Dear Miss Darcy

by Briggs, Laura

  “Only if I have no other choice,” she answered. “And as I had already promised to attend, I couldn’t very well refuse. Here is as good a place to discuss business as any cozy booth with beaded curtains.”

  His cheeks darkened slightly at this reference. Was he embarrassed? Or simply annoyed. Unable to tell, she held out her hand.

  “Shall we dance?” As if issuing a challenge, defying him to refuse.

  He shrugged. “As you wish,” he answered, taking her fingers into his own. It was the first time she felt a touch from him neither rough nor demanding; a pleasant warmth crept through her hand like a current of electricity.

  He led her onto the fringe of the dancing crowd and turned her towards him. A hand planted at her waist, a set of fingers curving around her own as they faced each other. She could not avoid glancing into his eyes, but did not care. For at this moment, she was curious about what she would see within them.

  “Had it been anyone but you, I would have suspected ulterior motives in this choice of location,” he said, with a grim smile.

  “Oh, but you should suspect me,” she answered. “For I am the conscience attempting to guide you in print, you know.” She turned obediently in a twirl. The very fact that her maneuver amused him was a sign that something human lay beneath the steel exterior.

  “Without warrant or cause, I would say.” His expression grew cool with these words. Clearing his throat, he made an attempt at a pleasant smile.

  “Who are these people?” he asked. “The wedding party, I mean. Friends or family?”

  “Neither,” she answered. “They are clients of mine, so to speak. My printed advice apparently sealed their engagement.” A teasing smile tugged at her lips over his astonishment.

  “And they invited you to their wedding?” he said. “I assume they were total strangers–”

  “They were,” she laughed. “And still are. But one must respond with politeness to their public, you know. Many of my readers have made similar –even stranger– requests out of gratitude for very little on my part.”

  “Then you admit your advice is mostly luck.” A spark of interest appeared in his eyes. “The very opening I need, Miss Darcy. For the difference between these people and myself is how willing they were to receive you advice and how unwilling I am.”

  She spun away from him at arm’s length, where she suspected it would be best to stay for the rest of this conversation. His arm reeled her in again.

  “I will remind you that the only willingness my readers express is the correspondence they send. In that sense, you are their equal.” The pressure from his fingers tightened as she spoke. “I never guarantee they will be pleased with the advice they receive. That’s the protection of my profession.”

  In their closeness, she could smell the scent of aftershave, a faint cologne clinging to his collar in an inviting hint that stirred her imagination beyond the unpleasant exchanges of the past. For a moment, she kept her eyes averted, unsure if she could trust herself.

  “Suppose one wished to challenge that protection,” he murmured. “Is there any way they could change your mind? A hint of what they must do to persuade someone as stubborn as you?”

  “That is not the way,” she answered, drawing her hand free of his grip and disturbing the rhythm of their dance. “I would expect them to show a little humility, to begin with. And perhaps a touch of interest in the reasons why I pursue their cause so devotedly.”

  “Then tell me,” he said. The throbbing chords of the cellos died away, followed by a smattering of applause for the bride and groom as they left the floor. Olivia joined in it, an excuse to turn away from the intensity of his gaze. As if those grey eyes could see through her completely in their search for weakness.

  “Please,” he added, his tone less forceful and more pleading. He gestured towards an empty table near the windows.

  Against her better judgment, she followed him, taking the seat which faced the dance floor. Across from her, he was bathed in brilliant sunlight, a sharp contrast to the dark, secluded club booth she had observed before. A faint scar was visible on one cheek against the tan, beneath the shadow of a beard shaved in the early hours of the morning.

  Lean, strong, and dark. Not exactly handsome in terms of Prince Charming; but even with his stony glances and scowls, there was charm lurking beneath the surface. It was not hard to imagine that those angular features had inspired many a woman’s romantic interest.

  Her lips pursed slightly. “I think we've concluded the subject of bending my will, Mr. Stanley. Further discussion is futile.”

  Reaching across, he moved aside the flower arrangement between them. “Suppose I suggested a compromise?”

  She raised one eyebrow. “Then I would suppose you to be on the verge of threatening me with civil suit," she answered.

  A sigh of frustration escaped him. “Must you always leap to conclusions?” he said. “I think you define my character entirely by my romantic reputation, regardless of what I say to the contrary.”

  Olivia couldn’t ignore the hint of a smile as he spoke these words. Clearly, Mr. Stanley was slightly proud of his tabloid reputation despite his previous scowls.

  “And if I do,” she responded. “What is to change it? Other than your reformation, I mean.”

  He leaned closer, his elbows resting on the table. “An offer to hear out your advice. Anything you chose to say, in exchange for your dropping this matter of ‘Miss Cottingley’ and her lover.”

  There was a moment of silence as Olivia absorbed these words.

  She drew breath, tentatively. “Are you suggesting you would actually ... consult me? My advice, I mean, on your relationship history?”

  “I am,” he answered. Arms crossed, he fixed his gaze on her with a half-smile.

  “In person, in actual conversations?” she continued. “And, I assume, make some endeavor to respect my advice, possibly by actually following it.” The world’s orbit seemed to have slowed in her confusion. She half-believed it was true, given the way he was looking at her. Almost a hint of sincerity in the depths of those steely eyes.

  “Exactly,” he said. “In return for your dropping this subject in the papers. If you can bear the time spent lecturing me, that is.”

  “I see,” she answered, slowly. “Then I suppose I have no other choice than to accept.” With a deep breath, she extended her hand. “Shall we shake on the bargain, Mr. Stanley?”

  He took her hand in a firm grip. “We have an agreement.” A strange thrill traveled through her fingers–no doubt a spark from the carpet beneath her shoes–but she felt her heart skip a beat all the same.

  Releasing her hand, he settled himself more comfortably in his chair. Olivia detected a smugness in his attitude now, no doubt from his perceived victory. The thought rankled her even as she attempted to look indifferent, gazing out the window at the roses surrounding the ballroom’s windows.

  A passing waiter placed a slice of cake in front of each of them, along with two little white gift boxes.

  Stanley lifted one by the ribbons. “I’ve never understood the purpose of these,” he said, popping open the empty cardboard container.

  “It’s an old custom,” Miss Darcy answered. “One put the piece of wedding cake in the box and took it home as a souvenir. Supposedly, if you placed it under your pillow, you would dream of your future spouse.”

  “And instead, guests end up disillusioned with a squashed piece of cake,” he concluded, setting it aside.

  “Is there nothing sentimental for you in life?” she asked. “Is romance the same as business for you–a brief merger here, a balance of accounts there?”

  He sliced through the cake with his fork, flicking aside an icing rose. “Love and romance are not the same, Miss Darcy.” He took a bite, making a slight face over its sweetness. “As you well know.”

  Impulsively, she slid her piece of cake into the box and snapped it closed. “I, too, have a reputation with regards to romance," she remi
nded him, "but I choose to be discreet and delicate with regards to the company I keep.”

  “Then you prefer mystery to a public front,” he argued. “Which is no better in the end, is it? Both serve their purpose, just in different ways.” He shoved aside the piece of cake half-finished.

  “There are certain things which I prefer in my life, Miss Darcy," he said. "I may live in the public, but I prefer for certain things to be kept very private. Whom I choose to see may be fodder for the tabloids; but the nature of those relationships is personal. Which is why I prefer that the reasons for ending them be kept private also.”

  "Are the reasons always yours?" she asked.

  With a shrug of his shoulders, he turned towards the window. “My personal life and business life, I suppose, seem like one to the public and to my competitors. In a way, they do to me.” His eyes traveled from her face to his open palm resting on the table. “The ability to control them is vital to my position. While I’m sure you can’t understand that, you should at least be aware why I was so ... adamant to have you drop your column’s subject.”

  She understood better than he knew, a twinge of sympathy sparking inside. But not enough to destroy her own sense of business.

  “Then you are far more complicated than you ought to be.” She tapped her fingers against the table. “It would be simpler for the rest of the world if you would give up either your business or your recreation.”

  He laughed, a slightly bitter tone. “So it seems. But then the Morning Post and other rags would find themselves out of material to publish.”

  “Take care, or else I will break our bargain,” she said. “Our agreement is in direct contradiction to the success of my own business–something I'm sure you well understand.”

  He lowered his voice as his face drew near hers. “We already shook upon our deal, remember?”

  Olivia’s mouth twisted into a smile. “Do you wish me to tell your side of the story or not?”

  “You make it sound as if you’re curious to know the other side of things,” he answered, softly. “Not the impression I had when we first discussed this.”

  She drew back from him and scooted her chair away, towards the open floor. “I wouldn’t call it curiosity,” she answered. “Merely a professional interest for the sake of my column.”

  “Then I will arrange an appointment so I can divulge the details,” he said. “At least, the important ones. And you, no doubt, will follow them shortly with whatever form your advice takes–a sound scolding, I presume." He rose from the table, pulling his cell phone from his pocket. “My secretary will ring you to arrange the meeting.”

  “Of course,” Olivia answered. She pretended to be preoccupied by the sight of the newlyweds posing for their portrait, offering Stanley a brief glance as he noticed the happy couple's pose. A heavyset young woman in an ivory dress, her arm interlinked with a gangly young man.

  “By storybook standards, they are not a handsome couple; yet at this moment, there is none more beautiful,” Miss Darcy said. “Now, that is a sight worth seeing, is it not?”

  He was silent, lingering for a moment with his hands shoved awkwardly into his coat pockets. “Well, I suppose I shall be going,” he said. “Until next time, Miss Darcy.”

  “Until then,” she answered. She should rise and escort him to the door, especially since it was she who invited him here in the first place. But she had no inclination to do so at the moment. She felt it would be best not to see him again for several days. Possibly several weeks.

  The memory of his voice growing low and soft, the pressure of his fingers, the faint charm lurking in his smile–she should avoid him until she could trust herself to have no reaction but that of a professional.

  Through the window, she caught a glimpse of him making his way down the garden path, away from the wedding guests lingering on the lawn. For a man marked for his confidence and granite willpower, his shoulders were uncharacteristically hunched, hands jammed into his pockets, as he cast a half-hearted glance in the direction of two lovely young women eyeing him with interest.

  Join the long line of disappointment, girls; Mr. Stanley’s reformation is at hand. With a faint smile, she slid the box of cake into her handbag.

  *****

  The little red light was blinking on Miss Darcy’s home answering machine when she stopped in to change her dress. It would be a business message, tempting her to leave it unanswered until later that evening.

  Hesitating for a moment, she pressed the button. An unfamiliar voice emerged from the digital recording.

  “Hi, Miss Darcy, this is Angela. The girl who mailed you the letter?” said the voice. “Anyway, I got your letter and the answer is yes. I mean, if you think my story would help some other girl, then I’d love to meet. Is Thursday okay? At the coffee shop near Donwell Street around one would be great. Call me back at ...”

  Olivia clicked the button on the machine, pausing the message. She had not expected this, not so soon, at any rate.

  With a frown, she mentally debated the answer. Would it violate her agreement if she met with one of Stanley’s ex-girlfriends? Given that she had agreed to run no more columns on the subject of “Cottingley’s ex” and his problems, surely any more research on the subject would be unfair.

  Unless, that is, Mr. Stanley broke the agreement first. If this was a ruse on his part to cripple her column’s most popular subject– if he had no intention of truly taking her advice, for instance–then would she not be in the right to publish any piece she chose? In such a case, the information from this young woman and others would be helpful.

  It was a fine line, one which Miss Darcy was unaccustomed to walking. Saying no would be the right thing, the easiest way to keep her promise.

  But saying yes was in the best interest of her column. And given Mr. Stanley’s track record, expecting him to keep his word was the biggest risk of her career.

  Squaring her shoulders, she lifted the receiver and pressed the button firmly. A few minutes of silence, then:

  “Angela! This is Miss Darcy–from the Morning Post?” She forced her voice to sound enthusiastic. “Coffee on Thursday would be perfectly lovely...”

  Biting her lip, she glanced into the mirror as she listened to the voice on the other end. Almost expecting to see the brand of a traitor on her forehead.

  Don’t let this be a mistake. Lest you end up sharing Hartshall Elliot’s career fate.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Dear Miss Darcy: Whatever happened to the column on Cottingley’s ex-boyfriend? I thought your giving him a comeuppance was a great read, but it wasn’t in this Wednesday’s issue. Did he threaten you or something? Or are you just going to save it all up for a big exposure?

  –Wondering in Worsley

  Miss Darcy brought a paperback novel and a digital recorder to the coffee shop on Donwell Street. One to entertain herself while waiting, the other to make it easier to keep track of Angela’s details, although as a general rule, she preferred pen and paper notes.

  Propping her sunglasses on top of her head, she sipped a latte and glanced towards the unusually sunny sky overhead. A non-grey day in London, a welcome sign for today’s endeavor.

  Checking her watch, she noted that her interview subject was fifteen minutes late already. The potential customers passing by the window were mostly male and middle-aged. Scanning the pedestrians crossing the street, she spotted a young woman in a red checkered sundress, her ears occupied by music buds connected to an MP3 player clipped to her belt. Long, loose locks styled with a curling iron and glitter lip gloss. She was the perfect candidate to be a former Stanley girlfriend. A made-up sort of pretty that resembled fashion magazines for adolescent girls, the bubble gum pink world of sequined jeans and spaghetti-strap tops.

  The young woman entered the cafe, hesitating in the doorway as she pulled free the plastic wires trailing from her ears. Miss Darcy waved her hand, beckoning her towards the table.

  “Angela?” she asked. T
he young woman’s face lit up with a pleasant grin.

  “You’re Miss Darcy, right?” she answered, plopping into the chair across from Olivia. Her accent was slightly American. “It’s Angela Price, by the way. Wait–was I supposed to tell you my last name?” she asked, with an expression of dismay.

  “Perfectly fine,” Miss Darcy assured her. “This is just a casual interview to help me gather some material on young women burned by romance. We won’t even use your real name in the book.”

  Angela sighed with relief. “That’s awesome,” she said. “I mean, I wouldn’t mind, but Chris–can I say his name?–he would be totally uncool with me talking about him.”

  Olivia pressed the button on the digital recorder. “So tell me a little about–Chris?” She ended her statement with a question, flashing Angela an innocent smile.

  Her subject relaxed a little in response. “Well, to begin with, I thought he was totally awesome. I mean, he was handsome, successful, a real charmer. Of course, I knew there were other girls–”

  “Other girls?” Miss Darcy repeated.

  “Oh, yeah. Like, tons of them. I’ve seen their pictures in the paper, but that wasn’t the problem. At least I don’t think it was.” She paused, looking slightly confused as she pondered this point.

  Miss Darcy switched tactics with a change of subject. “So where did you meet?” she asked.

  Mentally, she calculated in favor of a swanky restaurant. Or possibly a chance pickup at a florist’s stand or candy shop. Stanley struck her as the type who would make his approach public.

  “It was totally the weirdest thing,” said Angela. “I mean, spontaneous. I was in this restaurant, waiting for my date. My blind date,” she explained. “And he was like, twenty minutes late, and I was getting bored and thinking about leaving. That’s when Chris strolled up to my table.”

  Reaching for a paper napkin, Angela buffed a scratch in her pink nail polish as she talked. “He asked me if I was dining alone, and if I would mind if he joined me. And he plucked this rose out of a bouquet on the next table and stuck it in my hair, saying something totally romantic about how I looked.”