Dear Miss Darcy (The UK Edition)

by Briggs, Laura

  "Maybe I will," Olivia answered, without looking away from the screen. "At least, maybe I'll publish their stories. After I've conducted all the interviews and before Mr. Stanley can stop me from meeting his former sweethearts."

  Her eyes darting towards the name on the nearby letter, the first epistle she opened from one of Stanley's ex-girlfriends. Best to start at the beginning, before the rest come begging for help, too. She only hoped that the girl wouldn't think her request too unusual–otherwise, she might contact her former boyfriend.

  "How do you even know these girls will agree?" Mariah asked.

  "I don't," Olivia answered. "That's why I'm going to contact them and find out. One at a time." She hit the 'print' button and watched as a sheet of paper shot into the tray.

  Dear Miss Price: I was intrigued by the story you told about your former boyfriend; I think your experience could be used to help other young women who have encountered similar relationship disasters. Would you be willing to meet and discuss your story? If so, please contact me at ...

  Chapter Eleven

  Dear Cottingley's Mr. X: There are so many things wrong with your relationship, it shall be hard to help you. But I will try my best, on behalf of ALL the ladies whom your tactics have wounded–beginning with your gift-giving skills.

  Try this "note to self" rule: excuses and novelty gag gifts are not the way to a lady’s heart. Nor are roses without a card or a word of kindness from the sender.

  Miss Darcy slipped a black stiletto from her foot and rubbed the heel delicately with her fingers. Of all the times to skip gel pads, it was the night she needed most to mingle and be seen.

  She glanced around the side of the velvet wing chair at the crowd of guests mingling in the room. Already a waiter was forced to sponge champagne out of one of the expensive Persian rugs covering Isabel Barton's drawing room.

  Mrs. Barton herself was resplendent in sequined gold satin, gesturing dramatically with an antique folded fan. A coquettish signal to the wealthy widowers that she was once again available, Miss Darcy imagined.

  Mrs. Barton’s dinner parties were always large and lavish affairs, consisting of privileged and titled socialites mixed with what she termed “the color” of society–meaning artists, writers, and minor celebrities like Miss Darcy.

  Making connections was the point of the event; and no connections were made unless one circulated the room with small talk. Slipping on her shoe again, she circled around the chair and collected a new glass from a passing tray. Flashing a brilliant smile at a crowd of gentleman who gave her an admiring glance in between their polo discussion.

  "Miss Darcy, do you know Louise Crane?" Her arm was linked suddenly with Alice Ferguson, the co-owner of the Morning Post–at least until she found a buyer for her shares.

  “No, I don’t think so,” she answered. Not that it mattered, since the impetuous Alice was already pulling her into the midst of three elegant women making small talk.

  "Miss who?" An elderly woman wearing several strings of pearls cupped her ear slightly. "Did you say Lacey?" She frowned slightly as she glanced between Miss Darcy's boss and another young woman in the group.

  "Miss Darcy," Alice continued. "The love advice columnist from my paper. You know, the one with the book deal?" She winked at Miss Darcy. "You have dotted the 'i' on the contract, haven't you?"

  "Not yet," Olivia answered, using a crinkly-nosed smile to cover her distaste for this unwelcome reminder.

  "Then you need to talk to Louise–she's in publishing." Alice directed her towards the elderly woman who looked confused. "Louise published all my books and most of the books by my employees."

  "Grandmother is so obliging." The woman beside Louise Crane curled her lips in a lukewarm smile. "She has an unfailing belief that Alice has an eye for talent."

  Miss Darcy surveyed her with a sweeping glance. A dishwater blonde with overly-dry hair and pale makeup, she wore an expensive high-collared suit and blouse in the two basic colours of business, black and white. In comparison, Olivia's Chinese cocktail dress seemed like an outlandish scream in plum and black.

  "What a compliment that must be," Olivia answered innocently, pretending not to see the glaring insult buried within it. "If I were not in negotiations already, I would be flattered to receive such consideration." She held out her hand in a friendly gesture.

  Three limp fingers barely touched her own; a patronizing smile crossed her companion's face.

  "Pauline Crane," she said. "And of course, I'm quite familiar with you by now."

  "Are you a writer, Ms. Crane?" ventured Miss Darcy, vaguely wondering if this was one of Louise's protégés. Imagining herself obliged to follow around her publishers, making small talk with the professional companions of the lizard-heeled woman and simpering gentleman from her own company.

  Pauline released a short laugh. "I lost interest in the publishing world when I first graduated from university," she answered. "Too much family exposure to the journalism world, I'm afraid. I run an interior design firm now. My mother's business. But I'm sure this is all rather boring to the famous Miss Darcy."

  There was something in her tone that suggested Miss Darcy was neither famous, nor worth boring with a personal biography.

  "Hardly famous," Olivia answered. "Even a book shall not make me a household name in London. Only to those who read the 'Life and Love' section."

  "Yes, well, perhaps it is. For those who enjoy the light sections of the weekend tabs," Pauline said, inspecting the contents of her glass.

  “Love is what makes the world go round–and a great deal of the population still hasn't found it, you know,” retorted Miss Darcy.

  A flicker of a smile passed across Pauline's lips. “I suppose snippets of psychological analysis are sufficient to solve some people’s problems, Miss Darcy. But I'm sure even you are concerned that some of your readers might take your ... advice ... in rather misguided terms. Such as the advice on failed relationships?"

  She met Miss Darcy's stare with a bland smile–but the connection to the Stanley affair was too fresh in Olivia's mind to suppress the tiny shiver of anxiety crawling up her spine.

  “Of course not," Olivia laughed, for the benefit of Alice and the inattentive Louise, both of whom were momentarily lost in the conversation. "I hardly think I'm to blame if anyone with a psychological or pathological syndrome buys my book for its contents. Who knows?" she added, thinking of Stanley's pathological tendencies in dating, "perhaps they could benefit from the pointers on proper relationship behaviour and selflessness."

  "What is it?" Louise interrupted, a note of irritation in her voice. "What is all this about?" She glanced at her granddaughter as she cupped one ear.

  "Just a little love advice book," Pauline answered. "Like the ones you publish from time to time in one of your smaller divisions."

  This was clearly intended to sting and it did; Olivia forced her features to reflect incomprehension of this insult as Pauline offered her an apologetic smile afterwards. “No doubt it will become an instant bestseller," Pauline continued.

  "Thank you," Miss Darcy answered, coolly.

  “It may very well be, with the crowd from Pride and Prejudice taking a stake," laughed Alice. "Quite a fan base, Britain's favourite love story and so on.”

  "I've heard they can be quite fanatical," said Pauline. One eyebrow raised to convey it was an obsession akin to collecting tattoos for a hobby.

  “It does seem to capture the public’s imagination,” Miss Darcy said, averting her gaze from Louise's stern frown as she spoke. “Reality's version of a fairy tale, if you will.”

  “Indeed,” said Pauline. “A wealthy gentleman marrying a commoner is borderline Cinderella. Although, I've always found it–in my knowledge of upper circles, if you will–a scenario which always seems to work better in fiction than it does in real life.“ She stifled a cough before continuing. “Mixed marriages of the social kind are really quite rare among good families, since the possibility of sharing
any kind of sustainable connection is slim."

  This was accompanied by the first expression of contentment that Olivia had observed since their introduction. Her own mouth curved into a sweet smile. "A pity the royal family doesn't always agree as well, no?"

  Pauline laughed. "I hardly think even the royal family has married as–well, common– as the average reader of a love advice column, Miss Darcy."

  A wave of white flashed over Miss Darcy's face in reply. For a brief second, her outraged mind was unable to form a response, the space occupied instead by the harsh chirpings of Grandmother Louise.

  "What are you saying?" Louise prodded her granddaughter in the arm. "Advice about the royals from this young woman?"

  "No, no," said Alice Ferguson, hastily, "We're merely talking of life's little romances, Louise. You know, royal weddings and such..." She glanced sideways at Olivia, as if trying to ascertain whether Pauline's remark had offended her.

  Now is the time to escape from these insufferable people. "Forgive me, please," said Miss Darcy, forcing an apologetic smile to the surface. "I'm afraid an old friend has just arrived and I must say hello." Waving her hand in the direction of the Post's fashion editor, where a brassy, ginger-haired female returned it with emphasis.

  She slipped between Alice and the Cranes, allowing a flush of anger to creep into her cheeks now that her gaze was averted from them. Even the excuse of a few minutes spent chatting with Mr. Collins's rumoured office romance was worth it to circulate into another part of the room.

  Chin held high, she made her way towards the greetings circle forming around Collins's latest lover, its members consisting mostly of rival editors. Someone had already caught sight of her in the group and waved towards her as she shied to avoid an hors d’ouvres waiter in her path. But it was the approach of another figure that concerned her, visible from the corner of her eye as she pushed past a crowd of investment bankers.

  "Miss Darcy." The touch and voice were growing all too familiar. With a groan, she turned around.

  “Mr. Stanley?” Her tone was flat. “Really, I must insist that you stop accosting me in public.” He was far too close for comfort in this crowded room, the scent of aftershave drifting from beneath the collar of his tuxedo.

  “Could we speak?” He lowered his voice. “In private somewhere, I mean.”

  She glanced towards the fashion editor, who was already engrossed again in conversation. “We have nothing to discuss, Mr. Stanley. I made myself perfectly clear–”

  “I am aware what you made yourself,” he interrupted. “Now, can we talk?”

  His gaze was locked on hers intensely, his grey eyes like stone. She wanted to resist, but his stare seemed to hold her hostage.

  “What do you want?” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “If this is about the column–”

  “It’s not about today’s publication,” he hissed. “It’s about more than that.”

  “Then I believe it shall end the same as before,” she replied. “With you calling me names in public.”

  “Look, I’m not trying to upset you. I just want to talk about this. Avoiding the unpleasant scenes of our last encounter.” His hand on her arm grew gentle, his voice softening to match. “Please, Miss Darcy.”

  She avoided his eyes at all costs. Something about the feeling in their depths made her knees wobble slightly, although she knew better than to entertain such a reaction.

  With a sigh, she gave in. “Fine. We shall talk.” As his gaze relaxed, she added, “but not here. Another place, another time, if you please.”

  “This weekend,” he answered.

  “I have an appointment with my publisher,” she answered, tilting her chin slightly with this proof that his social calendar wasn’t the only one buzzing with activity. “Tomorrow afternoon?”

  “A board meeting,” he answered. “I have a dinner engagement afterwards.” He ignored her response, both eyebrows quirked upwards.

  “Will you meet me at any place of my choosing?” she asked. With a strange little smile that might have aroused his suspicion, if he had known her better.

  “Any place.” A muscle in his jaw worked furiously, which she recognized as a sign he was working to keep his emotions in check.

  She popped open her handbag and drew out one of her business cards, scribbling a note on the back in pencil. “Then meet me here Friday afternoon at four,” she said. “Inform the man at the door that you are my guest. But no promise that I will give in to anything you might request at said meeting.” This as she drew back the slip of paper momentarily.

  He snatched it away from her. “Agreed.”

  Slipping the note in his jacket pocket, he offered her a curt nod. “Good evening, Miss Darcy.” He turned and made his way towards another party. Her gaze followed him for a moment, a smile of amusement crossing her lips as she observed him greeting an elegant young debutante.

  “You are acquainted with Christopher Stanley?” From a few feet away, Pauline Crane stood watching her.

  “Only distantly,” Miss Darcy replied, after a moment. “I’m afraid he’s not worth the introduction, so you must form your own acquaintance with him.” With that, she turned her back on the black-suited figure and walked away.

  Collins was lingering on the fringe of the fashion editor's circle, downing his third or fourth pre-dinner cocktail near the fireplace–Miss Darcy could tell by the redness puffing his eyes and cheeks. He greeted her with a vacant stare and a grunt as he raised his glass.

  “I see Mr. Stanley’s without a date tonight,” he said, after a moment’s pause to down its contents. “Don’t suppose you know anything about that, Livvy?” he added leeringly. “No chance you’ve ruined his reputation yet, eh? Brought ‘em to his knees over a little chit he’s passed along?”

  “Not in the least,” she answered. “Although perhaps he feels a pang or two of remorse already.” She thought of the intensity of those grey eyes as he stared into hers, practically demanding they meet to discuss their feud. Perhaps it was indeed possible for playboy Christopher Stanley to feel regret.

  Collins eyed her with a fishy glance. “I notice you’re without a bit of arm candy yourself,” he continued. “No pretty boy to finish out that ravishing dress.”

  Her mouth twisted with irritation. “I think perhaps Darlene from fashion might be asking herself the same question,” she replied.

  “Don’t be daft, Livvy.” His words slurred as he tossed the final draught from the glass into his mouth.

  “Then don’t be a sod,” she answered, raising her eyes to meet his watery stare.

  He coughed. “I think maybe the charming Miss Darcy,” he said, slowly, “is not without a date by choice. Is she? Maybe your little act with Stanley there was a bit of bait to a fish–but no bite."

  She made an effort to suppress the flush creeping into her cheeks. “I don’t know what you mean," she said, after a moment. “I simply choose to be alone sometimes. No one wishes to spend every moment being pursued romantically.”

  “You think so?” He plunked his glass onto a passing tray.

  She turned away, pretending to be interested in the crowd in general. Mrs. Barton was pairing off guests for dinner escorts, as a sombre waiter stood poised with a gong in the passage leading to the dining room. A scene of amusement, two dozen bored and sleepy people waiting to be herded like sheep to the dinner table.

  “Don’t be sore, Livvy,” Collins’s voice continued to drone behind her. “I’m a bit ... a bit hammered, you know.”

  “That’s obvious,” she answered. “Otherwise, you would recall the incident at the Post’s anniversary party.” That was the occasion where a drunken Collins had made lewd comments to her date, a meek up-and-coming barrister.

  A moist chuckle emerged from his throat. “Oy,” he answered. “Sorry about that, eh.” With a groan, he sank back into the chair and closed his eyes. A rather loud snore issued from his open mouth.

  She shot a dark glance over her shoulder, but his
eyes were already closed. Arms crossed, she tried to look casual as Mrs. Barton drifted towards her, a man in tow.

  “And Mr. Williams, you’ll be escorting Miss Darcy into dinner,” she said, planting a bored-looking portly gentleman in front of her guest. “Miss Darcy, this is Mr. Williams of Sowerby’s firm–perhaps you know each other?”

  “Charmed to meet you,” said Miss Darcy, parting her lips to show a row of pearly whites. Over his shoulder, she glimpsed Pauline Crane across the room, draped across the arm of Christopher Stanley.

  Olivia could swear she saw a smile of satisfaction cross the woman’s face.

  Chapter Twelve

  Dear Miss Darcy: Do you believe in destiny? Because last week I met a girl I think is The One, even from across the room at an anniversary bash. I’ve been seeing her for a magical week now and I think I’m ready to take the plunge. Trouble is, I’m not sure she’s on the same page. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t believe in love at first sight. So what do I do to change her mind?

  – Mad Love in Manchester

  The string quartet struck up the sentimental strains of Brahms as couples waltzed across the ballroom floor. Behind them, tables in white cloth with sprays of red roses served as seating for the guests of the wedding.

  As the bride and groom drifted past, Miss Darcy smiled from her vantage point on the sidelines. Hands clasped behind her simple pale blue party dress, a new addition to her wardrobe since she anticipated being seen by more than her fellow guests today.

  The sound of a slight commotion at the reception room entrance drew her attention, the sound of a gruff male voice arguing with someone. She turned her head in time to see Christopher Stanley approach. He was wearing a suit which was far more expensive than the groom’s tuxedo, but she knew even the expense would hardly satisfy his standards for wedding attire. A thought which forced her to hide a smile as he joined her.