by Lynn Messina
“True. True. I only charge myself. The invitations are ready and I couldn’t wait to show John,” she says, “and you and Lydon, of course. And I’m sure Mr. Meryton will be pleased to see them as well.”
Bingley opens the envelope, and Darcy corroborates her friend’s story, explaining that they’ve come directly from the printer. No waiting on messengers today!
“Look. Look. It’s perfect,” Bingley announces as she gives the invitation, boldly colored and yet surprisingly elegant, to John to examine.
Darcy, determined not to look at Bennet, fixes her gaze on everything else: Bingley, the manila envelope, John’s grin. Then her eyes shift to the right and are arrested by the sight of the stranger. Bennet, who catches the expression on both their faces as they stare at each other, is astonished by the effect of the meeting. Both change color: One looks white, the other red. Georgia, after a moment, dips her head—a greeting Darcy barely deigns to return.
Bennet marvels at the cold exchange and wonders at its cause. He can’t imagine what it could be, and he can’t stop himself from wanting to know.
John admires the invitation with all due effusiveness, which further delights Bingley, and the two smile at each other in perfect accord, pleased with the result of their collaboration. Lydon’s insistence on examining the invitation himself interrupts the moment, and Bennet realizes he has once again failed to make proper introductions. Before he can rectify the oversight, Bingley, seemingly unaware of what’s just passed, announces they have to go.
“I’m a terrible delivery boy,” she says, “dropping and running. I’m sorry I can’t stay for lunch or coffee or general merriment.”
“You are the opposite of a terrible delivery boy,” Bennet says, laughing.
“No, you are the opposite of a terrible delivery boy,” she says firmly, “and I seek to emulate your example. But not right now. Darcy has an appointment at one, and I’ve hijacked her long enough. We will see you soon. Don’t work too hard—unless it’s in preparation for the ball, in which case, knock yourself out.”
Bingley threads her arm through Darcy’s and waves good-bye as they stroll toward the door. As soon as they’re gone, Bennet turns to Georgia and apologizes for failing to introduce her.
“I warned you,” Lydon says gleefully, “that my brother’s manners aren’t always entirely appropriate.”
Bennet readily concedes the point, most likely a first in their relationship, and offers to buy Georgia a cup of coffee in the café as penance. She thanks him for the invitation but regrets the timing. “I’ve got to get back to the office. Cases of Wite-Out don’t order themselves, you know.”
“Is that a dig?” Bennet asks.
“Yeah,” she says.
He nods. “OK.”
“Can I take a rain check on that coffee?”
“Absolutely,” Bennet says, “and it comes with an upgrade option for dinner.”
“I’m in,” Georgia says, taking out her phone to enter his details. Then she snaps a quick selfie and texts it to him. “Just let me know where and when.”
“Slick move,” Lydon says admiringly as she walks away. “I’m totally co-opting it. In fact, I’m going to try the selfie-text right now. Later, drones.”
John and Bennet barely have time to wave before Lydon disappears into the courtyard. At once surprised by their baby brother’s audacity and perfectly resigned to it, Bennet and John return to the office to show Meryton the invitation. As they wend their way through the Longbourn’s sweeping corridors, Bennet relates what he’d seen pass between the two women, and John, who would have defended either or both had one appeared to be wrong, is no more able to explain the behavior than his brother.
It’s a mystery indeed.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Georgia Wickham tells Bennet everything he could possibly want to know about the bobbin. Yes, the bobbin, that round object with flat ends and a tube in its center around which thread or yarn is wound.
It hardly seems like stimulating dinner conversation, and yet the way she relates the travails of her sewing class—ahem, Introduction to Construction Techniques—makes it one of the most entertaining subjects Bennet’s ever discussed. She has an effortless ability, he thinks as the waiter clears their dinner plates, for rendering the commonest, dullest, most threadbare topic interesting.
“Ultimately, the bobbin is a metaphor for life,” Georgia says, then holds up a hand to preempt a comment he hadn’t intended to make. “I know. I know. Anything can be a metaphor for life, but hear me out. I’m right about this one.” She takes a sip of red wine and dabs at the corner of her mouth with a white cloth napkin. “You see, the bobbin is a metaphor for life because it represents that commonplace thing that always does you in. We expect elaborate disasters, we prepare for them, but it’s the mundane little bobbin that derails your entire final project.”
Bennet laughs in appreciation of her well-articulated and highly entertaining thesis and asks what her final project for Introduction to Construction Techniques would have been if not entirely derailed by one ill-behaved bobbin. But what he really wants to know is her history with Darcy.
He can’t ask. He can’t even mention her name.
Luckily, he doesn’t have to because Georgia brings up the subject herself by asking how long Darcy has been in the city.
“About a month,” Bennet says, and, unwilling to let the subject drop, adds, “She prefers London, I understand, even though she owns a huge mansion on Fifth Avenue.”
“Yes,” Georgia replies, “Pemberley is beautiful—stunning. The recent renovations, which were supposed to be merely cosmetic, hit a snag when they realized all the pipes needed to be replaced, so it’s become a massive undertaking. I’m not surprised. The hot water was always a problem. Early in the morning or very late at night, it never quite reached the top floor.”
Bennet can’t hide his astonishment.
“I’m sure it’s very shocking to discover I lived there, given the chilly nature of our meeting last week, which you had to have noticed because, well, you have eyes,” she says. “But I’ve known Darcy and her family my whole life. Do you know her well?”
“As well as I hope to,” Bennet says, wondering what the connection could be between this endearing young woman and the frosty Fitzwilliam clan. “I’ve been at the Netherfield a lot to help Bingley plan the ball she’s throwing, so I’ve spent a good amount of time in her presence. I think she’s very unpleasant.”
“Really?” Georgia asks, her eyes widening in surprise. “Most people think she’s lovely.”
Bennet scoffs. “I’m surprised most people aren’t put off by her pride.”
“But she has all that lovely money and consequence,” Georgia says, then pauses as the waiter brings dessert menus and offers coffee. They gratefully accept the latter and pass on the former. “Nobody is put off by money or consequence. People love it. And they’re intimidated by her imposing manners. She holds herself in very high esteem and the world obligingly follows suit.”
After two cups of coffee are delivered with a flourish, Georgia asks, “Do you know if she plans to stay in the city for long? I expect it will be a short visit because of the plumbing situation.”
“I don’t know,” Bennet says, “but I haven’t heard anything about her leaving. I hope her plans don’t affect yours.”
“Absolutely not. New York is my home and I won’t let Darcy drive me away,” Georgia says emphatically. “I haven’t done anything wrong. She’s the one who’s disgraced the memory of her mother by going against her wishes. Mrs. Fitzwilliam was the kindest woman who ever lived and the best friend I ever had. As terrible as Darcy has treated me—and it has been, I assure you, very terrible—I feel compelled to accept it out of respect for her mother.”
Bennet, who truly doesn’t consider himself given to gossip, finds his interest in the subject whetted to an unbearable degree. As much as he wants to know more, however, he can’t bring himself to ask, and when Georgia disc
erns sweet hints of cantaloupe in the coffee, he nods and points to a subtle note of sunflower seed.
The conversation stays on general topics—New York, the design world, the rigors of employment.
“Don’t get me wrong, I genuinely like waking up every morning and having somewhere to go,” Georgia says. “If left to my own devices, I’d lounge around in my pajamas all day, binge-watching something like Friends and trying to decide if it holds up while I slowly sink into depression. It’s just that I never thought I’d have a practical office job. All my life, I was going to be an artist. Mrs. Fitzwilliam, knowing how I felt and believing in my talent, promised to support me in that endeavor. Darcy betrayed that promise.”
“What?” Bennet exclaims, truly shocked.
“When she died, Mrs. Fitzwilliam left me stock in Fitzwilliam Company, but Darcy had the will overturned so I’d get nothing. So much for painting in a garret in Paris! Instead, I had to return to school to learn a practical skill like graphic design. See? I told you the bobbin is a metaphor for life.”
“I can’t believe it,” Bennet says, horrified. “Did you hire a lawyer to fight it?”
“With what money?” she asks. “I would have needed a team of lawyers to fight Darcy, who could have tied the case up in the courts for years, and by the time I got my inheritance, it would have been barely enough to cover my legal bills. Darcy knew exactly what she was doing.”
“That’s awful. She deserves to be publicly disgraced. You should tell your story to Mashable or TMZ. A petty heiress would get a lot of play in the media.”
Georgia shakes her head. “Sooner or later, a gossip site will get the story and expose her mercilessly, but it won’t be by my hand. I owe her mother too much.”
Bennet is greatly impressed with her high-minded restraint and, as he watches the candlelight flicker in her eyes, thinks she’s even lovelier than before.
“But what’s her motive? Why be so cruel?”
“Jealousy,” she says simply. “Mrs. Fitzwilliam liked me too much. Darcy’s not built for that kind of competition, especially when the other person comes out on top. It didn’t help that her father died when she was eleven, only a few months after her brother was born. A new baby in the family, a battle for her mother’s attention—a lot of drama unfolded. And there I was, an only child with two doting parents. I think she resented me from the beginning.”
Bennet shakes his head, trying to assimilate the information. “I didn’t think Darcy was as bad as that. I never liked her, sure, but she didn’t seem malicious—just sort of annoyed by humanity in general. I never imagined her capable of such cruelty.” He falls silent for a few moments of reflection, then continues, “That said, she did mention recently that she’s very good at holding a grudge.”
Georgia offers a shrug, which Bennet entirely understands. What can she possibly say on the subject?
“I just can’t wrap my head around how she could treat someone like you so awfully,” Bennet says. He resists the urge to add, “Someone who’s beautiful, sweet and kind.” Rather, he says, “Someone who’d been her friend since childhood.”
“We were raised together, virtually from the cradle,” Georgia explains. “My mother was the housekeeper at Pemberley, but she was more than that. She was Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s friend and confidante and when my mother got sick—she had kidney cancer—she volunteered to take care of me. She did so, I think, as much out of love for my mother as for me.”
“I’m shocked Darcy’s pride didn’t prevent the injustice. I would have honestly thought she’d be too proud to be dishonest.”
“Me too,” Georgia replies. “Almost everything she does can be traced back to pride. On the whole, I think it makes her a better person, but nobody’s behavior is entirely consistent and, clearly, in this situation, her dislike of me is stronger than anything else.”
“You really believe that? Her pride makes her better?”
Georgia shrugs. “It’s the reason she’s so tolerant and generous. She gives a lot of money to charity and is kind to the people who work for her, which she does out of a sense of pride in her family and a sense of what her mother deserves. She also takes pride in being a good sister, which makes her a kind and careful guardian of her brother.”
“What’s her brother like?”
Georgia shakes her heard. “I wish I could say friendly and outgoing because it kills me to say anything bad about a Fitzwilliam. But George is just like his sister—very, very proud. He was an adorable child, affectionate and sweet, and we got along really well. But we have no relationship now. He’s a handsome man—eighteen or nineteen, and, from what I’ve heard, very accomplished. Since his mother’s death, he’s lived in London.”
The waiter brings them the check, which Bennet immediately grabs. Georgia wrangles over paying her share, but he refuses to accept a dime.
“At least let me leave the tip,” she says, and when he steadfastly refuses her offers, she assures him that despite her claims to disappointment and penury, she makes a fairly decent living as a foot soldier in the Redcoat Design regiment.
He promises to let her pay the next time they go out, and as they walk to the subway, they discuss potential outings for that eventuality. Bowling is mentioned as a very strong contender, as is Coney Island. It’s still a bit chilly out, but the boardwalk is always a pleasure to stroll.
As they arrive at the train, Bennet can’t help bringing up Darcy one more time. “I just don’t get her relationship with Bingley. How can Bingley, who’s so friendly and outgoing and has an impish sense of humor, be friends with such a person? How can they stand each other? Do you know Bingley?”
“Not at all,” Georgia says.
“She’s lovely and charming. She must not know what Darcy is really like.”
“Probably not,” she concedes, “but that’s because Darcy can be delightful company if she thinks it’s worth her while. When she’s among people she deems her equals, she’s very different from when she’s around those she considers beneath her. She’s never not proud, but with other rich people, she’s tolerant, fair, sincere, open-minded, honorable, even agreeable.”
The subway rattles beneath them and Bennet realizes they can’t stand there all night talking—although, actually, they could, but not on a first date. He leans down and gives her a gentle kiss, which lasts just long enough for them to realize they’re blocking the entrance. Georgia laughs softly, brushes her lips against his and bids him good night as she slips through the turnstile to stand on the downtown platform for the train to Brooklyn. Bennet slides through the same turnstile but waits on the platform going the opposite way—uptown to Queens.
Georgia’s train arrives first and she smiles at him through the window as the car starts to move. A few minutes later, the Queens-bound train pulls into the station, and Bennet, his head full of Georgia, climbs on. He can think of nothing but her—and what she’s told him—all the way home.
CHAPTER TWELVE
On the afternoon of the Netherfield ball, Bennet and John are still talking about it—what Georgia Wickham said, what Darcy did, what Bingley knows.
John, whose astonishment and concern have not lessened in the week since he’d heard the story, can’t believe that Darcy could be so unworthy of Bingley’s affection. And yet it’s not in his nature to question the veracity of a young woman as likable as Georgia, and the possibility that she has endured such an injustice outrages him.
“You can’t keep defending both of them,” Bennet says on a frustrated sigh. “You have to concede that someone did something wrong.”
John, who’s heard this argument at least a dozen times, says, “Something is missing from the story. I don’t know what. Maybe they’ve both been lied to in some way. Someone with an agenda might have intentionally caused a misunderstanding. It’s impossible for us to know what actually happened.”
Aggravated by his brother’s determination to withhold judgment, Bennet growls, “And what about this devious scoundrel
with an agenda who might have intentionally caused a misunderstanding? Are you going to clear that person of wrongdoing, too, or am I allowed to think badly of him?”
John is not so easily provoked and says reasonably, “Ridiculing my opinion is not going to make me change it. I can’t believe Darcy would behave so callously to a woman who her mother treated like a daughter. To deprive her not just of the money, but the decent living it would have provided, is cruel. Nobody’s that mean and if they were, people would talk about it. You can’t hide immorality for long.”
“I can more easily believe Bingley has been duped by Darcy than Georgia made up the whole thing,” Bennet says. “She gave me names, facts, dates—all without fanfare. If none of it’s true, then Darcy should deny it. I’ll tell you why I believe it: because I saw the way Darcy looked at Georgia at the Longbourn. There’s no love lost there.”
“It’s complicated, and I truly don’t know what to think,” John admits.
“Then think what I tell you to think,” Bennet says.
But it’s not that easy for John, who knows only one thing: If Bingley has been misled by Darcy’s true nature, then she’ll be very upset when she learns the truth.
Unable to calmly contemplate Bingley’s distress, he pulls up the guest list from the party, double-checks the names and forwards the document to Sasha, the event organizer Bingley’s assistant hired to oversee the entire affair. Bennet, Meryton and he—as well as several other members of the Longbourn staff—are supposed to consider themselves guests at the party.
John appreciates the sentiment but knows it’s not possible. When one is surrounded by donors past, present and future, one doesn’t have the luxury of being something so innocuous as a party guest. As long as there are tempers to be smoothed and egos to be appeased, he’ll consider himself on the clock.
That said, he’ll accept with all due gratitude one of the extraordinary gift bags Sasha has assembled, leather satchels overflowing with designer jewelry, upscale perfume and small electronics. A typical Longbourn goody bag contains brochures of upcoming exhibitions, bookmarks with highlights from the collection and a pen from the gift shop. If it’s been a particularly good year for fundraising or a bad year for in-house merchandise sales, the gift shop might also throw in a mug with the museum’s logo.