"What, do you think this Stanley would buy off the paper or something?" Mariah asked. "I mean, money buys a lot, but even Collins knows the value of a good public smash." She took a sip from her glass. "At least you know that much."
"Do I?" she answered. "All I wanted was a bit of sensation to boost the column. Not a full-time feud that needs maintenance. Writing a book on this is one thing, but getting peppered with insults by its subject is another."
"Collins is just blowing smoke," Henry said. His voice had a gloomy quality as he hunched over his half. "Ignore it. He wants the paper to be on top and he doesn't care how it gets there."
"If it worries you so much, then drop the subject." Mariah was getting bored as she glanced towards the door in anticipation of Eddie's arrival.
"Drop it?" Olivia scoffed. "I can't drop it; I'm in too deep." She let her chin rest on her clenched fists as she stared at the Christmas lights strung above the bar. "Besides, Stanley deserves a little advice, whether he wants it or not. He did leave poor Cottingley bewildered and there's no excuse for it. And I intend to make him see that, no matter what."
"What are you talking about? He has a perfect excuse," Henry said. "He's a playboy, Livvy. He can do whatever he wants with somebody's heart because there's nothing to stop him. Blokes like that don't have a conscience." He downed the contents of his glass in two short gulps.
"Well, I see Eddie, so toodles, everyone." Mariah tossed a few bills onto the counter and slipped away. Eddie's arm was wrapped around her the moment she joined him in the doorway and they made their way to the corner piano.
Henry was still brooding over his empty glass as Olivia slipped onto the stool beside him.
"Blokes like that will always have dozens of girls pestering them. And the rest of us? Nothing." He concluded this by shoving his glass aside and motioning for a new one.
Olivia touched his arm. "That's not true, Henry," she said, gently. "Not every girl in the world falls in love with someone that arrogant. Plenty of nice guys win in the end."
His fingers toyed with the edge of the empty glass. "Give me your professional opinion," he said. "You have all the answers, Livvy. If a chap like me wrote to your column, what would you say? If he told you he was practically begging girls for dates and stuck with the whole blind setup routine ... what would you tell him?" He turned towards her with a look of misery.
Her heart ached at the sight of it. Had she caused this with her note the other night, the blind date who stood him up? Breaking his heart with disappointment, just to protect her reputation.
"I would tell him," she began, wetting her lips, "that he was a great guy trying too hard to find someone. That maybe he should slow down and–and keep in mind that anyone unlovable wouldn't be surrounded by so many friends."
Guilty, guilty. Her mind couldn't escape the memory of herself sitting only a few tables away while he waited with such high hopes.
He laughed. "Easy for the friends to say. I mean, Mariah's got somebody. And you–" he gestured towards her with his new glass, "–you're a hot commodity with practically a million dates a week." He took a draught from the glass. "How could you possibly understand what it's like to be at the bottom of the pile?"
"It's not like it seems, Henry," she pleaded. "Deep inside, we're all lonely, you know. We all want to know for sure that we've got somebody in our corner who'll love us more than the rest of the lot."
"Sure," he mumbled.
"Including me," she continued, tucking aside a curl that escaped her hairpins to cover her hesitancy as she plunged onwards. "I mean, I've not got as much action on the field as people think."
"What about that ginger-haired bloke you brought to the Post's holiday bash?" he asked. "Rooney something. He was quite entranced with you."
Quite interested in anything female, for that matter. But she had anticipated him treating her casually from the start. He was simply useful for providing coverage for public events.
"Still not what you think," she answered. "Believe me, Henry." She pressed his fingers with a firm squeeze.
“Say…” he hesitated a moment, his gaze wandering to the pretty waitress polishing glasses behind the bar. “What do you think the chances are that someone like Rosie could ever fancy me? Truly, Livvy–what do you think?"
Clearly, he hadn't taken her advice to heart. With a sigh, she rubbed his shoulder. “I would say nothing is impossible,” she whispered. "Try talking to her. About something other than rugby scores or newspapers, I mean."
"Don't linger at the bar, you two. Come and have a song with us." Mariah flopped against the bar, out of breath from laughing. "You're a hand at the piano, Henry–come on, then." She grabbed their hands and towed them along behind her towards the gathering at the other end of the pub.
As Henry thumped chords dutifully on the rattling old piano, Eddie and a few chums howled a chorus in the background. Olivia joined in for part of the first verse, then plunked down in a corner booth as the song took on the tones that only inebriated patrons appreciate.
She shoved aside the paper left open on the table, a handful of personal ads circled in the "Singles Seeking" section. She buried her face in her hands, her eyes closed. If only the words had come better to her with Henry. Something a bit more comforting. Like the truth, for instance.
"There you go, hiding again." Mariah slid in beside her and put an arm around her shoulders. "Why so sulky tonight? Is it because of the odious Mr. Stanley being such a thorn in your professional side?"
Miss Darcy raised her head. "What on earth makes you think I'm thinking about him?"
Mariah pursed her lips. "Because you go a bit funny every time his name is mentioned."
Her jaw fell open. "Are you suggesting that ... are you implying– how dare you even think such a thing?" A dark crimson suffused her cheeks.
Mariah's laugh was hysterical. "I don’t. But I enjoyed the look on your face when I said it." She drew the tattered newspaper closer and flipped its pages. "You have to admit, he's a handsome enough devil. Not many skirts would resist a date with that."
"He's hardly irresistible," Miss Darcy said. She glanced towards the picture on the business page, an angled shot of Christopher Stanley. The black and white photo contrast highlighted the craggy cheekbones and short, bristled hair. His eyes were squinting against the sun, the firm muscles around his mouth twisted into a solemn expression.
"Perhaps there's a certain air about him," she admitted, hesitantly. "I mean, for women who are attracted to the dark and brooding sort. The Daniel Craig as James Bond bit."
"So you’re willing to admit that he's dishy?" Mariah smirked.
"I'm a Sean Connery fan." With an indifferent glance, Miss Darcy swept the paper onto the floor.
Mariah rolled her eyes. "Whatever. If he's not the problem, then cheer up a bit. You're acting more like you're in mourning than having a night out with chums." The roar from the piano drowned out her next few words, with the sound of Eddie's voice howling like a dog in a minor key.
Mariah was right–although certainly not about Mr. Stanley. Anything else, Olivia would choose to banish from her mind.
She closed her flat's door and leaned against it, wishing she had come home before midnight. Perhaps her bag–and her brain–would not feel so heavy. She wished fervently that her pride would shrink away and leave only the truth, instead of the elaborate charade of being Miss Darcy.
Perhaps the answer was falling in love, so no more lies would be necessary. Miss Darcy turned Mrs. Somebody-or-other didn't need to protect her reputation as a virtual relationship goddess–just her marriage.
This was her conclusion a few hours later as she sat cross-legged on her bedspread with an open box of mementos, holding a piece of photo preservation paper in her hands. Unfolded to a crumbling, yellowed letter inside, one of the few heirlooms left to her branch of the Darcy family–although, in fairness, it should have belonged to the Bingleys.
My dearest, dearest Jane,
Although I am quite certain your Mr. Bingley is perfect–and indeed, he is–there will always be some reason, even in the best of marriages, to feel the strains of life together. And Lydia and all her brood is much too great a trial for even the most patient of men to bear at all times!
But you and I are fortunate in our marriages; for what would it be if we had missed our chance for happiness? Suppose we had ended our days as our own parents, our father rejoicing in a second marriage only as it contrasted with his first? To have ended with silence and strained mealtimes in the manner of our cousin and our dear friend Charlotte?
In our happiness, I suppose it is our duty to impart such secrets of our success to those who have yet to approach these trials. Our dear Kitty, my own sweet sister–and perhaps even your own sister by marriage, if you wish her well after her disapproval of your union!
First, we must warn them to take care and be open with their opinions, although a trifle less so with their feelings. For though honesty cannot be too scant, public display needs at least a little delicacy. Then we must check their pride and encourage at least a little humility at times. I made the mistake of pride once, as you will remember; and so almost lost my chance with my own Mr. Darcy. Or rather I should say, lost my chance to be mistress to all the glories of Pemberley, as our departed Mother would not fail to remind us.
We may write in jest, dearest Jane, but such lightheartedness does not change the truth. So take heart in the midst of Bingley's woes and take care to send Lydia and her family away now and then, that he have some peace. For even a man with the extraordinary luck of having you as his wife MUST have a moment alone with her now and then!
–Your own dearest Lizzie
With a sigh, Miss Darcy folded the letter and slid it carefully between the folds of protective paper. Perhaps she needed an escape from her life and love's dilemmas for a little while.
Chapter Nine
Dear Miss Darcy: What do you do when all you think about is fantasy love stories? Because I can't seem to stop wishing I was trapped in one. Please help me escape this longing or escape into one–either would help, trust me!
–Daydreaming in Derbyshire
"If you'll follow me, ladies and gentleman, we'll enter the elegant main hall of Pemberley." The tour guide opened the door for a crowd of eager visitors equipped with cameras and guide books. Trailing behind them, Miss Darcy lingered in the doorway, her eyes tracing the familiar high ceilings and elaborate sconces.
"Many of these furnishings can be traced to the original Mr. Darcy, whose son was immortalized in Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice," the tour guide continued. "The famous young Mr. Darcy's portrait is hanging in the family gallery, along with that of his wife, Elizabeth Bennet Darcy–if you'll look to the left, you'll glimpse the pianoforte he presented to his bride upon their marriage." The tourists obediently craned their necks to see through the partly-open drawing room door. A wide hall corridor roped off with museum velvet kept curious visitors confined to a handful of rooms.
A young woman raised her hand. "Will we be visiting the grounds where Lizzie walked when she first came here?"
"The original walkway is gone, of course; but at the conclusion of the tour, visitors are encouraged to follow the path leading to lake," the guide answered. "We feel the walkway's situation is similar to the one Miss Bennet and her family explored upon visiting the estate."
Miss Darcy hid a smile. In over two hundred years, the estate of Pemberley was hardly unchanged since the days of Lizzie and Darcy. Yet its visitors continued to suppose that the rooms and grounds were exactly the same, right down to the tea and cakes sitting on the table from the afternoon young Georgiana entertained her sister-to-be.
The heir of Pemberley had brought the halls into modern fashion, with his own heirs later selling off much of the timber and land which constituted the woodlands surrounding the grand house. Instead of a winding path through the forest, visitors now passed several modern homes, a tea shop and pub, and roads diverging to neighboring villages. Even Pemberley itself sported a gift shop in one of the old carriage-houses.
"So who owns Pemberley these days?" asked a tourist, whose accent was obviously American.
"The Lord Henry Darcy is the latest member of the Darcy family to inherit the estate," the guide responded. "He is a direct descendent of the second son born to Darcy and his wife Elizabeth, whose family received the estate according to the rules of its entailment."
The mention of entailment caused a slight murmur in the crowd– undoubtedly thinking of Longbourn and its near-loss for the Bennet family. A few members of the group had already lost interest in the questions session and were busy snapping photos of the paintings and sculpture visible in the main hall.
Olivia raised her hand. "What of the rest of the family? Are they still in possession of the Darcy fortune?"
This question was asked during virtually every tour. She could see the tour guide's smile fall flat.
"I'm afraid most of the Darcy family is quite ordinary today, ma'am," he said. "There is no Darcy fortune to speak of, even with regards to the current owners of Pemberley."
He cleared his throat loudly. "If I might direct your attention, ladies and gentlemen, to this early copy of Pride and Prejudice displayed to the right, inscribed by the author's own hand ..." The tourists followed him obediently towards a glass display case containing a worn volume open on a satin cushion.
Stuffing her hands in the pockets of her windbreaker, Olivia strolled towards the opposite glass case. Inside a series of yellowed letters unfolded.
Dear Miss Austen: The request you have made to pen the circumstances behind my marriage is certainly extraordinary–and were it any but you, I would be tempted to refuse. But I was quite captivated by your lively manners and charm when we all met in Hertfordshire, so I cannot deny that we are half-persuaded to agree ...
Dear Mrs. Darcy: I cannot express how pleased I am that you and Mr. Darcy have no objection to my little story regarding your romance. Of course, it will be several years before the public sees it and if you wish, I shall change all your names before the book is printed ...
And so on and so forth. Apparently both Miss Austen and Mrs. Darcy were unable to part with any of their letters, even by the conventional means of burning correspondence.
One case was devoted to one letter alone: the letter by which Mrs. Darcy related the story behind her happy circumstances. It had been written long before the others, apparently at the request of Miss Austen upon meeting the couple at a card party at a country estate.
Standing before it, she gazed at the thin veins of ink like strands of spider's web across the frail pages. Imagining when Lizzie Darcy had been as alive as she was now, seated at a writing desk in her private chambers. Penning the words that made her and her husband household names in all of England.
My Dear Miss Austen,
Upon your request, I have put pen to page to produce a short history of those events I but mentioned upon our meeting these past weeks. Your interest in the tale I related in confidence–as well as your ready wit– assures me you will enjoy knowing the circumstances which transpired before my present state of happiness.
Although I do not possess your gift for telling such stories (as was made evident in your delightful published piece) I will endeavor to do justice to my experience on paper this once ...
Her mouth twisted as emotion surged through her veins in response. Envy? Longing? Who could know for certain? In the end, it didn't matter, for there was no helping it. She raised her chin towards the ceiling and closed her eyes, gazing inwardly rather than finish the same words she had read several times in the past.
"Well, well, it appears the famous Miss Darcy has come to pay us a visit." A familiar voice boomed warmly from behind her. With a smile, she turned towards the sound.
"Only if the heir and his wife are receiving guests for tea," she answered. "For I am starving after such a long drive." She opened her arms as Lord Henry swept her into
a hearty embrace.
"Come along, me dear, and we'll find you a bite to eat away from the curiosity crowed out here," he answered.
*****
The current heirs of Pemberley were Henry and Marianne Darcy, known as Uncle Harry and Aunt Marianne to the growing-somewhat-famous love columnist for the Morning Post. This modern-day resident and his wife occupied the upstairs rooms, including the one which Lizzie and Darcy had shared as a mutual sitting room for the morning hours (kept strictly off the tour, of course).
As a child, Miss Darcy had once been allowed to wander all over Pemberley, finding mostly rooms shut up or draped with sheets like the curious Mary Lennox at Misselthwaite. She did, however, once discover a miniature music box in a hidden cupboard drawer, which her uncle declared may or may not have belonged to one of Lizzie's granddaughters.
"Is the crowd as enthusiastic as ever at the sight of Pemberley's splendors?" her uncle inquired as he held open the door to the family's private stairs.
"They were quite impressed–as usual," she replied. "But I was surprised not to see you conducting the tour today." The heir himself often led people through the house whenever he was at home.
"Ah, well, that would be your aunt's doing, not mine," he answered. "Mary has taken rather a fancy to football these days. There's a match in the next village and she's begged me to take her this week past."
"Then you'd better keep you promise," Olivia warned him with a grin. He opened the door and ushered her into the private family chambers. A spacious room in cozy white and rose, the high walls adorned with a few portraits and many family photos framed. She recognized her own school picture in the midst, as well as a photo from her parents' anniversary party from ten years before.
"Little Livvy," her aunt called. "Come and sit down." Seated in a rocking chair turned towards the fireplace, Aunt Marianne's head and hands were barely visible from behind the carved wood. A prodigious ball of yellow yarn was unraveling itself at her feet as a long strand disappeared into a wooly scarf trailing out the other side.
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