by Lynn Messina
Certainly not while there are muffins, butter and coffee.
A ring at the door startles him, and he reluctantly gets up to answer it. To his very great surprise, Darcy—and Darcy only—enters.
She seems astonished, too, on finding him alone and apologizes for the intrusion by explaining she’d thought Collin and Celia were there.
“Nope, just me,” Bennet replies, holding the door awkwardly for a moment before deciding to invite her in for coffee and muffins.
Darcy passes on the muffins because she’s already had a full breakfast, but she accepts the coffee and follows him into the kitchen, where they both sit at the little white table. Bennet asks after her aunt and, assured of her continued good health, says he enjoyed dinner very much.
The statement isn’t exactly true, but nor is it entirely false: The dinner was a compelling anthropological study, and he’s grateful he got to observe the de Bourghs in their natural habitat.
“I’m sure my aunt enjoyed having you,” Darcy says.
Bennet nods, takes a sip of his coffee and wonders if they’ll now descend into total silence. Searching for a topic, he recalls the last time they had met and decides there’s no reason not to appease his curiosity on the subject of her hasty departure.
“You all left the Netherfield very suddenly in April,” he says.
“Yes,” Darcy says.
The one-word answer is hardly satisfying. “Bingley must have been surprised to see you in London. She herself left only the day before. How is she?”
“Very well.”
Another helpful response! “Will she return to New York soon?”
“She hasn’t said anything one way or the other, but I think it’s unlikely she’ll be back in the foreseeable future. She has many friends and obligations in Europe. I think she’ll stay there.”
“As she’s not returning to New York, I suppose she’s effectively resigned as chair of the Golden Diamond Circle Advisory Board?” he asks. “It would be nice if she could inform John of her intentions so someone else can fill the position.”
If Darcy is aware of the subtext, she does not let on. “I’m sure she will.”
As it’s been almost three months since Bingley last contacted John, he knows Darcy is wrong. Feeling a renewed spurt of anger at the people who broke his brother’s heart, he resolves not to speak further. He’s afraid he might say something he’ll regret. Instead, he leaves the trouble of finding a subject to Darcy.
After a pause, she takes the hint. “Collin appears to be working out well at the Longbourn.”
“He actually is,” Bennet says with some surprise. “I had my concerns at first because he seems to view it as a great lark.”
“Collin views everything as a great lark,” she says. “It’s part of his charm.”
“He’s quite productive when he puts his mind to it. He’s shown an unexpected talent for stuffing envelopes,” he says, ruthlessly smothering the urge to call him a great proficient, “but his stamp placement is a work in progress.”
“He was always a very industrious castle builder when we came down here as children, taking great care about the placement of a turret or a window.”
“If his sand castles had windows, then he was very industrious indeed,” Bennet observes. “Any sand castle I’ve ever built was lucky to get a guard tower, and even that inevitably got knocked down by one brother or another.”
Darcy draws her chair a little toward him and says, “I’m glad Collin invited you out.”
Bennet looks surprised, and Darcy seems to experience some change of feeling. She draws back her chair, takes the newspaper from the table, and, glancing over it, says in a colder voice, “How do you like the Hamptons?”
A short conversation on the subject of the beach community ensues, on either side calm and concise, and is promptly ended by the entrance of Collin and Celia.
“Hello, hello,” Celia says cheerfully, brandishing a racket. “Gorgeous day for tennis. I’m raring to go. Who’s next? Collin’s wiped.”
Collin throws himself on the couch and drops his own tennis racket onto the floor. “Collin’s bored,” he corrects her. “I’m always up for a friendly game, but you play as if it’s war. You don’t have to crush me like an advancing army, you heartless colonel.”
“That was a friendly game,” Celia insists with a laugh. “What do you say, Darcy? You play twice a week, right? Let’s swat a few over the net.”
Darcy declines with a firm shake of her head. “I’m going down to the beach to read before it gets too hot.”
Celia turns to Bennet. “What about you? In the mood to get your butt kicked?”
He smiles. “Curious thing. I’m never in the mood to get my butt kicked.”
“Oh, come on. I’ll spot you thirty-love,” she says in a wheedling tone, and when that fails to move him, she adds, “I’ll play left-handed.”
Unable to resist the desperation, Bennet agrees. “But play properly. I don’t need your pity.”
“Yes, you do,” Collin calls from the living room.
Celia claps her hands and then grabs a bottle of cold water from the fridge and hands it to Bennet. “You’re going to need that. It gets hot on the court. Also, a racket. You can borrow Collin’s. Also, sunscreen. Have you put it on yet? I have some if you need.” She considers him silently for a moment, tipping her head to the right as she thinks. “You know what, you better change, too. Light colors or you’ll overheat too soon. Did you bring a white T-shirt?”
Collin laughs. “She’s fattening you up for the slaughter, son. It’s going to be a rout. You might as well surrender your troops now and save yourself the shin splints.”
“Don’t listen to him, Bennet,” Celia says. “A fine strapping lad like yourself? You’ll hold your own. Now hurry up and change.”
Amused, Bennet follows the colonel’s orders and runs upstairs, where he puts on a white concert tee and tan cotton shorts. On the matter of holding his own, he’s not entirely convinced he won’t humiliate himself. He played squash all through college and is decent with racket sports, but if Celia is as good as Collin says, then he should indeed prepare to get his butt kicked.
The tennis court is on the northern edge of the property, behind the garage and to the left of the swimming pool, amid a copse of evergreens. It’s a truly lovely spot, and he can easily imagine Collin effusively relating the age and needle count of each tree.
Colonel Fitzwilliam is every bit as punishing as Collin had said, and even though Bennet manages to hold his own during the first set, he goes down in flames in the second. Ultimately, it comes down to stamina. He simply doesn’t have the endurance to run around the court at top speed for an extended period in the oppressive heat, and that’s precisely what’s called for when playing Celia. She returns a ball to his dead zone every single time.
“You’re pretty good,” Celia says as they sit on the bench toweling off. She tosses him one of the bottles of water. “I was afraid you’d offer no challenge at all, but you’ve got great form and a strong serve. Did you play a lot growing up?”
He takes a long swill of the water and shakes his head. “Never. There was a lot of football during my formative years.”
“How very manly,” she observes with a light in her eye.
“Well, you know, the middle classes,” he says with an ironic shrug. “But I went to college in the South and mastering a racket sport was a distribution requirement.”
“Ah, a great liberal arts education. Nice.”
“I also learned how to throw clay on a potter’s wheel, another specialized life skill that will no doubt assist me in my rise up the corporate ladder.”
She squints at him in the sun. “But you work in a museum.”
“True. I’ve seemed to have missed my opportunity to make obscene amounts of money. Perhaps it’s not too late for me to start a hedge fund.”
“I plan to marry obscene amounts of money,” Celia announces without a speck of self-consciousne
ss, “so do let me know how that works out.”
Bennet gives her a sidelong glance. “You seem able-bodied. Is there any reason why you can’t join the twenty-first century and earn your own fortune?”
“Omigod, so many reasons,” she says, smiling. “Just thinking about them makes me exhausted, which should give you a hint as to my work ethic. I’m from the poor branch of the family—and, yes, I realize poor is a relative term, so don’t lecture me on self-denial and dependence—and running with Darcy has accustomed me to a certain lifestyle that would be difficult to sustain on your typical nine-to-five salary. Also, I’m not wage-slave material. I want the freedom to do what I want when I want. At the moment, I’m at Darcy’s disposal. She arranges things as she pleases and I say thank you.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who enjoys the power of doing what she likes when she likes more than Darcy.”
“She likes to have her own way very much,” Celia agrees, “but so do we all. It’s only that she has the means to make it happen because she’s rich and we’re not, an oversight I intend to rectify through an advantageous marriage. The Fitzwilliam name is very marketable. It was my grandfather, by the way, if you’re wondering how my branch of the family contrived to make itself poor. He cashed out of Fitzwilliam Company in 1954 to open a hula hoop factory, which did very well for a while and then went bust.”
“And what’s the going price of a Fitzwilliam? Being the granddaughter of a hula hoop tycoon must adversely affect your value—I suppose you can’t expect above fifteen million.”
Celia answers him in the same teasing tone, and the subject drops. Breaking the silence, which he fears might seem judgmental, Bennet compliments her tennis again and asks if she plays often and how frequently she gets out to the Hamptons and if she’d like to chair a social committee for the Longbourn. Their conversation flows just as easily as it had the night before.
Celia pretends to consider the social committee position seriously and asks a series of questions about her duties and responsibilities, ultimately deciding that it seems like far too much work for her to handle.
“The problem is Bingley,” Bennet announces. “We shouldn’t take her as your model. She was far more hands-on than any other heiress I’ve worked with. Let’s use Geraldine Livers instead. All she did was give us a dozen names to invite. She didn’t even come to the event.”
“Bingley?” Celia says. “As in Charlie Bingston?”
“Yes, do you know her?”
“I do. She’s a great friend of Darcy’s.”
“Oh, yes,” Bennet says drily. “Darcy is a wonderful friend to Bingley and takes excellent care of her.”
“Care of her,” Celia repeats thoughtfully. “Yes, I really believe Darcy does take care of her when it’s necessary. During the ride down, she told me something that makes me think Bingley owes her big time.”
“Oh?” Bennet asks.
“I’m only guessing it was Bingley; Darcy didn’t use names. But she was patting herself on the back for having saved a friend from making a terrible mistake with a man. As I said, she was vague on the details, and the only reason I suspect Bingley is it’s exactly the sort of scrape she’d get into. Just last year, she ran away to Mexico with a grifter who could perform some pretty neat magic tricks, though I don’t suppose you can call a grown woman using her own funds to travel ‘running away.’ But she does tend to jump in with both feet before considering the consequences.”
“Did Darcy tell you why the man was such a terrible mistake?”
“Oh, you know, not quite up to snuff.”
“How’d she break it off?”
Celia shrugs. “She didn’t say. She only told me what I’ve told you.”
Bennet says nothing, and too indignant to sit still, stands up and paces the court. Celia asks him why he’s suddenly so worked up. Then she tosses the tennis ball in the air and effortlessly catches it. “Wanna go another round?”
He shakes his head and says he’s thinking about the situation with Bingley. “Why is it Darcy’s decision whom Bingley loves? What gives her the right to dictate what should make her friend happy? Who made it her business?” he says angrily, then, realizing his response must seem over the top, adds, “But we don’t know the details so we really can’t judge. The couple probably didn’t feel very strongly about each other anyway.”
“A natural conclusion,” she says, “but it takes something away from my cousin’s triumph.”
Celia’s kidding, but the comment so accurately sums up Darcy that Bennet doesn’t trust himself to speak and abruptly changes the subject. They talk of inconsequential things as they gather their stuff and return to the Parsonage. There, Celia commends him again on his performance—“We just need to tweak your serve”—and says she’ll see him later.
After she leaves, Bennet sits on the couch with a cold glass of water and thinks about what he’s just learned. That Darcy had taken steps to separate Bingley and John, he’d never doubted, but he had always assumed it was at Carl’s instigation. Now he knows it’s Darcy and Darcy alone who’s responsible for his brother’s heartache. It’s Darcy who ruined his hopes of happiness.
“Not quite up to snuff,” Celia had said. And no doubt John’s snuff is inadequate, with his middle-class upbringing and his museum job and his—what had Lady Catherine called it last night—beggar-at-the-feast position. She was referring to his career as a fundraiser, but also to a deeper level of unworthiness. To people like Catherine de Bourgh and her niece, the Bethle brothers will always be supplicants, straining for attention they do not deserve. They should accept their place.
Bennet knows his understanding of the situation is accurate because to John himself there can’t be any objection. His brother has everything to recommend him: He’s kind, funny, smart, polite, independent and handsome. Darcy might cringe at the thought of the Longbourn’s obscurity or Meryton’s coarseness, but those things are too tangentially related to John to have weighed with Darcy. No, Darcy’s pride simply could not handle the idea of her friend marrying a man of no consequence from an insignificant town in lowly Michigan.
Angered beyond all reasonable thought, Bennet changes into a pair of nylon shorts and goes for a long, grueling run in the midday sun. The heat and the effort bring on a headache that grows steadily worse the longer he runs, and by the time he returns to the Parsonage, he’s ready to fall down on his bed and never rise again.
Collin calls hello from the kitchen and says his aunt has invited them for lunch.
“Can I take a pass?” Bennet asks, leaning against the wall as he wipes the sweat from his neck. “I think I pushed it a little too much today: tennis and the run. I’ve got a headache.”
“Lady Catherine will be rather displeased at your staying here,” Collins says, “but at the same time, she has more than two dozen recommendations for avoiding and treating headaches, so she’ll be delighted too. Prepare yourself to be bombarded with elixirs and poultices, which she’s sure to send over with a servant.”
“I can’t wait,” Bennet says and, deciding to get a jump on the parcel of treatments soon to arrive at his door, runs upstairs to take a shower.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Bennet realizes that scouring John’s Facebook page and rereading his vacation texts for hints of romantic suffering isn’t going to help lessen his anger at Darcy. The majority of the messages are short, containing only information relevant to the topic at hand, and while he can discern no pervasive sadness in the missives, neither can he find a sweeping happiness. They’re most revealing in what they lack, which is any mention of female company. Although it’s summer and the sight of John in a bathing suit attracts the opposite sex like flies, he hasn’t met a single woman in Cape Cod.
Disgusted again at how easily Darcy inflicted misery on his brother, Bennet drops the phone on the couch and goes into the kitchen to find something to eat. It’s been many hours and many miles since the bran muffin.
He’s opening a
jar of peanut butter when the doorbell sounds, and expecting Lady Catherine’s butler with a boxful of remedies, he opens the door.
To his utter amazement, he finds Darcy standing on the step. Slowly he opens the door to let her in. In a hurried manner, she immediately begins to ask about his headache, attributing her visit to concern about his health. He answers her with icy politeness. She sits down for a few moments, then gets up and walks around the room. Bennet is surprised but doesn’t say a word. After a silence of several minutes, Darcy comes toward him in an agitated manner.
“I can’t do it,” she mutters. “I’ve tried and I’ve tried, but I can’t hold in my feelings any longer. I admire you, Bennet. I admire you and love you.”
Bennet’s astonishment is beyond anything he’s ever experienced before. He stares, unable to even understand what she’s saying. Her words are like nonsensical syllables strung together in a children’s song.
Considering his stunned silence to be sufficient encouragement, Darcy launches into a declaration of all that she feels and has felt for several months. She speaks well—of his wit, of his intelligence, of his willingness to state his opinion freely without concern for consequences—and she speaks long, detailing the slow evolution of her feelings, the way her interest was sparked by the glint of humor in his eye and held by his audacity.
Only Darcy doesn’t stop there. Oh, no, she continues to talk and talk, and the insults begin to pile up: His father is an ambulance chaser; his uncle is a huckster; his boss is the most cringe-inducing human being she’s ever had the misfortune to meet.
“In many respects, I realize it’s unfair to hold you accountable for the behavior of others. It’s not your fault Mr. Meryton is an idiotic man who offends and appalls with his gauche displays,” she says reasonably. “But it’s also disingenuous to argue that we are unaffected by the people who surrounded us. We’re all judged by the company we keep, and although I never expected to keep such low company, it can’t be avoided. The heart wants what the heart wants. You’re not the brilliant match everyone expects of me. Indeed, you’re not the brilliant match I expect of myself. The nephew of a used-car salesman! He might as well be hawking snake oil.”