Prejudice & Pride

by Lynn Messina

  Carl sees, or thinks he sees, enough to be jealous, and after the Bethle brothers leave and everyone else turns in, he teases Darcy about her crush.

  “I hope,” he says as he refills her wineglass with a crisp pinot noir, “you will give your husband, when that happy event occurs, much-needed career advice. Use one of your connections to wrangle the poor man a job at a respectable museum. And explain to his current employer the advantages of holding his tongue. Also—and I realize this might be overstepping—see if you can’t tone down his attitude; he’s just a little too sure of himself.”

  “Any other dating advice?” Darcy asks, her voice remaining neutral as she sips the wine.

  “You must hang a portrait of your father-in-law in the gallery at Pemberley. Put it next to your grandfather, the judge. They’re in the same profession, you know, only in different lines. And you must also include a portrait of his uncle, the used-car salesman—in oils, naturally. As for Bennet’s picture, you shouldn’t even attempt to have it done. No painter could possibly do justice to those beautiful eyes.”

  “You’re right,” she agrees. “A painting might copy their color and shape and the eyelashes, so remarkably fine, but it would never capture their expression. Obviously, it will have to be a photograph.”

  At that moment, Hurst enters the room and asks if anyone has seen his phone. “I’ve tried calling it, but there’s no ring, so the battery’s probably dead.”

  “Rotten luck,” Carl says, leaning comfortably against the wall. When Darcy gets up to help with the search, he straightens his shoulders and lifts up the sofa cushions.

  CHAPTER NINE

  A few days later, Bennet is surprised to discover the Bingston brothers have within their catty little souls the ability to be perfectly pleasant human beings when they condescend to make the effort. He doesn’t share this finding with John because his brother, who rarely holds a negative opinion about anyone, already thinks well of the Bingstons. To him, however, it’s a revelation to learn how easily they can hold a conversation and how accurately they can describe an outing and how humorously they can relate an anecdote and how kindly they can laugh at an acquaintance.

  It is, he thinks as Carl offers him another beer, the first enjoyable hour he’s ever spent in their company.

  The reason behind their affability is simple: The women aren’t there. Darcy, Bingley and Lucy are out at a food tasting, and with nobody to witness their posturing, they don’t bother to pose. Instead, they reveal themselves to be excellent hosts, apologizing for their sister’s tardiness and providing a variety of refreshments.

  Bennet is at the Netherfield only because Bingley begged him to help her pick out the place settings for the ball. John is also there to aid and abet napkin selection, but no pleading was required to secure his presence. He’s happy to comply with all Bingley’s requests, and although their relationship is entirely circumspect—nothing to raise the eyebrows of the National Association of Fundraisers here!—it’s clear to Bennet that both parties are equally infatuated.

  After an hour, the women come home, and Carl instantly reverts to form, accosting Darcy with a question before she can even put down her handbag. She shrugs off her jacket and excuses herself to change out of her business clothes. Bingley, her arms brimming with packages, apologizes profusely for being so late.

  “I want to blame the traffic,” she says. “Can I blame the traffic?”

  “Only if traffic is code for paella,” Lucy says, taking a sip of her husband’s beer as she sits on the couch.

  Bingley lays the boxes on the round table by the window and says, “The traffic was so delicious I had to have more.”

  “By which she means, she liked the paella so much, she had the caterer make a second batch,” Lucy explains.

  “In my defense, the first batch was very small,” she says.

  “Yes, because it’s a tasting,” her sister-in-law replies, “wherein one tastes a variety of foods in order to decide which ones to serve at one’s event. If one were meant to consume every crumb in sight, it would be called a consumption.”

  “Sounds like lunchtime at the sanitarium,” Carl says.

  Bingley scoffs and insists it sounds delightful. “Every crumb in sight is my favorite food group. But these attempts to distract me from the greater purpose at hand will not work.” She holds up a book of napkin swatches. “We must decide on the table settings for the ball. Now who has what it takes to pick a color scheme and stick by it no matter how much I belittle their taste?”

  Lucy, Carl and Hurst disqualify themselves immediately, claiming lack of interest, not lack of fortitude, and John happily throws himself into the fray. Bennet intends to help out, too, but just as he’s about to stand up, he gets a text from Meryton asking for an update on Bingley and John’s status and reiterating his preference for pastel table linens. “Strong colors compete w/ money,” he writes.

  Everything competes with money, Bennet thinks as he types a terse reply assuring the absent director that his voice will be heard. He doesn’t address the matter of Bingley and John’s status because there’s nothing to say. Yes, they look as thick as thieves, their heads close together as they converse quietly, but a few speaking glances do not a relationship make and John is far too much of a professional to put the moves on a patron. If anything is to happen between the two, it will be because Bingley cannot stand the interminable flirting one second longer and attacks him.

  Bennet can’t wait for that moment.

  Lucy grumbles about how full she is because she ate too much paella and asks if anyone wants to play Words with Friends. Carl eagerly takes her up on the offer, but before he can put out his first word (warble, 13 points), Darcy returns, requiring a redistribution of his attention. The object of his admiration observes the occupants of the room engaged in various activities, selects a novel from the bookshelf and sits down to read. Carl immediately follows suit, and although his efforts to appear literate seem sincere, he spends more time watching Darcy progress through her book than reading his own. He also keeps asking questions or looking at her page. His attempts to start a conversation, though manifold and creative, come to naught, for Darcy merely supplies the answer and returns to her novel.

  Finally, Carl, tired of trying to immerse himself in a drawn-out tale of a slowly dissolving marriage, which he only chose because it’s by the same author as Darcy’s, stretches his arms and says, “What a unique experience it is to read a book book. I read on my phone so much, I’d forgotten how satisfying it can be to hold the actual object in my hands. When I have a house of my own, I’m going to have shelves and shelves of books. I’ll even get an entire set of encyclopedias. Hashtag kitsch.”

  No one replies to his clever comment, and Carl drops the book onto the couch and looks around the room for something to do. Hearing Bingley describe a fork as monstrous, he joins the Gold Circle Diamond Society meeting to offer a differing opinion, which is summarily ignored by the more established members of the committee.

  Determined to attract Darcy’s attention, Carl decides to strike up a conversation with Bennet and calls him over to the window. “You should really get a look at the view. You can see the whole park.”

  Although Bennet is surprised to be singled out, he’s watched the other man’s aimless progression through the room and realizes he’s a last resort. The other man’s level of desperation amuses him so much that even if he passes the entire evening at the Netherfield without so much as looking at a primrose-colored napkin or lobster fork, he’ll consider the time well spent.

  Nodding agreeably, Bennet joins him at the window and, observing all of Central Park laid out before them, says, “It’s very impressive.”

  Darcy, who’s also surprised by Carl’s unprecedented friendliness, looks up and closes her book without thinking. Immediately, she’s invited to join them by the window, but she declines with the assurance she can see the view well enough from the couch.

  “Ah, but from here you ca
n see everything,” Carl says, listing the many features of Central Park: the zoo, the boathouse, the skating rink.

  At the mention of Wollman Rink, Bingley looks up and says, “I love skating. I do a mean figure four.”

  “Figure four?” John says.

  She dimples. “Half a figure eight.”

  “Isn’t that a zero?” Darcy asks.

  Bingley acknowledges the dig and returns to looking at china patterns.

  Bennet asks, “Where does the ability to skate fall on the list of achievements for the well-rounded gentleman? Does it come before or after reading The Brothers Karamazov in the original Russian?”

  “Physical agility is important,” Carl says thoughtfully. “I’d put it ahead of literature, wouldn’t you, Darcy?”

  She doesn’t address the issue directly but rather says, “Bennet isn’t interested in the answer. He’s making fun of me.”

  Carl, as if genuinely stumped by the notion of making fun of Darcy Fitzwilliam, stares at Bennet with baffled eyes. You could sooner make fun of the Dalai Lama. “Darcy doesn’t provide enough material for mockery. She’s too smart and kind—you can’t laugh at her and you’ll only embarrass yourself by trying.”

  “You can’t laugh at her,” Bennet repeats. “Well, that’s a rare superpower and I hope it stays that way—at least, among the people I know. I love laughing.”

  “Carl is giving me too much credit,” Darcy says. “I can be laughed at. Anyone can be turned into a punch line by a person determined to mock them, even Superman himself.”

  “That’s true,” Bennet agrees, thinking Clark Kent is actually too easy a target to be worth the effort. “But I would never mock anything thoughtful, kind or clever. I’m amused by people’s follies and their nonsense—when they say one thing and do the opposite and have no sense at all of the contradiction. But these sort of shortcomings, I suppose, are exactly the kind you lack.”

  “I have foibles,” Darcy says. “I have many foibles. But I work hard to avoid the kind of weaknesses that would subject me to ridicule.”

  “Such as vanity and pride,” Bennet says.

  “Vanity is always a weakness, certainly,” she concedes, “but if someone is clever, pride isn’t a problem. An intelligent person can keep it in check.”

  Bennet turns away to hide a smile.

  “If you’re done cross-examining the witness,” Carl says peevishly, “why don’t you state your verdict so we can all move on to something more interesting. Have I mentioned the view yet?”

  Although he’s not convinced their brief exchange rises to the level of a cross-examination, Bennet says, “You’re both right. Darcy is perfect.”

  “No,” Darcy says firmly and impatiently. “I never said I was perfect. I’m quite imperfect. I have a bad temper. I’m stubborn. I don’t let go of things. I’m not swayed by emotion. I’m resentful. I hold grudges. Once my good opinion is lost, it can’t be regained.”

  Bennet is quiet as he considers her list. After a moment he says, “Implacable resentment is a significant failing, and it’s a clever one, too, because there’s nothing funny about it. You’re safe from me.”

  “Everyone has a fault they can’t overcome, no matter how enlightened they are, ” Darcy says defensively.

  “And your fault is a tendency to hate everybody.”

  “And yours,” she replies with a smile, “is to deliberately misunderstand them.”

  “All right, then, let’s turn on the TV,” Carl says, tired of a conversation in which he has no part. “Tottenham played Arsenal today, and ESPN is replaying it at eight.”

  At the mention of the Spurs, Hurst reaches for the remote and turns on the screen. Darcy is grateful for the distraction. She’s paying too much attention to Bennet for her own peace of mind.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Although the entrance foyer to the Longbourn is not as large and gracious as the original drawings intended, owing to a misunderstanding with the builder and an unexpected shortage of Carrara marble, it’s rarely the site of head-on collisions, and Bennet stares in horror at the beautiful brown-haired woman sprawled on the floor. He drops to his knees to check for damage. “I’m sorry. I totally didn’t see you there. Are you all right? Anything broken?”

  His victim, whose bright blue eyes glint with humor as they inspect him, swears she’s perfectly fine. “My ego has taken a beating, because I’d thought I’d mastered the art of walking and talking, but I’m otherwise uninjured. And, truly, you don’t owe me an apology. It was all my fault. I wasn’t looking where I was going at all, which is something I do quite a lot. But I resolve to get better. Let’s schedule another pass for tomorrow at the same time and see if I can pull it off without a pratfall.”

  Charmed by her easy manner and endearing self-deprecation, Bennet insists on accepting half the blame. “I was in a hurry.”

  “Far be it for me to argue with a handsome man determined to absolve me of guilt,” she says with a slow grin as she gathers the many files that scattered in her fall.

  Bennet picks up several sheets of paper and straightens them into a neat pile. He looks at the logo of a crimson-colored shield with a gold crown in the center and reads the name of the company. “Redcoat Design?” he asks, handing her the stack.

  She puts the papers into a large white binder with the same crimson logo, crumpling the edges in her rush to stuff them all in. “Yes, we’re working on the Impressionism and fashion exhibit.”

  “I was just in the gallery,” he says. “It looks wonderful. You’ve done a brilliant job.”

  The woman’s cheeks turn a light shade of pink, and she looks down at the binder she’s clutching. “Thanks, but I can’t take all the credit. Who am I kidding? I can’t take any of the credit. I’m not a designer. Well, I am a designer, but I only recently graduated from the program and am still establishing myself. So at the moment, I’m just a foot soldier in the regiment, so to speak. I do a lot of answering the phone, which I’m very good at, provided I’m not walking around the office at the time. And I photocopy and do the very important work of replacing the toner in the printer. Oh, and tripping, of course. I’m lead tripper on all Redcoat Design projects.”

  “Knowing how difficult it is to rise to any position of prominence in an office setting, I must congratulate you on your achievement,” Bennet says with a grin. “And yet I’m more impressed by your ability to replace the toner, although the hard part isn’t actually changing the toner.”

  “It’s finding the cartridges,” she says, finishing his thought. “They’re always hidden in some obscure cabinet with the Post-its.”

  “Naturally,” he says. “In the hierarchy of coveted office supplies, it goes Post-its, staplers, toner cartridges, Wite-Out.”

  She wrinkles her nose, her blue eyes alive with mischief. “Does anyone really use Wite-Out anymore?”

  Bennet laughs. “Have I unintentionally revealed something deeply mortifying about myself?”

  “Oh, indeed,” she says with a giggle. “I believe it’s now incumbent on me to suddenly remember a very important engagement.”

  Before Bennet can reply to her teasing remark with a teasing one of his own, John calls his name and he becomes keenly aware that the two of them are still on the floor. Coloring slightly because he usually has more finesse than to keep a woman on her knees, Bennet stands up and holds out his hand to help her to her feet as well. As he turns to introduce her to his brothers, he realizes he doesn’t know her name.

  “I’m Bennet Bethle,” he says, holding out his hand.

  Her grip is firm and warm. “Georgia Wickham. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “And these,” he says with a gesture in their general direction, “are my brothers John and Lydon. We work in the development department.”

  “They work,” Lydon says with the boyish insouciance that goes over so well with the tourists in the café. “I slave.”

  “He gets a stipend so the reports of his servitude are greatly exaggerated
,” John says, as he shakes Georgia’s hand.

  “Small stipend,” Lydon says, pinching a whisper of space between his thumb and index finger. “Very small.”

  “Georgia works for the company that’s designing Art & Style,” Bennet explains.

  “Redcoat?” John says. “They’ve done an excellent job. Everyone here is very pleased, especially our exhibition team, which is relieved to have the help. Like all nonprofits, we’re understaffed.”

  “I’ll tell that to my boss,” Georgia says. “The praise part, not the understaffed bit. We’re understaffed, too, and it might sound like I’m subtly hinting for an assistant.”

  “I could use an assistant,” Lydon says.

  “Like that,” Georgia says, laughing. “Except, you know, subtle.”

  “Lydon doesn’t know the meaning of subtle,” Bennet says.

  The youngest Bethle dips at the waist, as if sketching a quick bow. “I must apologize for my brother, whose manners aren’t always entirely appropriate,” he says, then smirks at Bennet. “And that, my friend, is what we in the biz call throwing shade. Deal.”

  Georgia laughs as John tries to ascertain from his brother what business he’s referring to and Bennet questions Lydon’s inclusion in any industry.

  It’s in the middle of this energetic discussion that Bingley and Darcy arrive. They enter through the lobby doors and stop briefly at the admissions desk before spotting the Bethle brothers near the brochure rack. Bingley greets them with a cheerful hello and Darcy with her customary reserve.

  “Do note, Bennet, that I’m here in the capacity of delivery boy,” Bingley says, waving a large manila envelope proudly. “You’re not the only one charged with menial tasks.”

  “I’m sure nobody has ever charged you with a menial anything,” Bennet says to Bingley’s delight.