by Lynn Messina
After an unprecedented stretch of twenty-five minutes of silence, Collin says, “I’m happy—nay, eager—to serve the cause any way I can, but if you really want a return on your investment, you should send me into the field to charm rich old biddies. They love me.”
John doesn’t look up from his computer as he says, “The number one rule of development is, don’t call them rich old biddies.”
In the middle of folding a flier, Lydon looks up and says the proper term is loaded old crones. Then he snickers at his own joke.
“The trick,” Collin explains, “is to pretend they’re all Lady Catherine. Puff up their consequence with obsequious blather and they’re putty in your hands.”
Although Bennet doesn’t doubt that Collin’s upbringing gives him privileged access to the privileged, he’s equally sure he lacks the tact and temperament for wooing donors. After a few calls on their behalf, Collin would give so much offense to his aunt’s old biddy friends that Bennet can easily imagine all of them being tossed out of the Longbourn on their ears.
“You’re doing a great job with the mailing,” Bennet says.
Collin adds a stamp to an envelope, realizes he’s placed it in the wrong corner, and unable to remove it smoothly, throws both into the trash. “You show great wisdom in not trusting me, but you should at least let me have a crack at my aunt. She’s the linchpin. Get her and the rest of the DAR will fall over themselves to cut you a check.”
Bennet shrugs noncommittally, as if he’s actually considering the suggestion. In fact, the decision is not his to make; his purview is corporate giving. John’s in charge of individual gifts and Meryton is in charge of the museum. Still, Bennet doubts it’s a good idea to approach Lady Catherine, the one relative of Darcy’s who is, by all reports, even more insufferable than she is.
Although Bennet has directed the vast majority of his anger over Bingley’s abandonment at her brother Carl, he has yet to acquit her best friend of wrongdoing. He knows Darcy is in some way complicit; he just hasn’t figured out the extent of her involvement. Several times he’s been on the verge of asking Collin what he knows, but given how unhelpful he was with the Wickham matter—merely shrugging and saying nobody in the family likes to talk about that ugliness—he’s resisted the urge. The young man is either too discreet to discuss private family matters or too oblivious to provide useful information. Either way, he’s not a source to be tapped.
When Meryton enters the office a few minutes later, he’s surprised to see so many people working industriously in the small space and he pauses momentarily to take it all in before returning to his original purpose: preening over a contact he made at the Netherfield ball.
“I just had the most delightful conversation with Mrs. Everett Pokelberg, whose name you most likely know from the board of the Whitney, where she was a huge force behind moving the museum to the Meatpacking District.”
“Very rich old biddy,” Collin says under his breath.
“She was thoroughly charmed by us at the party,” Meryton continues. “Actually, in our conversation, she said she was charmed by me, but of course I would never take full credit for anything. She’s very interested in learning more about the Longbourn, and I’m going to her apartment on Park Avenue next week to discuss it further. As you know, her husband, Mr. Pokelberg, is a dry-cleaning magnate and jumped fourteen slots on the Billionaires Index in March after the introduction of a new line of earth-friendly chemicals. I’m sure she’ll be good for a donation in the mid five figures. Or,” he gasps as the numbers spiral dizzyingly in his head, “maybe even the low sixes.”
Lydon, who needs very little provocation to cease working, stands up and shakes Meryton’s hand with more enthusiasm than the moment requires. “Great work, sir. Really great. Maybe she’ll even go as high as the mid six figures. You have to dream big, sir. You taught me that.”
At this praise, Meryton swings from preening to basking. “Yes, well, sure,” he says, his eyes glowing brightly. “But if I am an excellent teacher, it’s only because you have proven to be an adept student.”
Adept is one word for it, Bennet thinks cynically.
“I must dash off a note to Bingley, alerting her to the connection and thanking her for her help,” Meryton says. Then he shakes his head decisively. “No, I’ll wait until she returns to New York and tell her in person.”
“Bingley’s not returning to New York,” Collin says as he puts a stamp—in the right place this time (huzzah!)—on another envelope.
“What?” Meryton asks.
“Bingley’s not coming back,” Collin says again. “She’s staying in Europe.”
Meryton shakes his head. “I don’t understand.”
“She bumped into an old boyfriend at a party in London, a college friend of Carl’s, I believe, and he’s invited her to his chateau in the Alps for July. They’re all going: Carl, Hurst, Lucy and Bingley. Maybe Darcy, too. I’m not entirely clear on the details.”
Although Collin has spelled out the young heiress’s intentions in clear, simple language, Meryton is unable to process it. “That’s all right. Bingley will supply all the details when she returns.”
Unaccustomed to Meryton’s particular brand of self-delusion, Collin tries again to make him understand the situation, but the executive director remains impervious to the truth. After all, Bingley is the chair of the Diamond Circle Patrons Committee and she has a very special relationship with the museum—wink, wink, John—and has promised to throw another event over the summer. Something more intimate. A lunch, he believes.
Collin darts a baffled look at Bennet, then turns back to Meryton to make a third attempt, but the little man runs into his office rather than be forced to accept an unbearable truth.
While Collin marvels over Meryton’s willful incomprehension—“Did that actually just happen?”—Bennet watches his brother struggle to keep his emotions in check. John blinks wildly, taking several deep breaths, and Bennet can only imagine how painful it is to hear the words.
It’s one thing to know what you know and another thing to know it.
Lydon laughs at some quip Collin makes and then says, “Hey, Bennet, you were dumped by your hottie, too, right?”
For once, Bennet is grateful for his youngest brother’s thoughtlessness because it keeps the focus off John. “Well, I’m not sure dumped is the right word. We only went out a few times and most of our dates were just coffee in the Longbourn café. It was hardly a thing. Still, whatever the thing was, it’s over. I believe she’s seeing a banker now.”
“Dissed for the financial sector,” Lydon says with an empathetic shake of the head. “You know that move was all about the Benjamins. It’s the guys with the money who get the girls.”
Bennet wants to protest his brother’s cynical interpretation of events, but part of him knows it’s true. A drudge in a provincial museum’s development department is never going to make as much money as a senior vice president at Goldman Sachs, and while he wouldn’t expect that to factor into the dating decisions of most modern women, he understands how it would for Georgia. Having been deprived of her dream one way, she’s determined to get it another. If that means marrying a man rich enough to let her paint all day, then so be it. He doesn’t blame her.
“I’m the guy with the money,” Collin says, “and I dearly hope I don’t get any of the girls.”
“More for me,” Lydon says with a grin. He looks down at the stack of envelopes filling the cardboard box as if seeing it for the first time, and struck by how much work they’ve already done, asks Collin if he wants to take a coffee break.
They’re gone in seconds, zipping out the door so quickly the fliers actually flutter in their wake, and Bennet waits a beat before saying to John, who’s been typing furiously for several minutes, “Let’s get a drink.”
John doesn’t break stride as he says, “Maybe later.”
Bennet sighs and watches him doggedly evade eye contact for entire minutes. Then he gets up and rea
ds the screen over his brother’s shoulder. It’s a Word document filled with the same sentence repeated over and over: The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog.
John stops typing, but he keeps his eyes determinedly ahead. “I will not pine,” he says with quiet dignity. “I’ll forget her and before long neither one of us will be able to recall what the big deal was.”
His brother knows this is patently false. John will pine and repine and even on occasion supine glumly on his bed in the silence of his apartment. And Bennet can do nothing about it.
“Let’s get a drink,” he says again.
Wearily, John gestures to his computer as if to imply he can’t interrupt his work, but he recognizes the futility of pointing to a screen filled with paragraph after paragraph of the same half dozen words and agrees to go.
Two hours later, when Meryton returns to ask when Bingley will be back in town, he’s surprised to find the office empty.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Having scotched Collin’s proposal to woo his aunt on the museum’s behalf in late June, Bennet finds himself agreeing to court her himself in mid-July.
He’s not entirely sure why he fell in with the plan, other than it’s hot in the city and John is in Cape Cod and Lydon’s constant complaints about the heat are getting on his nerves. Plus, Collin is persistent. He doesn’t so much as issue invitations as carpet bomb them. After an extended campaign, Bennet surrenders—yes, a weekend in the Hamptons would be a wonderful way to get away from the city and, sure, while he’s out there he may as well try to convince a wealthy patron of the arts to consider the Longbourn as an institution worthy of her attention.
In the moment, the logic had been irrefutable.
Now, as Collin leads him down the path to his country house, Bennet isn’t so sure the weekend is such a good idea, for it seems foolhardy indeed to believe that the woman who owns this sprawling seaside estate would welcome him with anything other than contempt.
“The formal gardens, set out in such perfect symmetry that not a rose dare bloom on the east walk without a bud on the west walk demonstrating equal boldness, were designed by Frederick Law Olmstead’s partner’s great-great-grandson,” Collin explains with withering pomposity. “The fields to the left, which extend for several acres, are pleasantly dotted with trees. There’s a clump of fifteen oaks, a clump of twelve walnuts, a clump of ten pines and a clever assortment of honeysuckle, forsythia and rhododendron.”
The walk from the road to the house is short, but Collin’s commentary, delivered with a minuteness that leaves beauty entirely behind, is long on details as he points out every view.
“Of all the views my garden or the country—no, the nation—can boast, none can be compared with the prospect of Rosings,” Collin continues in his self-important drawl as he gestures grandly to the stately home across the large field. “A handsome modern building, Rosings is well situated on rising ground. To its right, you’ll note the Atlantic Ocean, which Lady Catherine has positioned to perfectly align with the southern views from her second-floor bedroom window.”
Bennet chuckles. “Is the sunset her doing as well?”
Switching to his regular conversational tone, Collin says, “She’d be the first to give herself credit for it.”
Finally, they arrive at his house and Collin reaches into his pocket for the keys. “And this is the Parsonage,” he says, unlocking the door. He then leads Bennet to the parlor, and welcoming his guest to his humble abode, offers refreshments.
“How does a beer sound?” he asks, disappearing around a bend.
“Perfect,” Bennet calls.
A moment later, Collin returns with two bottles from a microbrewery in Montauk and a bowl of pretzels. “Sit down. Make yourself comfortable,” he says as he puts the beers on the coffee table. “I trust I don’t have to point out the neatness of the entrance?”
“As long as I don’t have to admire every article of furniture in the room,” Bennet says with a smile.
“Gawd, no, we’ll get plenty of that later at my aunt’s.”
“But it is a great house,” he adds, looking around with sincere admiration. It’s rather small but well built and convenient.
“It is, and I’m very grateful to have it. On special days, my aunt drives by in her silver Rolls,” he says, shifting effortlessly into his tone of excessive formality. “It’s a particular honor to rush to the window to observe her progression.”
Collin opens a window to let in the ocean breeze, and Bennet, listening to the breaking surf of the Atlantic, realizes he’s very happy to be there. All week, he’d been thinking of this trip only in terms of Lady Catherine—that is, an unpleasant work assignment he felt ethically, if not morally, obligated to accept. But now, as he takes a long sip of his beer, which is icy and crisp, he relishes the prospect of the weekend itself: the sun, the beach, the fresh air, the peace, the solitude.
“Thank you for inviting me,” he says.
“My pleasure,” Collin says as he sits in an oversize armchair. “I love flaunting my boyfriends in front of my aunt.”
“I’m not your boyfriend.”
Collin’s grin is as wide as it is mischievous. “Lady Catherine doesn’t know that.”
“I thought the point of the weekend was for me to pitch the Longbourn to your aunt,” Bennet says.
“That’s your point,” Collin says. “I’m here to administer my monthly dose of annoyance.”
It occurs to Bennet that their goals for the weekend are at cross-purposes, but he’d never be so churlish as to point that out. Furthermore, he doubts that Mrs. de Bourgh’s homophobia will be the deciding strike against the Longbourn.
Sadly, the Longbourn will be the deciding strike against the Longbourn.
They finish their beers in companionable silence, then Collin leads him upstairs to his room, hitting all the essentials along the way: bathroom, thermostat, linens.
“Towels are on the dresser,” Collin says, “and extra blankets are in the closet. I’ll leave you to get settled in. We’ve been summoned to the manor at eight for cocktails. We have to dress for dinner but don’t stress over your clothing selection. Just wear your best thing. My aunt won’t think less of you for being simply dressed. She likes to have the distinction of rank preserved.”
Bennet packed a lightweight gray suit for just such an occasion, and he takes a brief, absurd moment to wonder if dressing too well for dinner will be held against him.
The weather is lovely, so they have a pleasant walk across the field. Collin talks a little bit about his childhood and what it was like to grow up amid such luxurious surroundings, punctuating his tale by enumerating the windows in the front of the house and relating what the glazing had originally cost Sir Lewis de Bourgh.
“It goes without saying, I trust,” Collin says as they ascend the steps to the hall, “that old Uncle Lew wasn’t of the peerage either.”
The butler promptly shows them into the living room, and though they’re precisely on time, Lady Catherine takes them to task for being late.
“That’s my fault, darling,” Collin says in a tone somewhere between the high pomposity of his mockery and the easy informality of his conversation. “I was pointing out the fine proportion and delicately carved ornaments in the entrance hall and lost track of time in my rapture.”
Although this comment strikes Bennet as over the top, for who could utter the word rapture without at least a hint of ridicule, Collin’s aunt seems gratified by his excessive admiration and gives her nephew a most gracious smile.
After he introduces Bennet and the formalities are observed, they’re instructed to sit on the sofa in expectation of their other guests. While they wait, cocktails are not so much served as assigned, with their hostess deciding unilaterally what would suit them best, which is how Bennet winds up with a vodka tonic despite his dislike of clear liquor.
Lady Catherine, who is a tall, large woman, with strongly marked features, allocates a glass of champagne for he
rself, which strikes Bennet as unfair and yet somehow entirely fair. Her air, he discovers, is not conciliating, nor is her manner of receiving guests designed to make them feel comfortable. What Collin said is true: She likes to have the distinctions of rank preserved. From the moment Bennet enters the room, he knows he’s a vodka tonic and will always be a vodka tonic. Collin, for all his filial devotion and duty, is only a whiskey and soda.
Fascinated, Bennet leans back comfortably on the cushion and enjoys what he immediately thinks of as the “Lady Catherine Show,” for there’s little to be done in her presence but listen to her talk, which she does without intermission until dinner is served, delivering her opinion on every subject in so decisive a manner it proves that she’s not used to having her judgment contradicted.
Poor Collin! How familiarly and minutely she delves into his personal life, offering a great deal of advice as to the management of every minor detail. She finds no particular too small for her notice and she counsels him on where to stand on the train platform (at the western end of the green painted line), which train to take (5:43 p.m. on Sunday evening or the 6:31 on Monday morning) and how to store his train ticket in his wallet (in the front pocket with the corner tilting upward). Exhausting the matter of the Long Island Rail Road, though having meditated on the subject for an impressive sixteen minutes, she’s devoted more time to it in a single cocktail hour than the chairman of the MTA does in an entire week, she applies herself to meat preparation efforts. The subject is dear to her heart, and she provides a twelve-minute off-the-cuff tutorial on the proper procedure for handling poultry to avoid an outbreak of salmonella whilst cooking on one’s Alfresco LX2 stainless-steel grill.
It’s unclear whether she knows her nephew is a vegetarian, but it’s entirely apparent she considers such a state to be as injudicious a lifestyle choice as refusing to date members of the opposite sex.
Despite the onslaught—or, perhaps, because of it—Collin remains upbeat, good-naturedly acquiescing to every directive and even raising the level of detail as if trying to outdo her. When she tells him to pull milk at the grocery store from the row farthest from the front to ensure the most agreeable expiration date, he asks her the best technique for rearranging the milk cartons. To no one’s surprise she’s already considered this problem and suggests what she calls the sales clerk method, in which you ask a sales clerk to do it for you. Many of her solutions employ the clever contrivance of using other people, and Bennet, processing the depths of her highhandedness, realizes he’ll never be able to think of her in any terms other than the ones Collin has already established. Title or no title, she’ll always be Lady Catherine to him.