone more ill-suited for this job than you.”
“Now wait just a minute!” It wasn’t her remark that stung so much as the truth in it. But she would not be halted; her assault on my character continued.
“And I have never, never, seen anyone with so much disdain for all the things that have been handed to them.”
My hand slapped down on the desk, making my palm sting. “That is enough, Miss Bennet! Good God, have you no respect for authority? You couldn’t dig your own grave better than if I’d handed you a damned shovel! I should think that a working woman would know to tread a little more carefully!”
“Excuse me?” she said, eyes flashing steel.
“I will not excuse you! No more excuses! You are suspended until further notice!”
“Fine!”
“Fine!”
She stood, giving me a look so hard it could have shattered rock before storming out of my office, slamming the door behind her. I rubbed a shaking hand across my face, wondering what had just happened. How did she get under my skin so badly? How could I account for the sensation of my heart pounding away like a timpani drum? Like me it felt trapped, longing for freedom, for escape, for that indefinable thing I saw in her. She was everything I wasn’t . . . unburdened by family expectations, exuding a sense of freedom that I, for all my privilege, had never tasted.
Jesus, what kind of mess had I gotten myself into now? I hit the intercom button and asked Jane to bring in Eliza Bennet’s personnel file.
In the end, it took me a week before I’d mustered the courage to actually go to where she lived. Her apartment wasn’t terribly far from mine, but was on a decidedly shabbier street. I climbed the three flights of stairs before finding number 4B and giving it a firm knock.
The door swung open, and I was greeted by a man with thick glasses and a tuft of silky white hair that was sticking up in a variety of angles.
“Yes? Can I help you?” the man said impatiently, in a heavily accented voice.
“I’m looking for Eliza Bennet. You must be her father?”
“Bennet? Bah.” The man stepped away from the door, throwing up his hands in disgust. “Bennet my old tuchis. Come in, come in, young man. I am Tomas. Benowitz. I have coffee, you want?” The elderly man turned his back on the door and walked away without a second look. I came in and shut the door behind me, a little unnerved at this unusual greeting. I suppose it shouldn’t surprise me, given the way Eliza never entered a room so much as touched down the way a tornado might.
“Take your shoes off at the door, or Lizzy will rake me over the coals for letting you bring in the dirt!” Tomas yelled from the kitchen, accompanied by the sounds of running water and clanking pans.
I took off my shoes and stepped into the living room, feeling awkward and alone. The space itself was charming, the walls painted a vibrant blue-green with numerous framed photographs arranged in unusual patterns. I studied the pictures with interest, noting they were mostly of Eliza and a pretty woman that had to have been her mother. They shared the same shape of face, the same mass of wavy, dark hair. One prominent frame displayed an old poster for the Royal Orchestra of Prague, but it was overwhelmed by the sheer number of family photographs. Over and over again, Eliza and her parents, or just Eliza at all ages and stages of life. It was clear that she was loved, adored even. I felt a stab of envy for what must have been a happy childhood.
There were other emotions at war with my simple delight at seeing her home, like the sense of betrayal I felt that she hadn’t even told me she was Jewish. If Benowitz didn’t give it away, the telltale Menorah—perched haphazardly on the edge of a bookshelf like an interrupted thought—was a dead giveaway.
Charlie and Jane knew, I realized with an unpleasant jolt. That’s why they had looked at me so strangely that day back in February, when I had offered to let her leave to go pray.
“That was my Hannah.” Tomas informed me as he came back into the room, handing me a cup of steaming coffee. I’d been staring blankly at one of the photos, my mind elsewhere as I digested this new information.
“Wasn’t she a beauty? We were married almost thirty years, and every day with her was a gift.”
“Yes, she seems lovely. I’m William Darcy, by the way. Eliza’s boss at the station.”
With a twinkle in his eye, the old man nodded. “I knew who you were the second I opened the door. My Lizzy has been whining about the rich goy who’s been making her life hell.” Tomas laughed and rolled his eyes. “You kids today. You don’t know how good you have it! I know my daughter has a mouth on her, I grant you, so I allowed her little embellishments. She’s like her mother, that one, doesn’t know when to quit.”
“Do you know when she’ll be home?”
As if I’d summoned her, the door burst open and Eliza arrived as she always did, like an unexpected squall in once-tranquil waters. Her arms were laden with brown paper sacks; the smell of fresh bread filled the room in her wake.
“Pop! Give me a hand!” she said, struggling with the bags as she toed off her shoes. I put my coffee down and rushed over to her.
“Let me take that for you,” I said, enjoying the way her eyes widened when she saw me. Did I detect a bit of a blush before she looked away?
“I did wonder who those canoes by the front door belonged to,” she said, letting me take her bags. “Do you walk in those or do they require oars?”
“Lizzy, don’t be rude to our guest,” Tomas chided gently. He pointed a bony finger at me. “You, sit. Drink your coffee.
You want a sweet roll? Lizzy, bring this young man a bun.”
Eliza brought me an enormous cinnamon roll on a plate with a fork. It smelled heavenly, freshly baked with a light glaze. I don’t think I’d ever eaten a cinnamon roll in late afternoon before but with the strong black coffee, it was perfect.
Eliza kept glancing over at me while I ate, which was disconcerting. She seemed uncomfortable around me, which only piqued my interest. She busied herself getting her father settled with a plate and a refill of coffee before sitting down in the chair across from me, crossing her long legs. I felt the hair on the back of my neck prickle. Why were my palms so sweaty?
“So, what are you doing here, Mr. Darcy?” she asked at last. “Do I get to come back to work yet, or am I still in your naughty books?”
It did surprise me that she would begin such a conversation in front of her father, but Tomas watched with an amused sort of interest, as if he knew something we didn’t.
“You are a perpetual entry into my naughty books, Eliza, but I did come to apologize for my part in our disagreement.”
“Which I’m sure has nothing to do with however much the numbers might be slipping in my absence.” She smiled that little half-smile, her go-to-hell, devil-may-care smile. She had me dead to rights and she knew it. I felt myself return her smile with one of my own.
“So, I’ll expect to see you back on Monday. In the lunchtime spot, as usual.”
She blinked, her face startled. She hadn’t been expecting that, which meant I’d managed to get some small victory over her. “What about Regina Bliss? And your aunt?”
“To hell with them. It’s my station, isn’t it?”
She nodded, silent for a change, but I could tell she was pleased. A warm feeling spread through me. I realized, confoundingly, that I liked making her happy. The concept was novel to me.
My mother passed when I was very young, and my father, while giving me all the moral and financial support I’d ever needed, had not been a warm person. My dad passed away when I was only twenty, and we’d parted as polite strangers but little more. Father had been slavishly devoted to the company and that left little room in his life for his only son. From my lonely childhood to my admittedly shallow adulthood, my life had been nothing more than a series of long silences, and now here was this girl, this woman, with her music and her laughter and all her words, filling up those blanks. I looked over at Eliza as all the pieces fell into place. Was I falling in love with her? Maybe I’d been falling for her for some time—how long I couldn’t say.
“I should go,” I said abruptly. She sat up and leaned over, putting a hand on my arm, her large eyes warm and entreating. God, but I could swim in those eyes. I wanted to pull her close and breathe her in, to plunge my hands into the soft wilderness of her hair. My skin sang under her palm. Just this simple touch on my arm was enough to light me up like a Christmas tree.
“No, you should stay,” she said, plaintively. “Look, I’m sorry I’ve given you a hard time at work. Maybe we could start over? Truth be told . . . I think you’re actually okay. You’re still much too unappreciative for your job, and you’re stuffy and bossy and well, a little domineering—”
“Please tell me there’s a ‘but’.”
She colored. “But you’re fair, and you’re kind when you think no one is looking. And I like the way you handle your aunt and our dear Miz Bliss.”
A warmth spread through me. It was all I could do not to lean over and kiss her right then and there.
“Okay. I’ll stay a bit.”
Her smile brightened, and I actually did lean forward a bit, only stopping when Tomas clapped his hands, reminding us both he was still in the room.
“This is good news! What are we doing drinking coffee? Lizzy, get that young man and this old man a glass of wine! It’s almost five o’clock. I say let’s drink!”
She rolled her eyes affectionately but did as she was bidden. I looked over at the older man, trying to quantify how I was feeling in that moment. Was it happy? Is this what happiness—real happiness—felt like?
“Have you always called her Lizzy?” I asked.
“Since she was a baby! I wanted to name her Rachel but her mother thought Elizabeth sounded so regal, so glamorous. Then we had this scrappy child who we could not keep out of the mud, so to me she was Lizzy and has always been.”
“Eliza is just for work,” she said, handing us each a glass of dark red wine. “And Bennet is a name that can be said on air without offending the Miz Blisses of the world.”
I suppose it made a certain kind of sense, but it gave me a pang that she had never been fully herself around me.
“What drew you to radio?” I asked, wanting to know more.
She shrugged. “What other job is there for someone who loves music but can’t sing or play worth a damn?”
Tomas laughed into his wine. “Not for lack of trying on my part, mind you, Mr. Darcy. We tried every instrument, sent her to voice lessons. Ach”—he waved a hand in dismissal—“I’ve heard frogs sing better.”
Eliza threw her head back and laughed. “You’re being generous, Pop.” She turned to me, her lips still curved in laughter. “It’s not easy being the only child of the star violinist of the Royal Orchestra of Prague,” she explained.
I nodded towards the poster on the wall. “That was you?”
Tomas nodded, his playful smile becoming more subdued. “Many years ago.” The words were leaden with the weight of the last thirty years. Before or after the war, Czechoslovakia was not a good place to be a Jew.
“You should play for our guest, Pop.”
With a dramatic sigh, Tomas put his drink aside and left the room. He returned a moment later holding a gleaming violin. Eliza sat up straight and began clapping, anticipation lighting her eyes. Tomas, standing straighter than he had been before, gave a dignified bow before fitting the instrument to him. He paused a moment, bow poised over the strings.
The bow came down and drew out a sweet, elegant note. Tomas’ withered fingers flitted about the instrument’s neck as the note became movement, a swirling sound that made me feel like a fixed point in a storm. I looked over at Eliza and was surprised to see her gazing back at me. There really was no other word for it. Gazing. Was this really happening? She blushed and looked away, back to her father.
I, however, couldn’t look away. My eyes stayed fastened on her, the curve of her jaw, the impossibly long eyelashes, her restless lips, always hovering on the edge of a smile.
“Stop it,” she whisper-laughed, making me grin before giving Tomas my attention once more. If Tomas had seen me staring at his daughter, he gave no indication. He played with his eyes unfocused, his face set with determination, legs planted firmly while his torso swayed to and fro with the instrument.
“It’s Vitali’s ‘Chaconne’,” Eliza whispered. I nodded, caught up in the music. The sound of it filled the room, transforming it from a colorful Buffalo apartment to an exotic place, a moonlit garden. As Tomas’ fingers moved faster and faster, a sense of urgency overtook me, a strange imperative that was written into the very fabric of my own creation. I reached out without thinking, taking Eliza’s hand. I was soothed, gratified, to feel her fingers intertwine with mine without pause or hesitation, as though she’d been waiting for that very thing.
Only when the song ended did we release each other, standing to applaud Tomas.
“Bravo, Pop!”
I could only echo her sentiments, adding my own bravos. Tomas smiled—the same devil-may-care smile as Eliza’s—and gave us a neat bow.
There was a brief knock on the door before it opened, and a middle-aged woman, rather nice-looking, poked her head inside.
“Lizzy! Do I hear your father playing in here?”
Eliza rushed over and opened the door fully. “Aunt Maddie! Come in, come in. We’ve got wine and coffee, whatever you like.”
The older woman came in followed by a sheepish-looking man about her age. “We heard the musi
c next door and had to come and see for ourselves,” the other man said.
Both stopped short when they saw me, craning their necks to give me a thorough once-over.
“I didn’t realize you had company, dear,” Maddie said, giving Eliza a knowing look. Eliza cleared her throat and blushed. I found her embarrassment to be utterly fetching.
“Will, uh—I mean—Mr. Darcy, this is my aunt and uncle, Madeline and Ezra Goldman. They live next door to us. Aunt Maddie, Uncle Ez, this is my boss, William Darcy. He runs WPNP.”
They took turns shaking my hand and spoke politely about Eliza and her work, congratulating me on taking over the station which, according to Ezra, “played the worst kind of pig-kicking music” before RCC had taken over.
More glasses of wine were passed around before the newcomers settled comfortably on the other side of Eliza on the sofa.
“A bit more cheerful than that last one, if you don’t mind, Tomas,” Maddie said with excitement in her voice.
Tomas’ brow rose before he brought his instrument back into position. A moment later, the room filled with the sounds of Paganini, but I was lost in thought, pondering the nature and possibility of love. The real, deep love that had eluded me my whole life. Love like a food that I’d never even realized I was craving until I’d had my first taste.
“What are you thinking on so hard over there?” she whispered. “Is everything alright?”
“You know, I have no idea,” I said with complete honesty. One smile from her robbed me of my every thought. She raised her glass to me. I raised mine in return.
Tomas played for what felt like hours, maybe minutes—I don’t know what—before claiming exhaustion and going to lie down. I rose and shook his hand, thanking him with all sincerity. The music, the wine, the company had woken a part of myself that had been sleeping—perhaps all my life—part of me that yearned for family and camaraderie. Maddie and Ez departed soon after, leaving me alone with Eliza. We looked at each other awkwardly for a moment before she laughed and said we’d have to finish the bottle of wine now that it was open.
With shaking hands, I refilled our glasses while she put on a record. She settled next to me on the couch, closer than we’d ever been before.
The Darcy Monologues: A romance anthology of Pride and Prejudice short stories in Mr. Darcy's own words Page 33