Dear Miss Darcy

by Briggs, Laura

  “Come on, then.” Henry hauled her to her feet. “It’s time for you to go home.”

  He pulled her towards the ticket gate, as she wrapped her arms around him in a hug. “I’m sorry you spent your afternoon on a train,” she murmured, her face pressed against his jacket. “I didn’t mean to be difficult, really.”

  She felt his hand pat her shoulders, awkwardly. “Never mind it,” he answered, with a grin. “Now, on board with you.”

  “So I can go pack my things, I suppose,” she groaned. “I will have to find a cheaper flat. One meant for the unemployed.”

  The red light was flashing on her message machine, the first thing she noticed when she pushed open the door. She moved aside a large pile of letters –undoubtedly delivered to her flat by Mariah–and pressed the button.

  “Miss Darcy, this is Tom from Lionsmane Press.” His voice sounded slightly hoarse. “We need to discuss a recent issue with your manuscript. Call us as soon as possible.”

  As if I don’t know what that issue might be. She remembered Louise Crane’s pinched expression at the dinner party. For all she knew, the Cranes owned the Lionsmane. Maybe even the Stanleys themselves, exercising their powerful grip over another dependent company.

  With a sigh of regret, she pressed the button again. There was a slight static buzz before a man’s voice emerged.

  “Miss Darcy, this is Christopher Stanley. Don’t erase this, please–” Her finger paused over the button. “–at least not until you’ve heard it through. I need to discuss something with you ... if you would be good enough to come to my office tonight. Any time before eight o’ clock.” After a pause, she heard the line click.

  Dropping her bag, she sat down as she considered the offer. She planned to avoid him forever after this afternoon's encounter. Why should she go to his office to be patronized? He could explain his reasons in an email just as easily.

  But at the same time, she wanted to see him again. If the last occasion he saw Miss Darcy was in this afternoon’s disgraceful fashion, she would be no better off than the maligned image of Mr. Elliot he created at the restaurant.

  Not Miss Darcy. If it was her last occasion to appear before him as her old self, it would be in style. The final bow before the clever and charming version of herself vanished from society for good.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Dear Miss Darcy: Is there a painless way to break up with someone? I’ve been seeing a woman for the past few months, but I think it’s over ... at least, it’s over for me. How do I tell the lady in question that I need to move on?

  –Timid in Tunbridge Wells

  She climbed the stairs to his office slowly, taking her time. The dark walls created a gloomy atmosphere at night, with only floor lamps to provide a faint glow. Her high-heeled boots made no noise crossing the heavy red carpet in the waiting area. No pinch-faced secretary crouched behind the desk. There was no sign of life anywhere in the room where she had performed so dramatically earlier this afternoon.

  The door to his office was ajar; she pushed it open and stepped inside. One hand smoothed the fitted black skirt that tapered below her silk blouse. The kind of business elegance she hoped surpassed the Miss Darcy of denim and button-down who appeared this afternoon.

  “Mr. Stanley,” she said, after a moment of lingering in the doorway.

  His back was turned to her as he stared out the windows at the fading sunlight on the horizon. He had abandoned his jacket and tie, she noticed, on the edge of his desk.

  “Thank you for coming.” His voice was brusque. “I won’t keep you long. I merely wanted to explain the contents of that letter you and your editor received so unfortunately this morning.”

  “I see.” She interlaced her fingers, prepared for a cursory scolding in his formal tones. A reminder that he had given her fair warning weeks ago that he was powerful enough to crush her.

  “There are certain things about my image that I felt the need to protect.” Without turning around, he continued speaking. “Call it pride, if you wish; or even a prejudice against weakness. Because the greatest fear any businessman possesses is the thought that his competitors perceive him as weak.”

  “If this is about my words this afternoon–” she began.

  He didn’t wait for her to finish. “I’m aware what you know, Miss Darcy.” A short laugh followed this statement. “I suppose it was just a matter of time before someone discovered that I was not a man of dashing romantic confidence.”

  She took a few steps closer, pausing in the middle of the room. “All I know is you weren’t strictly honest about how you met your conquests. Or the reasons why you ended the relationships,” she replied, awkwardly.

  “Have you ever possessed the knowledge that you were a miserable failure at something important to your very happiness?” he asked. “I doubt it in your case.” His back was turned, so he could not see the flush appear on her cheeks. “But people who do feel cursed every day of their lives.”

  “I–I do understand,” she faltered. Only to have him keep speaking as if he didn’t hear her.

  “When I was only sixteen, it was impossible for me to even speak to a girl without stammering," he said, chuckling softly. "At eighteen, it was hell to ask an acquaintance to a dance or a party.”

  He swallowed hard. “I believed it would all change with my success, of course. A magic confidence would come with making my own way, so to speak. Only it didn’t. At least, not for me.”

  “Please,” she said. “There’s no reason for you tell me all this–”

  “I tried too hard.” His voice lost some of its stiff formality as he spoke. “Then I didn’t try hard enough. My attempts to please, attempts to make what you would call a personal connection, failed dismally. So I stopped making them. And created a rather convenient image which permitted me never to care again. An excuse, if you will, to cover up my transgressions in love. Or fear, if you will.”

  She pictured the girl left at the bus shelter, Angela's friends waiting over drinks. Christopher Stanley hiding in his office from the tide of bumbling mistakes he assumed awaited him outside his world.

  He turned around, his hands resting on the windowsill behind him. “Personal failure is a chink in your armor in the business world. Something your competitors can use to expose you, to break you. So I did my best to keep my ... lack of charm a secret.”

  “I have no intention of telling anyone,” she said. “There is no reason for you to attempt to persuade me to silence. That is, there’s no reason for me to expose you.”

  “Really?” he asked, his voice assuming its former stiffness. “I would assume from your reaction to the letter that personal feeling would be reason enough to sell your story to the tabloids. ‘Businessman poses as playboy to create perfect superman image.’ Quite a payday would await such an informant, I assume.”

  His gaze met hers briefly before he lowered his eyes to the carpet, his face twisted with emotions she realized were more painful than hers at this moment.

  "Even if you chose to release your story," he said, "I have no intentions of stopping you at this point. If you wish to reveal it, I suppose you have that right." His words surprised her–she raised her eyes, only to find that his gaze had not moved.

  He hesitated, before adding, “It might interest you to know that I had no intention of bungling any of those relationships. Although you’ve probably realized that on your own by now.”

  She felt too guilty to respond to this remark–given the all-too-recent memory of Miss Kilroy's laughter over his mistakes.

  Rousing himself from his position, he drew the letter from his desk.

  “I can assure you that you will not be hearing from this solicitor again,” he said. “You may inform your editor of the same.” He crumpled the piece of paper into a ball. “As for your publisher, I have no doubt they will contact you in a day or two to apologize for the false alarm regarding your book.” As he tossed the wad into the recycling bin.

  “Than
k you,” she answered. A lump formed in her throat, making it impossible for her to say anything further.

  He moved closer, his fingers wrapping themselves around her shoulder as he paused beside her. “I am truly sorry for everything that happened,” he whispered. “I hope that you realize that.”

  Her sense of shame kept her eyes trained on the carpet, rather than read what must be in the depths of his own at this moment. She could feel the warmth of his hands through the fabric of her blouse as his fingers held her tightly.

  “Mr. Stanley,” she began, struggling to control her voice.

  “Goodnight, Miss Darcy.” Releasing her, he brushed past her and towards the open door. Her knees trembled slightly as she stood there, trying to gather her thoughts into some coherent plan of action. Her mind turning over his words with a sense of shame and self-reproach that made her eyes burn with tears.

  “Wait,” she began, turning around. "Mr. Stanley, please–" He was disappearing already through the glass door of the reception room, his quick stride evident as it swung closed behind him.

  Poise was forgotten; she followed, wishing her heels were more conducive to running as she hurried past the secretary's desk and empty foyer. She pushed open the door and glanced around the hallway. It was empty, the stairwell appearing vacant, the lift silent.

  Christopher Stanley, the former playboy, had left the building.

  *****

  “Oh, my gosh.” Mariah dropped her half-eaten fry into the basket again. “Are you serious?”

  “I am,” Miss Darcy answered. “He promised me that my job was safe. And apologized for the letter sent to Collins.”

  “Amazing,” Eddie breathed. He broke off a piece off Mariah’s crispy fish strip as she slapped his hand away.

  They were squeezed in a booth at the café across from Eddie’s takeaway job, a place he and Mariah frequented when his shift was over.

  “Then he didn’t explain why he sent it in the first place?” asked Mariah. “Why he threatened somebody, then took it back?”

  “No, no explanation,” Olivia answered. “That was all he said.” A shrug of her shoulders accompanied this white lie. The thought of mentioning even a part of Stanley’s secret left a cold lump in the pit of her stomach.

  “Then you got off lucky, after what Collins said this afternoon,” Mariah replied, taking a bite from one of the breaded strips. “Two steps away from utter career doom and you get a reprieve.”

  Eddie held up his hand for a brief high-five from Olivia. “It’s an awesome story,” he said. “You got karma in your corner, that’s all I’ll say.”

  “It’s not exactly the end I expected after reading that ‘cease and desist’,” she answered.

  "Better than the dole," said Mariah, poking a straw through her milkshake's head.

  “I wish he had given me a chance to apologize for this morning’s column, however,” said Olivia, after a pause. “I mean, it was written in the heat of the moment and while it wasn’t exactly scathing–”

  “A little rudeness he deserves,” Mariah answered. “He sent that nasty letter before he even read this morning’s column. As for the letter you wrote on his behalf, you gave him a more creditable argument than he could have given himself.”

  “Perhaps.” Miss Darcy’s voice faltered. “All the same, I wish I had that moment. But I suppose it’s gone now, eh?” With an attempted smile of cheer in Eddie’s direction.

  “Rock on,” he answered, raising his bottle of beer in return.

  In her flat that night, she cradled the phone in her lap, practicing the right words for the moment she dialed his voicemail service.

  “I’m very sorry about today’s column, Mr. Stanley,” she recited. “I hope you will forgive me for the harshness of my public opinion following our dinner together–” She cut herself off.

  Taking a deep breath, she let her fingers hover over the phone’s numbers. “Mr. Stanley, this is Miss Darcy. About the column that ran in this morning’s paper ...”

  “I just wanted to apologize for this morning’s column, Mr. Stanley...”

  “I wanted to apologize, Christopher–” Christopher? She slammed the receiver in its cradle.

  What was she thinking? He probably never wanted to hear the sound of her voice again.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Dear Miss Darcy: I just met my fiancé’s family for the first time and I’m pretty sure they hate me. After the insults at dinner, the snubs in the drawing room, and the rather nasty telephone call I received from his sister, I’m having second thoughts. Is there a solution that will let us live happily ever after?

  –Disgusted in Dartford

  The stack of mail on her desk was the same as always: piles of envelopes, packages, and postcards from England’s favorite sites. For the first time in several days, she felt a surge of pride at the sight. Flipping over a postcard, she studied the message on the back.

  I’m a big fan, Miss Darcy! Maybe you should think about giving seminars for clueless romantics here in Shropshire! The front of the card sported a thatched cottage with an herb garden straggling in front.

  “Well, well, if it isn’t an appearance by the almost-too-famous Miss Darcy. Who proved to have more lives than a cat these past few weeks.”

  “Good morning, Collins,” she answered, tossing the card into the pile. “And how are you today?” She favored him with a too-wide smile that showed her teeth.

  “Better this morning. Having to fire people always leaves me with less stomach for coffee,” he replied. “Fortunately, a brief chat with some sod at PyroTech Media saved me the trouble.” His familiar leer disappeared behind his mug as he took a long sip.

  “I suspect you would have missed me,” she answered.

  “Then you suspect wrong,” he answered. “Have your piece in by five or I may change my mind again and run you off without a hint from the well-heeled crowd.”

  She watched him go, her mouth twisting into a wry smile at the sight of his oily fingers brushing against Darlene the fashion editor’s back. As she reached for her letter opener, she noticed an unmarked envelope propped against her keyboard.

  “What’s this?” She popped open the seal, curious.

  “That came for you this morning,” Henry answered, as he sorted mail into piles on the art critic’s desk. “Delivered by some bloke in a messenger’s uniform.”

  Drawing a piece of paper from inside, she unfolded a piece of hotel stationery. “Dear Miss Darcy. Your presence is requested at the Delaforte Hotel at two o’ clock with regards to your ‘Cottingley’ columns, if you will be so good as to come. Please announce yourself at the desk as having an appointment with the Surrey Suite.”

  The Surrey Suite? Who could possibly be planning to meet her at such a formal establishment? Surely it wasn’t one of Stanley’s ex-girlfriends renting a business suite just to discuss the details of their breakup.

  Refolding the sheet, she considered her options. If it was one of Stanley’s former girlfriends, she would make her excuses and leave. Otherwise ...

  Otherwise, to ignore it would leave her too curious. Perhaps Eddie was right–her current karma was too good of an opportunity to waste.

  *****

  The desk clerk at the Delaforte instructed an employee to show Miss Darcy to the suite. She followed him down a long hallway lined in red carpet like a Hollywood runway, either side lined with decorative palms and small oil portraits.

  At the end was a double mahogany door, which he opened on the right side. A spacious room with long drapes of gauze and furniture upholstered in damask. In the middle was a short conference table surrounded by chairs.

  Leaning against the end of this table was Pauline Crane.

  “We meet again, Miss Darcy,” she said. “Have a seat.” She swiveled one of the chairs from beneath the table.

  “No, thank you.” Olivia remained rooted just inside the doorway. Her companion shrugged her shoulders.

  “Suit yourself,” she answered
. Taking a seat on the sofa, she drew a silver cigarette case from the pocket of a tailored navy blazer. “Mind if I smoke?” She popped it open and withdrew one.

  “Not at all,” Miss Darcy replied. “Do you mind if I ask why you wanted to see me?”

  Pauline drew a long breath from the cigarette, then exhaled. “Because my brother is a fool, Miss Darcy,” she said. “And very close to damaging his reputation by letting matters go too far.”

  “I really have no idea what you’re talking about,” Olivia answered. “Your brother seems perfectly capable of defending himself in all our dealings.”

  “Then why was my brother appearing in public with you?” she asked. “Why was he dining with you at a restaurant where all his associates could draw conclusions about his interest in you?”

  A strange tingling sensation passed through Olivia’s body. “Are you implying your brother had a romantic interest in me?” She forced herself to laugh in reply. "Surely not, given his personal contempt for myself and my work."

  “How little you know my brother,” Pauline answered. “He forms attachments to the strangest assortment of women. Even in his university years he was infatuated with shop girls and librarians.” She sighed as she blew another trail of smoke. "Even the ones who seemed lacking in ... well, personal charms."

  Olivia’s cheeks crimsoned, then paled with anger. “I'm sure you consider me to be your brother’s inferior,” she said. “No wealth or title in my possession–”

  She trailed off, as Pauline eyed her coldly. “My dear Miss Darcy, you are a columnist in the lowest section of a paper preferred by ignorant readers," she said. “Exactly the sort of girl who would intrigue someone like my brother, ready to fall prey to the first woman who doesn’t run away from his bungling errors. We were far more fortunate when he was preoccupied with those mindless chits he dragged all over town.”