Dear Miss Darcy

by Briggs, Laura

  It sounded like a series of dog-walkers and dvd rental-returners, better than the "personal services" associated with tawdry encounters with escorts and massage parlors. The agent for Connections Anonymous was already pulling a stack of papers from a folder in her hands.

  “And that’s it?” asked Miss Darcy.

  “That’s it,” the agent repeated. “In return, you’ll be matched with at least one eligible profile per month until you indicate a connection. Then we’ll suspend your profile until further notice.”

  “I see,” Miss Darcy said. Her eye following the rapidly-growing sheaf of paperwork.

  "Now then,” the woman continued, “to create your profile, you'll simply fill out these forms. Nothing too personal, of course, just your interests, your hobbies, the field of employment you enter – plus, your physical description."

  She spread the forms on a nearby table, a field of white that reminded Miss Darcy of a university entrance exam.

  "Where it says name at the top, you'll simply fill out a username for your online account. We suggest at least eight letters for the password, by the way." The agent added a card containing online account instructions to the top of the pile.

  This had all moved much more quickly than Olivia anticipated, tempting her to resort to her cover at this moment. Wouldn't it be a laugh, the love columnist from the Post attempting to join a matchmaking service incognito? They would see it as an undercover assignment, of course. For the lovelorn readers of "Dear Miss Darcy".

  "What is your success rate, if I may ask?" she said, pen tapping against the forms. "I suppose you have more than a few who are impossible to match?"

  The agent smiled. "Not at all, I assure you. In fact, we've never had a client drop the service, as impossible as that seems. Most of them have more than a few enjoyable dates–or successful relationships–and even go onto marriage." She chuckled. "In fact, we've had more than a few tell us that they were perfectly hopeless at dating before they arrived with us."

  "I see," said Olivia. Pen still resting on the first blank. Which asked questions about her favorite food, her favorite color, her daily routine.

  "In terms of what you get for the money–anonymous profile matches, romantic advice from impartial parties–I would venture to say the only option with a better success rate than ours would be the relationship columns in the paper," said the agent, helpfully.

  Miss Darcy's pen, however, was already flying across the first page.

  *****

  The Brightons were not a couple fond of cocktail mixers, but a loosely-organized group of chamber music lovers who were devoted to hosting post-performance gatherings for concert attendees among their acquaintances.

  Of course, if the gatherings grew to include local celebrities, prominent members of society, and members of the ever-growing media field, who would complain? The more the merrier, the more attention and promotion, the better. Which is how Miss Darcy came to be on the guest list, since her last symphony attendance which lasted the full two hours involved a small flashlight and a study sheet for a Sociology exam.

  She made her way through the crowded room, in the cocktail dress rescued from the cleaners before closing time and a pair of kitten-heeled stilettos designed for looks more than movement. Like every guest, she was immediately accosted upon entry by Muriel Lane, the hostess for the evening, who never missed an occasion to tell the sad story about the theater producer who informed her that her voice was too weak for the stage.

  "Isn't this smashing?" she asked, clutching Olivia's arm. "I hope you said hello to Allen as you came through–you know, the sportswriter from internet–he's quite gone on you. And how did you like the selections tonight?" At this point Miss Darcy deduced the conversation subject had switched to the symphony.

  "Lovely," she answered. "But I can't possibly hold Allen's attention with you in the room, Muriel. Not when you're catching his eye in that stunning blue satin number." This she added in a low voice; it was a widely-circulated rumor that Muriel had eyes for the young man in question.

  The hostess dropped her eyes and made an effort to blush in response. "I suppose if you say so," she answered, as if the idea were forced upon her.

  "You'd be surprised how often I'm right," said Miss Darcy. She glanced in the direction of Allen, who was too busy scarfing down nuts from the buffet to notice either of them. "I would suggest a conversation opener along the lines of Britain's status in the World Cup." She glided around Muriel's other side, leaving her a clear view of Allen now sampling the dip.

  "Well, I must go see Jerry and get him busy at the piano for the evening," Muriel breathed. She fluttered away, her disappearance apparently inspiring the plunky show tunes issuing a moment later from the corner piano.

  The Brightons meeting room was outfitted with various musical instruments for these occasions, as well as heavy velvet drapes, fainting couches, and other Victorianesque furnishings. Fortunately, it was also equipped with a modern sofa in the middle of the room, onto which Miss Darcy sank after a moment, lounging in order to occupy the arm and prevent its invasion by one of the mingling guests.

  "Having fun?" Mariah sank down next to her. "Well, I'm not. It's rotten that Eddie couldn't be here just because someone's sister was having a baby." Her fiance, an amateur musician, supplemented his career as a performer by working as the general manager of a Chinese takeaway restaurant.

  "We shall have to entertain you some other way, then," said Olivia, stretching her arms. "What if we tell each other about the worst thing that's happened to us in the Underground this year? Or what reality programs we most wish they would cancel."

  "Never mind," groaned Mariah. "I'm rather sorry I asked for sympathy if that's the best you can offer me." She took a sip from the champagne glass in her hand.

  "Fine," Olivia retorted. "Then I'll keep my stories to myself. Including the rather entertaining one that came by letter today." She crossed her ankles, inspecting the toes of her patent shoes with interest.

  "What letter?" Mariah's voice registered interest. "Is it something funny? It's not another one of those nasty peeping toms, is it?" Her tone dwindled to suspicion as Olivia laughed.

  "No, it's not. It was rather a sad case of romantic juvenilia, I'm afraid," she answered, stirring her own drink with a swizzle stick. "A young woman writing about her paramour's failures. Seems he was quite the Romeo in the beginning of their romance, but crumbled in the middle."

  "Fizzled out, you mean," said Mariah. "No more flowers or candy..."

  "More like toys and Ring Pops," said Olivia. "He was quite tone deaf in the gift department. In the beginning, apparently, he courted her with expensive dinners and red roses, then seemed to forget what was romantic and what wasn't. For her birthday, he actually gave her a throw pillow printed with her own photo."

  Her friend let out a shriek of laughter. "You're serious?" she asked, as Olivia nodded.

  "Upon my grave," she replied, snorting with laughter herself. "She was completely upset, of course, and seems to think he has the same syndrome as a thoughtless boyfriend I mentioned in a recent letter. One who was bored by women or something, although I suspect it was more a case of stupidity on his part." She moved aside as a member of the Brightons swung a cello bow behind her in a dramatic conversational gesture.

  "How old was he–fourteen?" asked Mariah.

  "She claims he was a businessman. Wealthy, good-looking...even something of a playboy. So it's not that he's too young to know better," Olivia answered.

  "Has it occurred to you that the gentleman in question might have meant the present as a joke?"

  The voice was completely unfamiliar, catching Miss Darcy off-guard. She turned in its direction, where a handful of musical elites were engaged in deep discussion near the empty fireplace. A man stood on the fringes of the group, obviously listening to her conversation intently. Shirtsleeves rolled, an expensive suit and tie in dark shades, hollow cheekbones beneath close-cropped sandy hair. A Bulova watch occupyi
ng the same hand as a martini with two olives.

  "Do I know you?" There was an icy note buried in Miss Darcy's playful tone. "Am I to understand that you are addressing me?"

  "Addressing your conversation, yes," he answered. "Which I couldn't help overhearing, given the enthusiasm with which you and your friend shared that bit of gossip. As to your deductions–"

  "I can't understand what gives you the right to participate," Miss Darcy continued. "You could have at least asked permission before so rudely interrupting a private exchange."

  "What's private about it?" His laugh was scornful. "There's already a third party involved; this hapless bloke you're accusing of imbecility. I suppose I rather thought he deserved a defense of some kind."

  Beneath the stare of his grey eyes, her cheeks flushed with indignation. "And what qualifies you to be his defender? Other than being male– and perhaps being guilty of a similar crime." She took a sip from her drink as she estimated the value of this shot.

  He didn't crimson, although she thought she possibly detected a slight redness creeping from his open collar and carelessly-loosened tie. "That depends on whether a joke is a crime," he answered, coolly.

  "I think we should all play nicely," Mariah interrupted. "Come on, let's talk about something less interesting to this gentleman."

  "No, I think the best recourse would be to take our conversation elsewhere." With a parting smile at her challenger, Olivia rose to her feet and moved through the crowd. She heard Mariah sigh as she scrambled to follow her. Glancing back momentarily, she was greeted with a smile of condescension from the man as he rejoined his party.

  Insufferable cheek. This dominated her thoughts as she circulated the room of symphony lovers and opera subscribers, continuing to move despite the pinch of her stiletto shoes.

  It was very much on her mind late that night, after Mariah dropped her off en route to rescue Eddie from making change for Cashew chicken. In the dim glow of her desk lamp, Miss Darcy sat before her laptop, a pile of printed-off emails beside her.

  Dear Curious in Cottingley: I think your problem might be of interest to a VAST number of our readers; including several members of the male species of the animal kingdom. The juvenile gifts, the inattentiveness, 'tis true that I have seen these symptoms of Careless Boyfriend Syndrome in several letters. So my advice to you is to all our readers who might find this case study in relationship errors rewarding...

  Her eyes flickered momentarily towards the framed portrait of Lizzie Darcy on the wall. In her mind, she heard the insolent tones of her challenger on the subject of the supposedly-maligned "imbecile."

  A discomforting feeling stole over her that she had abdicated the field by leaving so quickly, perhaps leaving her challenger with the impression– possibly–that she couldn't prove him wrong. A burning thought that gave her fingers speed as they flew over the keyboard, a little smile creeping across her face as she drafted the reply. The reply she ought to have delivered in person to the gentleman at tonight's party.

  Photographic pillows indeed. Undoubtedly the gentleman in question purchased his girlfriend a leopard-print handbag, too.

  Chapter Four

  ... No doubt Cottingley's boyfriend, like so many others, failed to realize his error until after the girl in question escaped. They seem to have no clue with regards to the level of attentiveness and forethought required to keep a relationship in action – thus, giving presents like photo-printed pillows and novelty cleaning devices to romantic partners once the initial whirlwind of pursuing them winds down.

  Be warned, gentleman. Cottingley's boyfriend is a lesson for every man who fails to realize that a lackluster presentation will lower the curtain early on his romantic performance.

  –Miss Darcy

  "There's tomorrow's copy." She laid it on Collins's desk, hoping not to linger in his office. She was not deterred by the presence of scantily-clad women in posters–although there were more than a few mixed in amongst journalism's legends–but by the rank smell of his cigar burning in a drawer.

  He batted the fumes in the direction of a window fan as he thumbed through her column. He pursed his lower lip, drawing his oily forehead into a frown that made her edge slowly in the direction of the doorway.

  "This is something new, isn't it?" he glanced up. "The thematic bit, addressing the readership at large. The trend in the mail thing."

  "I picked it for the personal tidbits, really," she answered. "Since the column needn't be limited to personal advice I generalized the case–after all, personal advice is meant for application to the readers at large, no?" Her eyes widened innocently, her arm draped itself across the top of the file cabinet–the furniture piece closest to the door.

  He smirked, then handed it back. "I like it better," he said. "But a bit more steam in the future, remember? Find someone with a tawdry addiction in need of exploration, eh? A girlfriend who finds her boyfriend in her trousseau, et cetera." His fingers fished inside the open drawer for the slow-burning stoagie in its ash tray.

  There were more letters awaiting her from Henry's mail cart: a gift no doubt delivered while she was in conference with Collins. The packages went into the dustbin unopened, including those wrapped in brown paper and string (sometimes they were not chocolates). The letters joined the list of candidates, along with the inbox jammed full of problems, courtesy the column's email.

  Dear Miss Darcy: My mother is constantly trying to steal my boyfriend's attention!

  Now that was a problem worth addressing indeed, by Mr. Collins's estimation.

  She still felt a sense of loss in the presence of disposable mail, a nostalgic sorrow in light of the era of Lizzie and Darcy. Days when letters were treasured mementos and romantic epistles; exciting, costly, and extraordinary. In comparison, Miss Darcy was forced to conclude that the modern-day letter lacked value. Correspondence was cheapened, junk mail and spam marched against love notes in the world of words.

  What if Mr. Darcy's letter had ended up in a spam box instead of a wax-sealed note slipped in Elizabeth's hand? She pondered whether Lizzie would have opened it or tossed it into the electronic trash. Although fate probably never planned for the possibility that a love story would escape by a gross personal error.

  *****

  Moody reflections over the Darcys's romantic past were usually inspired by the atmosphere of Lambton Green, where Miss Darcy mulled the possibilities of romantic tragedy over a cocktail in one of the booths. The club’s darkness was suited for melancholy, almost an advertising point for the club. A popular spot for break-ups and lovers mourning their losses.

  "Sorry we're late." Mariah slid into the booth beside her. "Traffic was mad on the way from Chelsea. The band is still working the kinks out of the newest covers."

  "Bit of a rough patch for the bassist, he's only been with us a week." Eddie slid into the seat across from her. "But we'll work it out in a few tries." He ran a hand over his stubbly jaw before intertwining his fingers with Mariah's.

  "First concert's next month, so you've got to come," said Mariah. "They're playing one of the new clubs on a Saturday night. It's quite chic, now that they've done the old building up with the spray-and-splatter murals."

  “Sound lovely,” Olivia answered. “Very retro in comparison to the last venue.” Which had been a parking lot in front of a former grocery, she recalled.

  The waiter approached and took orders for drinks. In the corner, a violinist began to sob a gypsy-sounding tune that perked Eddie's ears.

  "Wicked sound, that," he whispered. "I should give 'em a card and offer him a gig if he's interested." He sidled out of the booth in the direction of the sound as Mariah rolled her eyes.

  "I can't have his attention for more than ten minutes if a musician shows up," she complained. "Do you want something besides these nuts? I'm dying for a bit of shrimp rock sushi." She slid closer to Olivia and motioned for the waiter to return.

  The party across from them became visible through the red bead curtain a
s Mariah moved, attracting Miss Darcy's attention. A woman in a flowing red dress was laughing loudly, displaying a set of perfect pearly teeth between lipstick curves.

  A man's arm was curved around her shoulders as he whispered something in her ear. As he moved away, Olivia glimpsed his face and recognized the angular cheekbones and tousled sandy hair.

  Her challenger from the Brightons's party. From the looks of his routine with the woman in red, he was far from inexperienced on the subject of wooing the opposite sex. She watched as he offered his date a bite from a platter of sushi appetizers. A bottle of champagne was open beside it, with two long-stemmed roses tucked into a vase.

  "What are you looking at?" Mariah leaned forward with curiosity, momentarily forgetting the menu. "He looks familiar–isn't that the rude chap we met the other night?"

  "It is," Olivia answered. “But he’s not alone. Despite his romantic insensitivities, he’s found quite a something to keep him company.”

  He seemed to sense their stares through the curtain and turned towards them. Olivia caught sight of chiseled features and a five o’ clock shadow before the face deliberately turned away. His body slid further into the booth and out of sight again.

  Mariah sucked in her breath. “I suspect he recognized you just now.” She giggled.

  “Perhaps he’s afraid I’ll inform his date of his extraordinary bad manners,” Olivia responded. “Although I’m sure he’s doing a spectacular job of that all by himself.” As she spoke, however, her eyes followed the movement of his hand, arm draped carelessly across the back of the booth. Long, strong fingers that lingered close to the red dress shoulder, brushing against the girl’s skin.