Dear Miss Darcy

by Briggs, Laura

  He stole someone else’s date? Olivia had been prepared for low dealings in romance, but this was lower than what she imagined.

  “It’s safe to assume the two of you had dinner together,” Olivia guessed.

  Angela’s head bobbed. “Oh, yeah. We dated for like, four weeks after that. Until I broke it off with him.” She dug around in her purse, producing a bottle of glitter nail polish.

  “You broke it off,” Olivia replied, cautiously. Not quite sure she heard correctly.

  “Sure,” Angela shrugged. “I mean, I tried to do it gently, but he was so cold and angry the last couple of times we saw each other. Weird, because at first he was totally romantic. It was roses every other day, really swanky restaurants and clubs.”

  “Very impressive, I’m sure.”

  Angela rolled her eyes. “Sure, at first. But then it was like, roses every day. So when I hinted that maybe I wanted something a little different, he got, like weird about our dates.”

  Miss Darcy’s pencil begin flying over her napkin. “In what way? I mean, was he moping about over some flowers?”

  “He was pretty easy to offend, so I think he was miffed about the whole wine-and-dine comment. But it was the gimmicky stuff that got me,” she explained. “The way he had to be so showy about everything. Like when he sent me one of those weird message grams–you know, the message guys who wear funny costumes? And he bought me an antique vase that I thought was really ugly, I mean, it totally clashed with my decor.”

  With a sigh, she screwed the lid back on her nail polish. “Then he forgot to meet me at a club where all my friends were supposed to be hanging with us. That was the last straw.”

  Olivia’s pencil slowed to a crawl. “In all this time, did he apologize for hurting your feelings? Did he ever show signs of trying to change?”

  “No. He actually defended the vase,” Angela answered. "Pretty weird reaction, I thought."

  “I was thinking more of the club, actually,” Olivia responded, gently. “Where he forgot to meet you.”

  The girl across from her paused. “No. He just kind of ... blew it off. Said he had a business meeting or something.” She shrugged her shoulders. "He was like that about stuff sometimes."

  Work. This was the possible, plausible explanation that Miss Darcy had anticipated. Not that she intended to blame Stanley’s career for his careless mistakes, but it was rather poetic justice. A playboy whose reputation was marred by financial success. A businessman who mixed work and pleasure with detrimental results.

  Time for a new line of tactics. Olivia clicked off the recorder and shifted her grip on the pencil

  “What was it that first attracted you to him?” she asked. “What made him so charming that you gave up on the bloke from the blind date?”

  Angela drew a deep breath, a funny smile appearing on her face as she considered the question. Miss Darcy felt an inexplicable twinge of jealousy. What was wrong with her, envying this girl over a ludicrous relationship moment?

  “It was the smile,” Angela answered. “And the way he’s like, totally impressive the moment you first see him. Like the power and money are just oozing from his pores or something.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I guess it was just figuring out who he was–I mean, the Christopher Stanley.”

  She clapped her hand over her mouth. “Oh, my gosh, I’m so sorry–I wasn’t supposed to say the name, was I?”

  “It’ll never appear in the book, I promise.” Miss Darcy gave her a conspiratorial nod. “Your secret is safe with me.” She slid the pad and pencil into her bag, along with the digital recorder.

  “I really must thank you, Angela,” she said, holding out her hand as she rose to leave. “You’ve been tremendously helpful.”

  “Awesome,” Angela shook her fingers limply–a gesture designed to protect her nail polish. “So let me know how the book turns out, okay?”

  “Absolutely,” Miss Darcy answered.

  *****

  “So this girl tips you off that Stanley fumbles the ball a bit now and then.” Mariah took a sip from her pint. “How can you possibly spin that into something? A headline reading ‘rich playboy fails to impress one hundred percent’?”

  “Did I say I was planning to use her stories?” Miss Darcy retorted. “All I said was, I think she shared some very interesting details about Christopher Stanley’s dating habits.” Her fingers broke apart the remains of greasy chips in a basket on the table.

  Half of Northanger Alley was roaring in response to rugby scores broadcast over a television turned on behind the bar, the cozy lighting revealing brawny-muscled workmen and women in tight shirts clustered on one side of the room. On the other, more discreet conversations took place between pairs of two and three, including Miss Darcy’s dark little booth in the corner.

  “I wish Eddie’d come back with fresh chips,” Mariah complained. “Where on earth could he have got to?” She peered around the wall impatiently.

  “Ginny won’t serve until the next score,” Olivia answered. “Even to wrap up a bit of fish for a table ten feet away.” She wiped her fingers on a wad of napkin.

  “As for Miss Price’s story, it’s just a bit of insurance,” she continued. “If Mr. Stanley keeps his promise, then I will consider our conversation useless and relegate my notes to the rubbish.”

  “If not, then you’ll publish it?” Mariah frowned at her. “That’s not like you, Livvy. To go back on a promise just because of a bit of push and shove?”

  “I have a right to protect my career if he’s trying to cheat,” she retorted. “Besides, it would do him a bit of good to learn a lesson. Along the lines of Miss Price and her ugly vase.” She took a sip from her glass.

  “So when are you going to form a committed relationship so you can pass judgment on him?” Mariah demanded.

  Olivia’s cheeks paled slightly. “What are you implying?”

  “That you’re not any better than him,” Mariah answered. “Just a little more discreet in your methods.”

  Leaning forward, she looked into Olivia’s eye. “Come on, when was the last time you had a serious bloke around here? And not some passing fancy who said a few pleasant things at a party and whatnot?”

  Olivia’s heart had been hammering until the last half of this statement. “It isn’t the same,” she answered. “I mean, we’re both open in our options–but I’m not the one leaving blokes on the curve, feeling they’ve been cheated by the time they spent with me.”

  “Then what do you leave them with?” Mariah asked.

  Miss Darcy hesitated, since there was no answer waiting on the tip of her tongue. As much as she hated to admit it, she had no argument at all. Her eyes searched for a distraction, finding one in Eddie’s approaching figure.

  “Finally,” she said, as he slid a paper basket in the middle of the table.

  “Sorry about that,” he said. “Ran into a drummer from that trio we saw a few weekends ago. Pacific Balboa or something. Wild sound they had, with those big steel drums.” His hands moved in illustration of their rhythm as he talked.

  “I liked them,” Mariah answered, picking a fry from the plate. “Livvy, aren’t you hungry? Have some.” She pushed the paper basket in her direction.

  “No, I think I’m a bit full,” Olivia answered. She averted her glance as Mariah broke off a piece of fish and poked it between Eddie’s lips. The two of them staring at each other with a gaze that noticed nothing else.

  You’re not any better than him. The suggestion hurt almost as much as the reality. The number of disillusioned blind dates and disinterested party escorts might not match Stanley’s impressive harem, but it was enough to keep her self-doubt alive.

  They were nothing alike, she told herself. Her collection of brief love interests were hardly like toys abandoned by a spoiled child. No matter any other similarities between their circumstances, she was not guilty of wasting another’s time or affection.

  “So when’s the next piece on the Cottingley girl’s blo
ke?” asked Eddie, taking a swig from his bottle. Mariah punched him on the shoulder.

  “Daft boy! I already told you earlier she struck a truce with Stanley,” Mariah interrupted. “No columns in exchange for lecturing him, right?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” Miss Darcy replied. “I promised to suspend my lectures in print if he’ll listen to my advice on my terms.”

  Eddie grinned. “But you met with his old girlfriend today? That’s a big cheeky, isn’t it?”

  Olivia shrugged. “Just a bit of insurance, that’s all.” She couldn’t help but enjoy the look of amusement on his face, knowing he was imagining the possible outcome of this scenario.

  “It’s so if he stabs her in the back, she can stab him, too,” Mariah answered. “Pretty, eh?”

  “I’d say smart,” said Eddie. “Bit o’ moxie there, girl.” He raised his bottle to her.

  She raised her glass in return. “To Mr. Stanley keeping his promise. And to the column’s success if he falls into his old pattern.” Her glass clinked against his own.

  “Hear, hear,” said Eddie. With a begrudging sigh, Mariah added her pint to the toast.

  “So, what’s the juicy bit from Stanley’s ex?” asked Eddie. “Or is it writer’s privilege and the like?”

  “It’s nothing impressive,” Olivia laughed. “It’s the same as Cottingley’s story, really. Just more proof that the invincible and arrogant Mr. Stanley has a bigger problem in the romance department than the press realizes.”

  “All I can say is, tread lightly,” Mariah warned her. “After all, we’re none of us saints, are we?”

  “Absolutely not,” Miss Darcy teased. “Some of us just have fewer mistakes to confess than others.”

  Mariah’s response was drowned out by a sudden blast from Eddie’s pocket harp. His tune was in key with the roar from the crowd as the match drew to a close.

  “Hey, how about a song, Willy?” he shouted over his shoulder. In response, an elderly gentleman drained his glass and rose from the bar to take a seat at the piano. He thumped out a few chords as a handful of patrons peeled off to join him, including Eddie.

  “Another song,” Mariah groaned. “I would love a weekend without a bit of music, you know?” She glanced at Olivia, who gave her a sympathetic smile.

  A buzz emanated from Miss Darcy’s cell phone. Lifting it from the table, she checked the screen.

  “Back in a moment,” she said, slipping from behind the table. Crossing the room, she ducked into an alcove where an old payphone hung beside a handful of Irish novelty signs.

  “Mr. Stanley,” she said, popping open the phone. “To what do I owe the honor of this phone call?”

  “I’m surprised you knew my number,” said the voice on the other end.

  “You’re forgetting that you called my office,” she reminded him. “I screen all my calls, in order to avoid unpleasant contact.”

  “Very wise of you.” He chuckled dryly. “In that case, I’m surprised you didn’t hang up on me.”

  “I thought you said your secretary would call me,” she said, stalling for time. She preferred not to think about the reasons he was calling. Especially after this afternoon’s work.

  “I know,” he answered. “But I wanted to arrange our meeting, if possible. How about sometime this weekend? In between your publisher's meeting?” She thought she detected a note of sarcasm.

  “I have a charity thing,” she said, searching for an excuse. “I thought I made it clear that my weekend was rather full. Next week, perhaps?”

  “Next week. I see.” The tone of his voice had shifted to disappointment. She wondered if he had been on the verge of getting it over with, only to have her dash his opportunity. That would be reason enough for his curt reply.

  “Goodbye,” she said, closing the phone to cut off further discussion. Leaning against the wall, she stared at the number as it vanished from her screen.

  At least he had no idea what she was really thinking. He had no clue she was now acquainted with one of his ex-girlfriends. If he did, he would assume she had every intention of using it–if not for her column, definitely for her book.

  And in a way, he would be right. The very thought of it made her feel as guilty as if she had already written the expose on a man who prided himself on the number of women who fell for him.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Dear Readers: In the coming weeks, I have a surprise for those of you who sympathized with the plight of “Cottingley” ... and those curious to hear the other side of the story! Yes, indeed, the elusive mystery lover in her past has finally agreed to share his version of what happened–especially since so many of his friends have intervened on his behalf via post ...

  The road to Longbourn was in need of repair, as Miss Darcy’s tires determined en route to the estate. Glancing in her mirror, she expected to see a pile of shredded rubber visible in the pothole. Instead, nothing but a large rock was visible behind her.

  The house of Longbourn, once the pride of the Bennets, had long passed from a private residence to public grounds, hosting a variety of local events and charitable organizations. Distant half-cousins, the descendents of Mr. Bennet’s son, had generously donated the residence to the public generations ago as a gesture of local goodwill.

  It was the second most-popular tourist site for Austen fans–since Pemberley held first place.

  She turned the rented car into the drive, admiring the splendid hedges and trees surrounding the stone house. Framed in the ivy-covered doorway was an elderly woman in a purple dress and hat.

  “Hello,” Miss Darcy called, climbing out of the driver’s seat. The woman waved to her in a friendly gesture.

  “You must be Miss Darcy,” the woman guessed. “I’m Mrs. Pilburn–from the Society of Modern Career Women. Circa nineteen-fifty, of course.” Her gloved hand squeezed Olivia’s fingers.

  “I’m quite pleased to meet you,” Miss Darcy replied. “And honored to be here on behalf of ... today’s cause.” Racking her brain, she tried to remember what the main focus of the event was, since such details tended to be buried beneath titles and grandeur when the invitations arrived.

  “Heart disease, dear,” Mrs. Pilburn prompted her. “Remember, it’s the silent killer of womankind. And what with all the stress in the world today, who’s at more risk than the working woman?” She finished this statement with a wide smile.

  “Indeed,” Miss Darcy answered. “Who could forget?” At this point, Mrs. Pilburn was steering her by her elbow through the doorway of Longbourn house.

  “Don’t feel bad about it; half the ladies here shall never remember,” Mrs. Pilburn replied, in a lower voice. “They only come because they recognize the names of their friends on the charitable list and are curious to see a few celebrities like yourself.”

  “I’m hardly–” Miss Darcy began. But by now they were in the drawing room of the house, where a group of elegant businesswomen were assembled, sampling trays of sweets obviously prepared by the local chapter.

  “This is Lady Hammond and Mrs. Fitzgerald-Leigh,” the elderly lady continued, gesturing towards two women busy adjusting the corsages pinned to their blazers. “Our chapter heads. They’ll be speaking today, as you know, along with that physician from London ... what was her name again?”

  “Dr. Clyvie,” volunteered one of the women. “She replaced the librarian who cancelled a month ago, remember?” She flashed an apologetic grin at Olivia, for some reason.

  Most charitable events padded themselves with a certain number of pseudo-celebrities: of which Miss Darcy was a fast-growing option. It was her job at these gatherings to mingle among the crowd of enthusiastic locals and event organizers who found the presence of a new face a novelty.

  Much like dinner parties and cocktail gatherings, it was also an opportunity to be snubbed by fellow invites who held a low opinion of her column and the Morning Post in general. Her work became the equivalent of trash tabloids, paparazzi photos, and paid escort services–th
e dubious kind, that is.

  “Now, just pin this name tag to your jacket, dear; so people will know who you are.” One of the ladies stabbed through Olivia’s lapel with a piece of paper and flower sprig attached to a pin.

  The door to the dining room was propped open, a row of chairs facing a makeshift stage surrounded by flowers. Through the door she could glimpse a bigger crowd of women in conversation, most likely the local attendees.

  “Well, shall we go in?” Mrs. Pilburn began shepherding the career women in the direction of the crowd. One by one, women in business suits and tailored skirts pried themselves away from the food trays and slowly filed towards the main event.

  With a sigh, Miss Darcy followed. She felt the hot breath of either Lady Hammond or Mrs. Fitzgerald-Leigh on her neck as they leaned in closer.

  “I really am dying to ask you about that column you wrote about that playboy,” she whispered.

  “Really?” Miss Darcy forced a smile to her face as they made their way towards the scene. And here we go again...

  *****

  When the physician proclaimed that Mrs. Bennet was in the grip of her final illness, the good lady bore it with the same suffering as all previous occasions. Lying upstairs in her chamber, she issued daily instruction as to the nature of her burial and the silk gown she wished to wear. No detail was too small, prompting her daughter Jane to stitch new lace to trim the burial sheets to signify her place as the mother of two wealthy and fashionably-connected daughters.

  The center of the household’s drama until the very last, she insisted upon having her family assembled at least twice for her dying moment, prior to the final event itself.

  Modern-day Longbourn retained very few furnishings from the days of the first Mrs. Bennet; even fewer from the second. Its rooms were filled with antique castoffs from auction, threadbare needlework and linens said to be stitched by the Bennet daughters. A series of portraits in the drawing room immortalized the members of the Bennet family according to popular description. A rather severe Mary Bennet in spectacles gazed from a gilded frame; a cheerful but homely Edward Bennet at the age of twenty, the son and future heir of Longbourn estate.