Prejudice & Pride

by Lynn Messina

  Bingley laughs at her brother’s tantrum. “He’s dismissive now, but he fought me over the last piece.”

  “I was hungry,” he says peevishly, “and the croissants were stale.”

  As his sister declares the croissant story a red herring, Bennet looks at Ms. Fitzwilliam, who, like Mr. Carl Bingston, has perfected the glassy-eyed stare of the outrageously bored. Bennet doesn’t question the sincerity of her tedium, for he imagines it runs very deep indeed, but he still resents its blatant demonstration. It’s a measure of her disrespect, he thinks, that she doesn’t even try to hide it. If the Met Gala bored her to tears, she’d paste a smile on her face and insist she was fascinated.

  Determined to draw her into the conversation—mostly out of spite, he readily admits—Bennet pastes on his own smile and says, “What about you, Ms. Fitzwilliam? Did you like the rugelach?”

  Without raising her eyes to meet his or even tilting her head in his general direction, Darcy says no. The single syllable hangs in the air, heavy and flat, for several seconds, creating an uncomfortable silence. Bennet knows he should say something to break the awkwardness, but he’s too irritated by her rudeness to make the effort. He holds his peace and waits to see what she’ll do next.

  But Meryton, with a confused, sideward glance at his director of corporate giving, acts first. “Your enthusiasm is refreshing, Ms. Bingston. We could certainly use someone with your energy and ideas on our Golden Diamond Circle Advisory Board. We host many wonderful events attended by some of the most important and influential people in New York, and we’re always hoping to enlist enthusiastic newcomers. If you’re interested in chairing the committee, we’d love to discuss it with you in greater depth.”

  Bingley dimples charmingly and, assuring Meryton she’d love to hear more, instructs him to call her assistant Mitzy to set up an appointment. Then she turns to John. “Mr. Bethle, ‘It Had to Be You’ is one of my favorite songs. Would you be so kind as to indulge me?”

  The look of surprise on John’s face is almost comical, and he stares at her outstretched hand as if not sure what to do with it. Should he shake it? Give it a high five? Finally, he says, “Yes. Yes, of course. I’d be delighted.”

  Jubilant, Meryton watches the pair cross to the dance floor, so elegant in their finery, so well matched in their beauty. Glowing with triumph, revving with expectation, he turns to Darcy to win her over as well.

  “I cannot tell you what a thrill it is to meet you, Ms. Fitzwilliam,” he says fawningly. “Had I known you were in New York, we would have sent you a welcome basket, too. At the Longbourn, we’re very fond of the esteemed de Bourgh family. Your aunt Catherine de Bourgh, a majestic woman if I ever saw one, is a dedicated patron of the arts. No doubt you’d like to continue the great family tradition. I’m happy to discuss your chairing a committee as well.”

  Darcy’s expression doesn’t change—her brow doesn’t wrinkle, her lips don’t purse—but Bennet can feel her disgust. It’s as if she’s radiating repugnance. How dare this upstart beggar have the impudence to talk about her family?

  “Excuse me,” she says stiffly and walks away. The remaining members of the Bingston party follow closely at her heels.

  “Of course,” Meryton says to her receding back. “We’ll pick this up later.”

  But the executive director never does pick it up later, because even he is daunted by Darcy’s unfriendliness. Instead, he contents himself with one triumph for the evening, for what a triumph it is. John and Bingley dance together for twenty-two minutes. Almost a full half hour! They only stop when the Juilliard students take a break.

  “I have a good feeling about this,” Meryton says to Bennet as he watches John hand a flute of champagne to Bingley.

  Although his boss is prone to having good feelings about things that never come to pass, Bennet must concede that the relationship between his brother and Bingley seems inordinately promising. John’s handsome face and unassuming nature make him a favorite among their female patrons, but he’s always treated them with a sort of indifferent kindness—easy smile, amiable conversation, affable banter.

  But now he’s different.

  Pleased by the development on a personal level, not professional, Bennet scans the courtyard for Julian Martindale, with whom he has yet to connect, and finds him by the grand marble staircase that leads to the second-floor loggia.

  “It’s from a piazza overlooking the Rialto,” Bennet explains as he approaches the director of community affairs at Venture. “They had to bring it over in three parts. If you stand on the fourth and ninth steps, you can see the seams.”

  Julian runs his hands over the smooth balustrade. “It’s gorgeous. Actually, the whole place is. I was just exploring the galleries on the first floor. The Degas over the fireplace is magnificent.”

  Bennet knows it: a trio of ballerinas in startlingly bright pink dresses standing to one side of the stage.

  “There are more Degas ballerinas on the third floor,” Bennet says. “I’d be happy to show them to you.”

  “I’d love to see them. I was just saying to my assistant that we should come back for the ten-cent tour during business hours to get the full experience.”

  Bennet thinks this interest is a very good sign, but he doesn’t let himself get excited. There are still a dozen steps between the ten-cent tour and a generous check. “Excellent. I’ll arrange it with your office in the morning. I can show you some sketches for our show on Impressionism, fashion and modernity, which is opening next month. It’s in a different space than the Bauhaus exhibition but will still give you a sense of how our curators work.”

  “Sounds great,” Julian says as the orchestra, returning from its dinner break, plays the opening strains of “I’ve Got You Under My Skin.”

  “I was about to get myself another drink,” Bennet says, noting the other man’s empty glass. “Can I interest you in a refill?”

  “That would be wonderful,” he says. “I’m drinking gimlets. Vodka.”

  On the way to the bar, Bennet passes the mopesy twins, who are brimming with disapproval on the edge of the dance floor.

  “Does this even rise to the level of Venetian kitsch?” Carl asks Darcy with dismissive scorn. “I mean, all this fake Italian architecture is so sincere it makes my teeth ache. I want to laugh, but it’s too sad. All I can manage is a sigh of pity.”

  During his seven-year tenure, Bennet has heard the building described negatively on many occasions. Paul Goldberger of The New Yorker, reviewing the renovation that had wrapped up in the late aughts, lamented the lack of canals sufficient to the grandeur of the Longbourn and suggested the building be relocated to the Gowanus, a former industrial waterway so polluted it had been deemed a Superfund site.

  But there’s something about Carl’s derision that makes his comments harder to swallow than Goldberger’s proposal to move the museum to a toxic waste dump. It’s his blanket superiority that’s so galling, Bennet thinks as he turns abruptly to confront the supercilious young man. It’s the smug knowingness of his tone and its elemental meanness.

  Bennet’s hand is in the air, his index finger only inches from Carl’s shoulder, when the inappropriateness of his intentions strikes him. He can’t go around castigating guests for their opinions.

  Mortified, he pretends to swat a fly and drops his hand.

  By the time he reaches the bar, he’s calmed down, but seeing Lydon hanging on the arm of a petite redhead in a diamond choker irritates him all over again. Carefully, Bennet extricates his brother from the fortysomething donor’s French-manicured grasp and sends him back to the door. He realizes it’s unlikely Lydon will stay there, but short of posting a guard at the front table, which the Longbourn hasn’t budgeted for, he doesn’t know what he can do to make him stay put.

  Worse comes to worst, I can always have him thrown out of the party, Bennet thinks as he orders a vodka gimlet for Julian. Although he knows it’s not a viable solution, simply having the option improves his moo
d, and he spends the next hour energetically mixing with donors. With his quick wit and memory for detail, he finds conversing with acquaintances and strangers to be the easiest part of his job.

  He’s asking a real estate developer about his recent safari in Tanzania when he hears Bingley’s elegant alto: “Seriously, Darcy, you have to dance. You can’t stand here by yourself all night glaring at everyone. You look ridiculous.”

  Having observed the sulky heiress’s glare for more than an hour, Bennet is amused by her friend’s entreaty, and he glances around to discover their location—four feet in front of him and off to the right. Immediately, he turns back to the mogul and compliments his daring in climbing Kilimanjaro.

  “It wasn’t very daring,” Roberto says before launching into a detailed explanation of the many hazards he’d faced. Bennet nods attentively but keeps one ear trained on the other conversation.

  “I certainly will not,” Darcy says. “I hate dancing with strangers, which you very well know. And, really, look at this crowd.”

  “What’s wrong with this crowd?” Bingley asks, genuinely mystified.

  “It’s scruffy,” Darcy says.

  “Scruffy?”

  “Scruffy,” she says again before deigning to explain. “Half the women are wearing last year’s couture, and the other half aren’t wearing couture at all. Take that woman over there in the tartan skirt.”

  “That’s a man in a kilt.”

  “Exactly,” Darcy says with satisfaction. “Kilts went out with goatees. Where are we? In 2005? Let me get my peasant top and chunky highlights.”

  “Kilts are timeless,” Bingley says. “You’re just being difficult. There are dozens of attractive men you could dance with.”

  Darcy snorts—at least, Bennet identifies it as a snort. “Easy for you to say, you’re dancing with the only handsome one here.”

  “Omigod! Is he not the most beautiful creature you’ve ever seen?” Bingley asks with a delighted chuckle. “What about his brother? He’s behind you. I think he’s very good looking.”

  “Which do you mean?” Darcy asks and turns around to look at Bennet, who, unwilling to be caught eavesdropping, quickly averts his gaze. But the pull of curiosity is too strong and he raises his head again to find himself staring into Darcy’s eyes. Immediately, she turns away and says, “He’s all right, but not handsome enough to interest me. And even so, I’d probably have to listen to another Golden Diamond Precious Metal Very Important Committee pitch, and I can’t imagine anything more tedious. Development types are always begging for something. You might as well give up, as you’re wasting your time.”

  Bingley sighs and follows her friend’s advice.

  “Ultimately, altitude sickness is what does people in,” Roberto says, drawing Bennet’s attention back to their conversation. “I wasn’t bothered by it, which is no great surprise—last year I climbed the Inca trail and didn’t notice the altitude. I think a lot of that comes from preparedness training. Too many people hop on a plane without thinking about the rigors of adventure travel.”

  Bennet nods as if he himself has noticed this particular trend, and, encouraged, the developer recounts the many challenges of climbing the Inca trail. Midway through the retelling, Meryton interrupts to thank Roberto for his generous donation to their summer program, and Bennet excuses himself to check on Lydon. As he walks to the entrance area, he passes Darcy and, feeling particularly uncordial toward her, darts her a peeved look. He can’t care less about what one rude heiress thinks of him, and yet he feels the sharp sting of irritation at her comments.

  It’s ego, he thinks.

  Bennet’s ego is still feeling the prick three hours later when he sits down with John in the quiet courtyard to have a celebratory beer. The caterers are carrying out the last of their crates, and the cleanup crew is sweeping the floor. Hannah, her auburn hair pulled back in a sturdy bun, is directing the effort.

  “To us,” John says as he clanks his beer bottle against Bennet’s. “Another gala fundraiser over and nobody tried to scale the wall to the balcony.”

  “Here, here,” his brother says, taking a long sip of the cold brew. “And Lydon didn’t elope with a divorcee.”

  John smiles. “That’s right, he didn’t.”

  “And Meryton didn’t ask a single woman to donate her diamond earrings.”

  “Another check in the win column,” John says.

  “And you met a fabulous woman,” Bennet adds.

  John opens his mouth to cheer again, but nothing comes out as the substance of his brother’s remark hits him. Although his instinct is to protest, he shrugs, smiles and turns slightly pink. “She’s great, isn’t she? Funny, smart, clever, down to earth.”

  “Rich,” Bennet adds, rounding out the list, “beautiful.”

  John doesn’t hear him. “I was shocked when she asked me to dance. I mean, yeah, the rugelach was good, but it wasn’t that good.”

  Bennet laughs. Even after twenty-eight years, he’s still amazed by his older brother’s lack of vanity. “I don’t think she asked you to dance because of the rugelach.”

  Uncomfortable with the implication, John dips his head and examines the label on the bottle. “Her brothers seemed nice, a little standoffish at first but all right once you got them talking.”

  Bennet shrugs, unable to conceive what it would take to get the disdainful Carl talking. He doesn’t doubt that his brother could do it—John’s good nature and sincere enthusiasm can overcome even the most entrenched churlishness—but it seems like an awful lot of effort for very little reward.

  But he would bite off his own tongue before offering any criticism of Bingley’s family. He doesn’t want to dull the luster in his brother’s eyes.

  “Did you talk to Darcy?” John asks.

  Now Bennet speaks freely. “Did anyone? She swatted away all comers with a scornful flick of the wrist. She even swatted me away before I could make the mistake of approaching,” he says, giving his brother a rundown of Bingley’s conversation with Darcy.

  By the time he’s done, they’re both laughing.

  “Clearly, she didn’t recognize Mickey Kiminski in his finery,” John says, naming the famous stand-up comedian whose trademark fashion statement is a kilt.

  “No, but even so, I don’t think she would be very impressed. New money.”

  John shakes his head and admits he didn’t have any luck with Darcy either. “It’s strange that Bingley is friends with her. She’s so outgoing and affable, and Darcy is quiet and withdrawn.”

  “If by quiet and withdrawn, you mean moody and sullen, then I wholeheartedly agree,” Bennet says before suggesting they head out—Meryton will soon return from collecting his things in the office. Neither brother has the energy or the inclination for an immediate and longwinded debrief of the evening. The morning is soon enough.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The first thing Darcy Fitzwilliam noticed about Bennet Bethle was his eyes. Golden brown and fringed with long, dark lashes, they seem to hold an expression of perpetual amusement, as if everything makes him laugh.

  There were, she concedes thoughtfully as she climbs into the black town car waiting for her by the curb in front of Pemberley, her ancestral home on Fifth Avenue, many funny things at last night’s gala. The building, for example: how strange to turn the corner of a leafy New York street and see the Ca’ d’Oro, with its delicate crenellations and inflected arches, towering over suburban basketball nets and Range Rovers. She can’t imagine anything more out of place, except, perhaps, herself.

  It’s just like her friend to insist they attend a Venetian-themed party at a faux palazzo on the other side of the river, to not consider—or not care—about the tacit commitment her attendance implied. Bingley, with her outgoing nature and her adventurous spirit, is always game for a new experience. She doesn’t mind fussy little men making claims on her money, time and connections.

  Darcy does, and as she stood on the edge of the dance floor, she’d counted
the many ways the event displeased her. Where Bingley had looked and seen a crowd of friendly, interesting people, she’d seen only a collection of unremarkable bores: provincial climbers with social aspirations as high as their hair, sporting Jackie O pearls and estate sale diamonds.

  Naturally, that fussy little man—oh, what was his name, Merydale, Meryvale, Merydon?—had asked Bingley to chair some ridiculous social committee. Fussy little men, with their hunger and unquenchable desire for more money, always do. This one had been particularly absurd, with his inconsequential chatter and nervous twitter. The details of the actual conversation escape her now. All she can remember is being ambushed almost immediately upon arriving by the usual assortment of development types and being bored out of her mind. Rugelach. Blah, blah, blah.

  And that, perhaps, was the funniest thing from the previous evening: how quickly she’d become fascinated by a man she had no recollection of meeting. When Bingley suggested she dance with the other Bethle brother, Darcy had had no idea whom she meant, and when she turned to look—without admiration—she found nothing familiar about his face or form.

  But no sooner had she written him off as another mindless lackey than she’d noticed the keen intelligence in his dark eyes. Other disturbing observations followed. She noted his broad shoulders and tall, lithe build. His face, which she’d dismissed as plain, suddenly seemed to be a beguiling combination of hard angles: the strong jaw, the high cheek bones, the straight nose. She liked the sound of his laughter, deep and vibrant and alive.

  She began to follow him around the courtyard. She told herself it was a game to alleviate her boredom, but the real reason was, she wanted to know more about him. His conversations were enlightening. He had a lively sense of humor and gave his opinion freely without wondering how it would be received, something she admired and didn’t expect from a perpetual supplicant. Sticking to your guns and pleading for money rarely go hand in hand.