Dear Miss Darcy

by Briggs, Laura

  He opened his mouth to retort, then stopped short, running his fingers over his lean features as he considered her remark. “I suppose you have a point.”

  “Thank you,” she answered.

  Leaning back against the leather upholstery, Stanley surveyed her with a wry smile. “For the descendent of history’s great romantics, you set a poor example,” he said. “This would be a disappointing scene for Juliet to play out with Romeo.”

  “We are part of a different Shakespearean scene,” she answered, shaking her head. “More inclined to Beatrice and Benedick, I would say.”

  “Without the play’s conclusion, I suppose. But only you are qualified to judge, given your romantic connections, Olivia.” His grey eyes grew darker. “If you have no objection to being called Olivia?”

  She tucked a stray curl behind her ear. “No.” She raised her eyes to meet his own. “But I shan’t be expected to call you Christopher in return, I hope. For I could never see you as anything but Mr. Stanley.”

  Raising his glass, he took a long sip. “Perhaps it's my reputation preceding me. But fine. If that makes you happy, then we’ll agree on it.”

  The waiter appeared with the check on a small platter. Before she could move to take it, Stanley pulled his credit card from his billfold and laid it on top.

  “I can’t let you pay for this,” she protested, snapping open her bag. “The Post will cover it as a business expense; please, I insist–”

  “I insist,” he answered, motioning the waiter away. “Consider it payment for your services.”

  She paused in the middle of her search. “Services for what?” A look of confusion crossed her face.

  “For you instruction,” he reminded her. “The sage advice that will instruct me on being more sensitive to the needs of my relationships.”

  “Then you’ll read my column next week,” she answered. “The conclusion of our feud, you know.”

  He studied his open palms with a curiously intent expression. “I was thinking about my promise to listen to it in person. Something I didn’t carry out tonight as well as I should have. Too many distractions, I suppose–and no one confesses well to new acquaintances. Or shares advice with a relative stranger without practice.” Glancing up at her as he spoke.

  “It isn’t necessary,” she answered, feeling her heartbeat pick up speed. “Really, I was overstepping my boundaries when I forced my opinions on you. I think you listened remarkably well to such insolent demands.”

  “But I would prefer to hear them out again, all the same. With my full attention this time.”

  “Should I call your secretary and make an appointment?” she teased. As the waiter returned with the receipt and card on his tray.

  “Yes,” Stanley answered, after a moment’s pause. “Call my secretary and arrange it. First thing tomorrow morning.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Dear Miss Darcy: I read your column faithfully, every week ...

  Miss Darcy crumpled the pages of chapter three's tentative draft into a wad and threw it at the wastebasket. Disgusting! Worthless, wasted hours of work. Her book was a farce and a fake, a charlatan’s attempt to squeeze money from an unsuspecting lovelorn public.

  She dropped face-first into the pile of manuscript pages and moaned. How much longer could she keep up the facade of the ‘clever and charming Miss Darcy’? Her reputation hung by a thread so fragile that a mere mention of the truth would snap it in half.

  Rising up a little, she lifted the marked-through pages of her book, wondering how could she have believed herself capable of giving someone advice on showing tact in relationships. Hadn’t she managed to offend most of her own dates with cute remarks or backfired sarcasm?

  She was still in her pajamas and it was nine-thirty. Unless she climbed into some jeans and a shirt, she would arrive later than usual at the Post. Mr. Stanley’s side of the story awaited her pen and the eager readers of tomorrow’s edition.

  We’re more alike than you realize, Miss Darcy. The words of Christopher Stanley kept popping into her mind, interfering with her concentration like a persistent fly buzzing around her. Her lips tightened at the memory of his words, the look in his grey eyes when he spoke them.

  Enough of this nonsense. She was not attracted to Mr. Stanley. It was impossible. She possessed far too much common sense, far too much understanding of scoundrels and romantic disappointment to be deceived by his charms.

  At least that’s what she needed to believe at this moment, beneath the gaze of Lizzie’s smiling portrait. A woman who had the good fortune to be gifted with it all. Beauty, wit, intelligence–but most importantly, the ability to transform the spark of romance into a burning flame of passion.

  She brushed aside the stray tangle of curls around her eyes. “Perhaps I should erase the manuscript and burn the printed draft in a big bonfire,” she muttered. Perhaps it was time to forget the dream of leaping from a simple column to the shelves of the self-help section.

  After all, the modern-day image of the clever, witty Miss Darcy belonged to the realm of fiction.

  *****

  In the surviving letters exchanged between the Bennet-Darcy connection, hints of great romances were largely missing, barring Georgiana’s successful betrothal after a narrowly-avoided connection between a young Darcy and a questionable family by the name of Willoughby. Beyond that, mention of romantic revolutions were scarce.

  There were, of course, a thousand references to the happiness of being Mrs. Darcy and Mrs. Bingley. Just no reminiscence on how they achieved that blissful state. The pride of the Darcy name hinged upon that knowledge; at least it did for one Miss Darcy. Whose fingers tapped over the keyboard with concentration, her notebook propped open on her desk at the Post.

  Dear Readers,

  To the faithful awaiting word from Cottingley's ex, his side of the story has finally been delivered to a restless public. Although the gentleman in question declined to write it himself, I have captured the spirit of his words in the following Reply from Cottingley’s Ex to His Critics:

  The young lady in question has distorted the facts regarding our relationship’s end. Her claims that I was cold and indifferent are not strictly true –especially since Miss Cottingley neglected to mention a few details from our relationship that were less in her favor.

  For instance, her version didn’t mention that Miss Cottingley, having grown tired of our dating “routine” repeatedly pressured me to change things up. To be spontaneous in the gift-giving department according to her personal interests, but without any guidelines for what she wanted. Her love of playful things and her tastes in decor prompted the purchase of a few “unusual” items as gifts, which apparently fell short of the mark.

  As for the indifference, the so-called failure to phone her–that was because she didn’t accept my apology. Although it seems petty, it was difficult to discuss her feelings when all of her conversations were cold and distant as a result of that incident.

  If I owe Miss Cottingley another apology, then I do so now. But I have no regrets about the conclusion of our relationship, except for any remaining tensions between myself and the lady in question.

  –Miss Cottingley’s Mr. X.

  There you have it, readers. And for those of you wondering, what is my advice to Mr. X? Never fear, it will be in print shortly for the curious at heart.

  She printed a draft of the column and handed it to Stacy as she passed by with an armload of papers. “Here it is,” she announced.

  Stacy glanced at it, then looked at her with raised eyebrows. “Has Collins seen it yet?” she asked.

  “I’ll email him a copy,” Olivia answered. “Proof that one for me, will you?” Reaching over, she ripped the pages from her notebook and tossed them into the garbage. No need to keep a record of last evening’s performance.

  Ankles crossed, she leaned back in her chair. In her mind, she replayed the lively exchange between them, more like swords crossing in a duel than a conversation be
tween two business minds. The way the flicker of interest in his dark grey eyes made her pulse race made a well-written column seem dull in comparison.

  Dangerous, dangerous thoughts indeed.

  Shaking her head to rouse herself, she glimpsed Mariah in conversation with a few members of the “Fashion and Design” staff. Turning away hastily, she made herself busy with some open correspondence on her desk. She had no desire to discuss last night’s events with anyone right now.

  Her phone rang. Snapping it up, she half-expected to hear Stanley’s voice on the other end.

  “Miss Darcy?” The woman’s voice was nasal, unfamiliar.

  “This is she,” Miss Darcy responded, switching automatically to polite tones.

  “I’m ringing with regards to your appointment with Mr. Stanley,” the woman continued. “He wishes to know if you will be available this afternoon, around two?”

  “Two?” she said. “An hour from now, you mean?” She checked her watch, imaging herself rushing home by bus to change into a formal dress and heels.

  “One moment, please.” The secretary’s voice vanished in a blast of silence. A moment later, another voice was on the line.

  “Miss Darcy.” Stanley’s voice sounded pleasant over the phone for a change. “I took the liberty of moving our appointment a little earlier.”

  “Don’t you think people might question you making restaurant reservations for yourself and a woman in the middle of the afternoon?” She lowered her voice slightly. “Perhaps it would be better to wait–your policy on privacy, remember?”

  There was a short laugh on the other end. “Trust me, Miss Darcy. No one will notice us where we’re going.”

  Her brow furrowed as she pictured them meeting in the back of a dark theater–or perhaps someplace more illicit. Some little hole in the wall where drinks were served with a wink and a leer.

  “I’ll send a car to your office in twenty minutes,” he said. With a short click, the line went dead.

  She slid her phone into her pocket and discreetly gathered her coat and bag. Perhaps nobody would notice if she sneaked downstairs. She tucked a generous stack of unopened correspondence into her bag as well–no need to attract extra attention by leaving her mail unattended.

  “Livvy, where are you off to?” Mariah gave her a funny look as she passed the circle of conversation.

  “An appointment,” she called over her shoulder, hitching the strap to her bag into place. “Be back in a bit.” With that, she took the stairs two at a time to the bottom.

  *****

  “When you said discreet, this isn’t at all what I imagined.” Olivia’s eyes widened with astonishment as she stood at the top of the stone steps leading down to the square. Below her was a frenzy of noise and color, bright scarves and garish costumes. A carnival reminiscent of a Medieval circus on the streets of Bath.

  “I think it would be hard for the tabloids to locate us in this crowd, don’t you?” He stood behind her, hand stuffed in his windbreaker pockets. Even from the corner of her eye, she could see the confident pride in his posture, knowing he’d succeeded in impressing her for once.

  “But are you sure this is the proper location for a serious discussion?” she asked. “Noise and crowds are hardly an asset.”

  “We will find a quiet spot somewhere, I’m sure,” he answered. “After you, my lady?” He gestured towards the scene below.

  Striped tents in wild colors ruffled in the cool breeze as tourists gathered in streams and clusters to watch acrobats juggle pins and balance in human pyramids. Clowns in French gowns and molded European masks tossed flowers and coins towards eager onlookers, as a band played a lively tune with pipes and drums.

  Olivia wove her way through the scene, snapping photos with her cell phone. For a moment, all her advice to Stanley was forgotten.

  “How did you think of this?” she asked.

  “Your love of Pride and Prejudice, I trusted, encompassed all things Austen. So I took a chance that Bath was one of those loves.”

  “You would take a woman who is practically a stranger all the way to Bath?” she asked. “Just to impress her?”

  He leaned closer. “To win her over,” he corrected. As he looked into her eyes, she felt a tremor of panic at the thought of what he might read in their depths.

  “I’m sorry?” She blushed with confusion. Surely he was not thinking of her romantically. Not after their disastrous encounters at the pub and Rosing's.

  “I thought perhaps you'd be a bit more merciful if I took your advice to heart,” he continued, gesturing towards the performance. “I guessed correctly that you like Bath. I surprised you and you enjoyed it. No cheap tourist t-shirts or tacky snow globe substitutions.”

  “You knew what your female companions liked before,” she reminded him. “You were just lazy when it came to offering the gesture.” With a sly smile, she turned away from him and slipped through the crowd.

  He was following her, she could sense it without turning to confirm it. The scent of aftershave drifted from the collar of his coat as he caught up with her again.

  “I will allow that you tried this time, however,” she continued. “And so this time you succeeded. Too bad it’s wasted on your enemies and not your friends.”

  With a crooked smile, he surveyed a team of acrobats parading past in a series of cartwheels and flips. “Is there any reason why we shouldn’t be friends in the future?” he asked. “In two days we cease to be rivals. When you publish your final column on my ... indiscretions.”

  “Perhaps you should wait and read it before you make that statement,” she answered.

  “Do your friends call you Olivia?” he asked. “Liv? Livvy? That’s the name the chap called you at the pub.” His body seemed a trifle close, almost protectively so as he fended open a pathway for them through the eager audience and the crowd of shoppers examining wares outside the tents.

  “My friends call me Miss Darcy,” she corrected, in a teasing voice.

  “Very formal of them,” he replied. “Was it your idea?”

  “Wouldn’t you use it if it was yours?” she asked. “To enjoy a little of the fame behind it? It’s not as if I’m the descendent of Crippen or some unsavory character.”

  “I prefer not to use my name to my advantage,” he answered.

  “But you do every day,” she reminded him. “Not many people can command a regular table at Rosing’s or The Lakes. Or transport someone by private car to Bath without blinking an eye.”

  She arched her eyebrows with this knowing statement. The look on his face was proof enough that she won this round.

  “Correction,” he said. “I prefer not to use the influence of others’ accomplishments for my own good. That’s the allurement of the self-made success story.”

  “What of your family, then?” she asked. “No position to help you in your career?”

  He seated himself on a vacant stone bench in the square. “Quite the contrary,” he answered. “But my family doesn’t approve of my decision to forge my own path. They would have preferred me to enter the family profession.”

  “Rejecting your share of the family wealth and power?” she asked.

  “They have quite an influence in the world of print,” he responded. “But my interests were more inclined to technology as you know. So I went out on my own, used a little of my trust and a great deal of my own sweat to build an empire.”

  Sitting next to him on the bench, she drew her knees close and wrapped her arms around them. “I can picture you from a family of power and privilege–and then again, I can’t. The way you sneer at family names and the entitlements of the titled, all the while being arrogant and superior.”

  “I see we’ve reached the corrections portion of our afternoon,” he said. Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he turned to face her. “Fire away.”

  “What piece of advice do I give you first?” she answered. “The list of mistakes you admit to is long, I remind you. Although they’re all t
ied together by a single failing. You. Don’t. Care.”

  He raised one eyebrow. “That’s it, is it?”

  “I don’t mean in the sense of indifference or laziness,” she said. “I mean in terms of the heart. You’ve never been in love with any of these conquests; they’re just a string of physical attractions.”

  “Which I freely admitted,” he laughed. “So I fail to see how this qualifies as pivotal advice.”

  This time, she leaned closer to him. “You admit it–but not as a failing. I think you can’t bring yourself to admit that you don’t want to fall in love. That you’re afraid to pursue a woman who is worth your time. To be truly enamored with another.”

  “Love makes you vulnerable,” he answered. “I can’t afford vulnerability in my world, Miss Darcy. Not after everything I’ve worked for.”

  “But being without it makes you vulnerable to other things,” she argued. “Like a reputation for scandal and irresponsibility. Like the possibility of being desperate and lonely.”

  Growing uncomfortable with eye contact during this lecture, she dropped her gaze to the stones beneath them. “You’ll be stuck pretending forever that you don’t care when you desperately do," she continued. "And everything you worked for will be gone.”

  “Are we still talking about me, Miss Darcy?” His voice was playful as it roused her from her thoughts.

  “Of course we are,” she retorted. “What else would we be doing? You dragged me to Bath to give you advice on love, after all.”

  “For a moment, I rather thought we might be talking about Miss Darcy’s elusive romances,” he answered. “A love expert who has yet to give up her carefree lifestyle. Who sees her romantic partners in private–and is seldom seen with the same one more than once or twice.”