by Lynn Messina
John nods. “He just needs a little more time to settle down.”
“A little more time?” Bennet asks scornfully. “It’s been twenty-three years. How much time do you think he needs?”
“Be fair,” John says. “He’s only been working with us for a month. Don’t you remember your first month? It’s not easy to adjust to the rigors of an office after the freedom of college.”
Of course Bennet remembers his first month at the Longbourn. It had been the longest four weeks of his entire life, waiting and hoping and fearing he’d be fired at any moment for various incompetencies, such as emailing their donors list to a journalist at New York magazine and spilling iced coffee on the silk dress of the chairwoman of the Patrons Circle Anniversary Committee.
Yes, he’d screwed up royally during his first month—to his lasting mortification—but at least he’d tried to do things right. Despite his inexperience, he made every attempt to perform the tasks assigned to him correctly, and when everything went horribly wrong he apologized profusely and resolved to do better.
The learning curve had indeed been steep for an English literature major who never actually completed his honor’s thesis (“Hard Thyme: The Symbolism of Herbs and Plants in the Works of Charles Dickens”), but after a few months, he got the hang of it and stopped embarrassing his brother. That was the most important thing to him—to ensure John never regretted recommending him for the department assistant job. He knew his brother had gone out on a limb for him, for it was highly unusual for siblings to work for the same organization, let alone the same department. If Bennet had continued down the path of ineptitude, things might have become very uncomfortable between the two, but luckily the arrangement had worked out to everyone’s benefit.
“It’s probably harder for him to see it as a real job because he’s getting only a small stipend,” John adds.
Bennet has heard the small-stipend argument before—from his mother. “Nobody forced him to take the internship,” he says.
Now John smiles. “What else is a twenty-three-year-old with a degree in philosophy going to do? He needs the experience to fill out his résumé. Don’t worry. He’ll get better. You’ll see.”
Bennet shakes his head but doesn’t comment, because he knows it’s useless to discuss it further—John’s Pollyanna spin will hold up under questioning. It always does.
Instead, he swivels toward his computer to read the changes Meryton made to his letter. Bennet is trying to convince Julian Martindale, head of community affairs of Venture Marts, to underwrite a Bauhaus exhibition the museum is planning for next spring. The show will feature the Longbourn’s small but significant collection of Werner Drewes prints from the twenties. Gropius, Breuer and Mies Van der Rohe pieces borrowed from other collections will round out the story of the famous German design school. Venture, the second-largest discount retailer in the United States, is the ideal sponsor because its philosophy—good design for the masses—draws on the tenets established by the Bauhaus.
Meryton’s draft, with its flagrant disregard for moderation, is like a bright neon sign flashing WE LOVE YOU! Bennet promptly deletes it and opens the original. The executive director’s unrestrained style, the way he fawns and flatters, doesn’t really work for Bennet, but he understands the appeal and knows that people like Henry Cortland Longbourn respond well to his effusiveness. Rich people like praise and expect attention, which is why Bennet prefers to work with the Julian Martindales of the world, folks who oversee vast sums of money on behalf of corporations. More often than not, they have the same middle-class background as he.
Bennet finishes the letter, attaches a photo of the lone Drewes silkscreen from the proposed exhibition and enters Martindale’s email address. As he hits SEND, he hears John pick up the phone and say hello to Hannah in special events.
Once again, it falls to the two responsible Bethle brothers to get the work done.
CHAPTER THREE
The Longbourn Collection’s annual gala fundraiser is held every year in the soaring courtyard at the center of the stunning fifteenth-century Venetian-style palace Cyrus Longbourn built at the turn of the twentieth century. Latticed Palladian windows and ornate loggias overlook a tranquil garden of roses and geraniums, giving the spacious enclosure the unreal air of a fairy tale. At any moment, Bennet expects to see Cinderella run across the stone patio in her bare feet.
By every account—Time Out, The New York Times, The Village Voice, Mommy Poppins, Fodor’s—the courtyard is one of the top ten hidden treasures of New York, and it’s Bennet’s favorite spot in the entire city. A stillness hangs over it, a silence so pervasive and deep it’s hard to believe you’re still in New York, even with the incessant chatter of tourists drinking tea at the next table over. During his first month there, he spent every lunch hour on one of the marble benches lining the rose beds, eating egg salad sandwiches and watching people gaze in bemusement at the gorgeous stone edifice, so out of place on the edge of a modern metropolis. He loves their awe, their ability to be surprised and humbled by the unexpected. A Venetian palazzo in the middle of Queens—of all things!
It’s this wide-eyed wonder, this bewildered astonishment at Longbourn’s beauty and incongruity, that keeps him in Forest Hills despite offers from larger institutions. Bennet could raise money anywhere—he knows the circuit and has the skills—but saving an absurd dream, preserving a ridiculous inconsistency, can only be done here.
Because the museum is so off the beaten path, the board of directors talk every year about moving the gala to a more central location, such as the Starlight Roof at the Waldorf-Astoria. But the best advertisement for the Longbourn is the Longbourn. Few Manhattanites are willing to make the trip, but those who do agree it’s worth the effort. The intimacy of the galleries—art displayed in an intensely personal setting—charms visitors, who are used to the austerity of white-box galleries and the intimidating grandness of art museums. This reaction is exactly what Cyrus had intended, for he had designed his museum to contrast sharply with the marble mausoleums of Europe.
Despite its unappealing location, the annual Venetian ball draws a respectable crowd, with many of the guests coming from Long Island to enjoy a glittering night under the stars. The food is always excellent and plentiful, thanks to their caterer, a formerly unknown chef from Bayside who recently opened a restaurant on Prince Street. He’s built his reputation on fegato alla Veneziana and seppie col nero.
The music is also sublime, supplied by twelve industrious Juilliard students who hope to one day play for the New York Philharmonic. Since at least one guest is a trustee of that rarefied institution, the musicians consider this gig to be something of an audition, or an audition for an audition. Couples dance on the patio as music wafts from the second-floor balcony.
Observing how smoothly the event is going—no gate crashers, no drunken brawls, no yipping Maltese smuggled in under the hoop skirt of the borough president’s wife, like last year—Bennet allows himself a glass of champagne. Even the weather, which can be chilly in late March, is behaving like a gracious guest, supplying a light northeasterly breeze that’s warm enough to make the dozens of heat lamps unnecessary. Gratified, he smiles and snags prosciutto-wrapped melon from a passing tray.
As he eats it, he notes that the elbows on his black tuxedo are starting to fray. He pulls the same one from the back of his closet every year, and despite the care he takes of it, he suspects it’s time to invest in a new one.
Thoughtfully, he takes a sip of champagne and surveys the crowd, noting several familiar faces he has yet to greet. What he said to Lydon last week goes double for him—he’s not attending the event, he’s working it—and in order for him to consider this a good day at the salt mine, he still has to talk to half a dozen contacts.
For the moment, however, he’s happy to stand off to the side, drink champagne and people watch. He spots Hannah by the bar, her expression stern as she shakes her head with increasing urgency at the bartender.
John follows his brother’s gaze and smiles. “You don’t want to know.”
“Oh, but I do,” he insists, watching Hannah paste a smile on her face as she turns to greet a trustee. She darts a look at the bartender, warning him that their conversation is far from over.
“Olives,” John says. “More specifically, the pimientos in the olives. Hannah feels the pimientos are deficient and need to be replaced. The bartender—and here’s the surprise twist—agrees that the pimientos are straggly looking and would happily substitute a fresh batch but since these are all they have, he contends they’re good enough.”
“So really it’s an argument about the compromises one is willing to make,” Bennet says. “A battle for one’s soul, if you will.”
“Or, as Hannah sees it, a dispute over who’s responsible for picking a substandard supplier.”
Bennet nods and turns his gaze elsewhere. “Which one is Ms. Bingston?”
John gestures to the ornate balcony, under which five figures in elegant evening wear are observing the proceedings with varying degrees of interest. “In the pink dress.”
Bennet nods and zeros in on a pretty blonde with rose-petal lips and wide blue eyes, who is, at that very moment, studying a tray of arancini. She considers her options carefully, selects one and eats it, patting the corners of her mouth daintily with a white napkin. Then she darts after the waiter to get a second.
“She’s lovely,” Bennet says, charmed by her obvious enthusiasm. Most of the heiresses he meets at museum functions have a jaded air, as if they’ve done it all before with better service. And to be fair, they probably have, for the Longbourn’s annual gala is a staid affair—reliably entertaining, of course, and genuinely pleasant, but without the elaborate trimmings that cause weary hearts to flutter. Mermaids don’t frolic in the fountain and waiters don’t juggle knives and fairy dust doesn’t fall from the sky.
Ms. Bingston’s companions seem like the more familiar variety of glitterati. They glance around the courtyard with mildly disdainful looks that indicate a determined unwillingness to be impressed by anything, least of all their surroundings.
It must require some effort, Bennet thinks with sly amusement, to sustain that much contempt.
“Who are the others?” he asks, his attention caught and held by the dark-haired woman behind Charlotte Bingston. Tall, with raven curls that spill over porcelain shoulders, she would be stunningly gorgeous if not for the partial sneer that seems permanently affixed to her face. Even with it, she’s beautiful enough to stop traffic.
“The two men are her brothers, Carl and Hurst Bingston. Hurst is the taller one. Next to him is his wife, Lucy, and behind Ms. Bingston is Darcy Fitzwilliam, a friend of the family,” John says.
“Darcy Fitzwilliam,” Bennet repeats softly. “Why does that name sound familiar?”
“Because she’s wealthy, sought after and famous,” John says mildly. “Her great-grandfather was nineteenth-century land magnate Earl Fitzwilliam. She owns a large mansion on Fifth Avenue, along with several other properties, and is reputed to be worth around $900 million. Her aunt Catherine de Bourgh is a great patron of the arts. She’s never paid any attention to us but gives millions to the Met and the American Ballet Theatre.”
Accustomed to lavish wealth and the privileges it affords, Bennet takes another look at Darcy Fitzwilliam and decides her scorn is perfectly in keeping with her person. He’s never met her aunt—indeed, he hasn’t been afforded the pleasure—but he has heard a great deal about her from colleagues at other institutions. A notoriously difficult woman who demands graciousness and affability but offers neither in return, she considers the vast majority of the human race to be well beneath her notice.
Bennet watches Darcy tilt her head to the side to hear Carl Bingston more clearly. She nods twice, then flashes a smile, and for a brief moment, the sneer is gone, replaced by a mischievous grin. To his surprise, Bennet finds himself smiling, too.
“Does Meryton know?” he asks, imagining the joy with which the executive director of the Longbourn would greet the news. Luckily, the courtyard is too crowded for cartwheels.
Before John can answer, the gentleman in question appears beside them, his eyes glittering with an excitement he can barely contain. “Have you heard? Nine hundred million.”
Meryton speaks slowly, for emphasis, and just loud enough to make Bennet cringe. Yes, everyone knows a fundraiser is about raising funds, but nobody is so gauche as to actually discuss money. That business is left to the administrative assistants and the lawyers.
“Nine hundred million,” Meryton says again, as if he can scarcely bring himself to believe it. The good fortune of the Fitzwilliam fortune seems too serendipitous to be true. “The scion of the Fitzwilliam real estate empire at our humble little fête! Fitzwilliam Company owns 25,000 apartments, 262 office properties, twenty-three shopping centers, twelve golf courses, five marinas and one hotel. I’m speechless with wonder.”
But of course he isn’t. Meryton has much more to say, and he insists on introducing himself to Bingley’s party at once, so he can get on with saying it immediately.
Bennet glances at the small group, which, aside from Ms. Bingston, appears self-contained and forbidding. “They arrived only recently. We should allow them a few minutes to get their bearings.”
Meryton scoffs. “Get their bearings? What nonsense. They’re attending a party, not a wilderness training course. Look, they’re coming our way. They must want to introduce themselves.”
Although this statement is patently false—the group is walking in the opposite direction, toward the marble benches of the rose garden—Meryton scurries after them with his hand raised in greeting. With a helpless look at his brother, Bennet follows. John trails two steps behind.
By the time Meryton catches up with the Bingston party, he’s out of breath and panting heavily. His portly frame isn’t made for long dashes across courtyards.
“Ms. Bingston,” he gasps, laying a hand on her shoulder as he interrupts her conversation, “it is a huge pleasure. I’m Mr. Meryton, executive director the Longbourn.” He pauses briefly, inhales sharply, then continues. “Ever since your assistant said you were coming tonight, I’ve been looking forward to this moment with such enthusiasm. Some people cautioned me to keep my excitement in check, but I knew you would not let me down and here you are, exceeding my expectations with your illustrious self and your guest. Such a guest! I’m thrilled to meet you.”
Although taken aback by this forceful and unexpected intrusion, Ms. Bingston smiles brightly and offers her hand. “I’m pleased to meet you as well.”
Meryton beams. “Please allow me to introduce my colleagues. John Bethle and his brother Bennet. They’re the directors of individual and corporate giving, respectively.”
The young blond man standing to Bingley’s right sighs loudly and rolls his eyes, and Bennet, knowing exactly what he’s thinking, wonders why he bothered coming to the gala at all. There are two dozen things to do in New York City on an early-spring evening that don’t require a tedious trek across the East River.
Ms. Bingston shows none of her companion’s disrespect. Rather, she tilts her head to the side and raises an eyebrow speculatively. “John Bethle? Aren’t you the one who sent me the remarkable gift basket?”
“I am,” John says, surprised that she not only saw the note but read it as well. “I’m glad you liked it.”
She smiles widely, revealing a dimple in her left cheek that John finds very endearing. “Liked it? I adored it. I’m still working on the truffles, but the
rugelach are entirely gone. We ate the whole box in one sitting. I’d never had rugelach before, and as soon as I took the first bite, I looked at the box and said, ‘Where have you been my whole life?’ Didn’t I, Darcy?” she asks, turning to her friend, who doesn’t appear to be listening to the conversation. “I don’t usually address comments directly to the pastries, but I couldn’t resist, they were that delicious. Oh, how remiss of me. I haven’t introduced anyone. This is my friend Darcy Fitzwilliam, and these are my brothers, Carl and Hurst and Hurst’s wife, Lucy.”
Although the members of Bingston’s party are too well-bred to flat-out ignore their hosts, they immediately avert their gazes after the niceties are performed, and an awkward silence follows. Meryton, whose chatter can usually be relied on to fill a void, any void, is busy retrieving the data he has on the Bingston brothers. They both, if he’s remembering correctly, purport to be men of business, investing in various concerns that have caught their eye. Hurst, the elder, owns stock in a company that helps businesses keep track of their legal bills, and Carl holds shares in Sutton & Grey, a custom clothier. Although they have liquid assets, the majority of their wealth is tied up in investments—unlike their sister’s.
While Meryton calculates the Bingstons’ relative value, John says, “The rugelach are from a bakery down the block. Bonelle. It’s on Ascan, right off Austin. I’m sure you could arrange delivery to Manhattan. Or, better yet, why don’t I send you another box?”
Ms. Bingston’s smile widens as she shakes her head. “You don’t have to go through the trouble of all that.”
But John is already one step ahead of her, making a notation in his phone. “I assure you, Ms. Bingston, it’s no trouble at all. In fact, it’s my pleasure.”
“All right, but if you’re going to be my rugelach dealer, then you must call me Bingley.”
“Thank God that’s sorted,” Carl says with more vehemence than Bennet would expect from a man working so hard to appear uninterested in the conversation. “Maybe now she’ll talk about something other than the rugelach. The way she’s been going on, you’d think it was caviar from the very last Beluga whale on earth. They were just cookies.”