Prejudice & Pride

by Lynn Messina

  Bennet thinks it’s the other way around: The investment banker can do better.

  Lydon encourages his brothers to come to Brighton. “The sea air will do you good,” he insists, having already forgotten that they’ve both just returned from visits to the ocean. “Lots of vodka and bellinis. It’ll be a blast.”

  Bennet declines the invitation for several reasons, not in the least because he doesn’t want to see Georgia again. He can’t wait for her and her colleagues to be gone from the museum.

  But it turns out to be a long two weeks, with Georgia somehow showing up everywhere Bennet turns. She’s in the café having coffee or in the lobby waiting for a delivery or in the development department’s office chatting with Lydon. Although his manner is cool toward her, she flirts outrageously, seemingly determined to restore their relationship to its previous footing. She makes repeated references to earlier exchanges, dropping the word bobbin in conversation as if it’s a top-secret code rife with suggestion and twinkling brightly as she laughs. Bennet isn’t charmed by such idle and aggressive flirtation and can’t decide whose vanity she’s trying to appease: his or hers.

  Finally, the last day arrives, and Georgia, having coffee with Pen Harrington in the café, calls to Bennet to join them as soon as he enters the courtyard. He demurs with a shake of his head, which she finds insupportable and reproaches him for being elusive. “I’ve barely gotten to talk to you in weeks,” she says as she joins him in line. He orders a large black coffee; she gets an Earl Grey tea. “I haven’t heard a word about your visit to the Hamptons. How’d it go?”

  Bennet takes the cup from the barista and walks over to the side counter to get a sugar packet. Annoyed with Georgia’s refusal to take a hint, he says, “Better than expected. The weather was excellent and the beach is beautiful. Darcy was there with her cousin Celia. Do you know Celia?”

  Georgia looks surprised, displeased and alarmed, but after a moment’s hesitation, she smiles fondly and replies that she used to see her often. “She’s very nice.”

  “Yes,” Bennet agrees, stirring his coffee, “she’s very nice. Friendly and enthusiastic with a killer serve. She’s an excellent tennis player.”

  “Did you see much of her off the court?”

  “A fair amount.”

  “She’s very different from her cousin.”

  “Yes, very different. But it turns out Darcy improves on acquaintance.”

  Georgia is unable to suppress her surprise. “Really! Has she suddenly become friendly? Is she now being kind to strangers and small children? I’ll never believe,” she continues in a lower and more serious tone, “that she’s actually become nice.”

  “Oh, no,” Bennet says. “She’s the same person she always was.”

  The look on Georgia’s face is priceless. She clearly can’t decide whether she can trust the meaning of his words. Her eyes grow apprehensive and anxious when Bennet adds, “When I said she improves on acquaintance, I didn’t mean she actually improves. I just meant that knowing her better makes her behavior more understandable.”

  Georgia doesn’t like this because the implication is clear, and her cheeks darken noticeably. But ever the canny soldier, she takes a moment to regroup, then shakes off her embarrassment and launches an attack from another direction. “Well, I don’t have to tell you how impressed I am that Darcy has at least learned how to assume the appearance of basic decency. I suspect, however, that what you were seeing is what I call the Aunt Catherine Effect. She’s always been intimidated by her aunt and tends to behave much better when she’s around.”

  Bennet can’t repress a smile at this, but he answers with only a slight inclination of his head. He knows she wants to engage him on the old subject of her grievances, and he’s in no mood to indulge her. Instead, he tosses the sugar wrapper into the trash, tips his coffee cup in her direction and saunters off. She lets him go, as determined as he is, he imagines, to avoid another meeting.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Bennet is googling Bingley when his aunt and uncle arrive. Keeping cybertabs on her is something he’s been doing for six weeks now. At regular intervals, usually first thing in the morning, though sometimes not until after lunch, he’ll type her name in to see what new information is available. On Monday, she surfaced at a movie premiere in Cannes in the company of a dashing Frenchman called LeAillard—that’s it: just the one word all across. The guy won the Tour de France two years ago and now offers commentary on biking events on several European sports channels. He has jet-black hair and light gray eyes that are often hidden behind chic sunglasses. A brief item on Tattler identified them as “just friends,” but Bennet knows enough to be suspicious of that benign description, and he’s certainly not going to tell John the truth about Bingley while there’s a jet-black-haired biking champion on the scene.

  For more than a month, Bennet’s been looking for the moment to tell his brother the whole story, but every time it seems as if Bingley is free and unencumbered, another photo of her smiling next to a handsome man pops up. The more he googles, the more convinced he becomes that Bingley was always just a pipe dream. The universe she lives in—the private planes, the staff of servants, the dashing from high-profile event to high-profile event—is so far removed from John’s that the two of them would never have seriously made a go of it. As soon as they hooked up, they’d have realized their incompatibility. A flirtation doesn’t require compromise or the slow dissolution of one’s dignity.

  With these thoughts most forcefully in mind, he resolves once and for all not to tell John the truth about Bingley. As firm as his conviction is now, he knows in the morning he’ll google her again.

  Luckily, his aunt and uncle’s appearance means he doesn’t have to think about it anymore that night.

  “We’re late,” his Aunt Emily says as she knocks gently on the office door, which is open.

  Bennet immediately stands up to greet them. “Did you get lost?”

  His aunt shakes her head. “Our business ran long. You know how your uncle likes to chat.”

  Although the Gardiners flew into New York that morning to take a cruise to the Bahamas that leaves the next day, his uncle is constitutionally incapable of taking a vacation and arranged a full afternoon of meetings.

  “I’m a used-car salesman,” Edward explains. “Occupational hazard.”

  Laughing, Bennet gives him a warm hug. “You haven’t been on a lot in a dozen years.”

  His uncle scoffs at the notion of leaving the lot behind. “Once a used-car salesman, always a used-car salesman.”

  Aunt Em glances around the room thoughtfully. “So this is where you work. It’s not what I was expecting.”

  “More glamorous, eh?” Bennet asks with an amused grin. He puts his computer to sleep and takes his phone off the charger.

  “More cozy,” she replies tactfully.

  Bennet points to the wooden chair to the left of the door. “That’s Lydon’s office. It doesn’t look like much because, well, it isn’t much, but it hardly matters because he’s never here.”

  Uncle Edward notices Lydon isn’t there now, nor John. “Aren’t your brothers joining us for dinner?”

  “John’s at a patrons’ event he couldn’t wiggle out of, though, I assure you, he tried his hardest. He should be free around ten, so he’ll try to meet us for a drink at your hotel later.” Bennet tosses his phone into the front pocket of his messenger bag. “And Lydon’s in Brighton.”

  “England?” Aunt Em asks.

  “Beach,” Bennet clarifies. “He went to the birthday party for the daughter of some Russian oligarch last night. No,” he says before his aunt can even open her mouth, “don’t ask. He’s still out there. Apparently, it takes forty-eight hours to fête the daughter of a Russian oligarch, rather than the usual two to three. So you’re stuck with just me tonight. I hope that’s not a problem.”

  “Are you kidding?” his aunt says. “A one-on-one inquisition is my favorite conversation.”

 
Uncle Edward laughs. “You think she’s kidding, but let’s just see if she lets me get a word in edgewise.”

  Delighted with the pair, whom he doesn’t get to see nearly as much as he’d like, he says, “I can’t wait. Let me just make sure I’ve gotten everything. Phone, keys, wallet. Yep.” He looks out the windows and, noting how bright it still is, suggests a quick tour of the museum before they head out. “Our reservation isn’t until eight, so we have plenty of time.”

  Bennet’s throwing his messenger bag over his shoulder when Hannah strides into the office asking for one of John’s packets for individual donors. “You know the one I mean, right? It’s got lots of little pamphlets explaining all the levels of individual giving and a copy of the latest magazine?” she asks, her eyes sliding over to the Gardiners as if she’s just noticed them standing there. “I’m interrupting. I’m sorry.”

  Bennet assures her it’s all right and introduces her to his aunt and uncle.

  “You’re from Chicago, right?” Hannah says. “I’m sure John mentioned it. You’re taking a cruise from New York.”

  Emily grins widely. “We leave tomorrow for the Bahamas. We’re very excited. We’ve never been on a cruise before, and, of course, it’s a treat to see our nephews.”

  “I know you have dinner plans, so I’ll just take that packet and get out of your way.”

  Sliding open one of John’s desk drawers, Bennet says, “Why are you sending it out? Special events doesn’t usually deal with individual gifts.”

  “No, we don’t,” Hannah says with a grimace. “Meryton said he called your office and you didn’t pick up. He wants it to go out tonight. He had a real bee in his bonnet about it. Some new scheme he’s cooked up to reconnect with a former donor who somehow managed to slither off the hook.”

  “I’m sorry you got stuck with it,” he says sincerely but doesn’t volunteer to take over the task. He knows a dodged bullet when it whizzes over his head.

  She shrugs. “It’s no big deal. I’ll have to skip the gym, but Meryton signed off on a car because it’s a huge inconvenience for me to go to the Upper East Side. So there’s that.”

  Bennet finds the packet in the drawer, pulls it out and hands it to Hannah. “Who’s it for?”

  Hannah flips through the pages to make sure everything she needs is there and then looks up. “Darcy Fitzwilliam.”

  Bennet’s heart hitches—there’s no other way to explain the way it stops for the briefest pause before resuming its regular beat. “Cool,” he says.

  His aunt, however, is not nearly as nonchalant. “The Darcy Fitzwilliam?” she gasps, her eyes as round as saucers. “Of Pemberley? The mansion on Fifth Avenue? That’s where you’re dropping off the package?”

  “Yes,” Hannah says, her lips twitching.

  “Let us do it,” Aunt Em says suddenly and with surprising forcefulness.

  Hannah looks from Emily Gardiner to Bennet, unsure how to respond to such a request.

  Seeing the hesitation, Emily says, “Please let us do it. You can go to the gym like you planned. Take the car. We’ll grab a cab.” Now she turns to her nephew. “Please, Bennet, it would be such a treat.”

  “But Hannah’s only dropping it off,” he says, confused by his aunt’s interest. “She’s not staying for tea.”

  “I know,” she says, “but even a chance to glance into the foyer of such a mansion would be a privilege. Pemberley is supposed to be magnificent. The Discovery Channel did a whole show on it last year. All I want is a glimpse.”

  His uncle adds his support. “A glimpse won’t hurt anything.”

  At a loss, Bennet looks at Hannah, who shrugs. “Far be it for me to deprive a pair of vacationing Chicagoans of such an ardently desired treat. I’ll put this in the envelope with my letter asking her to pass the information on to Charlotte Bingston and meet you down in the lobby in five minutes.”

  Thrilled by the unexpected turn of events, Emily claps and, noticing her nephew’s distinct lack of enthusiasm, says, “My love, don’t you want to see a place you’ve heard so much about?”

  Bennet knows it’s unlikely he’ll see Darcy—even if she has returned from Europe, she’s hardly likely to answer the door of the huge house herself—but he still thinks he has no business going to Pemberley. “One famous mansion is very much like another,” he says cynically, “fine carpets, silk curtains, et cetera.”

  But he can’t deny his aunt the overwhelming joy of peering over the shoulder of the butler at Pemberley and agrees to the scheme. Confident that he won’t bump into Darcy, he admits silently that he’s curious to see the house where she grew up. Without further comment, Bennet closes the office door and leads his relatives to the lobby to wait for Hannah. A few minutes later she appears with an envelope beautifully addressed in extravagant script and after a brief argument over who should take the car waiting in front—“You take it,” “No, you take it”—they bundle into the elegant black car to drive into the city.

  To Pemberley we go, Bennet thinks.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  As determined as Bennet is not to gawk, his jaw drops a fraction of an inch as he stares at the large, handsome stone edifice that Darcy calls home. He’s seen the building before—has certainly walked by it on his way to the Central Park Zoo or up to the Met—but passing an imposing structure owned by a stranger and standing before one owned by a woman who once tried to court you are two entirely different things. Suddenly, the elegant but impersonal building seems oddly familiar.

  His aunt and uncle are effusive in their praise, and they stand on the sidewalk discussing the architecture for several minutes, marveling at how dignified and at home the building seems in its setting. Unlike other Gilded Age mansions, Pemberley’s not overwhelmed with crenellations and battlements, chimneys and rotundas. Its simple beauty wasn’t made outrageously elaborate by the awkward and unfortunate taste of a new millionaire trying to establish his eminence. The stately home was built only a few years after Vanderbilt House but aped none of its pretentions.

  While Bennet debates with his aunt who should have the honor of knocking, a pleasure they both equally believes belongs to the other, Uncle Edward presses the button to the left of the door. Everyone falls silent as they listen to the lovely ring of the chimes. After a moment, the door opens and a trim woman in a tailored gray suit and neat gray chignon opens the door. She’s holding a clipboard and glances up at the trio with piercing blue eyes.

  “Inspector or insurer?” she asks, stepping aside to let them in.

  The abrupt question, snappishly stated, as if they’ve already wasted too much of her time, disconcerts Bennet, and he hesitates on the threshold. His aunt, however, takes full advantage of the invitation and strides boldly into the house. Uncle Edward eagerly follows.

  “Neither,” Bennet says, stepping cautiously into the entry hall, a large, gracious room with golden marble and towering vases filled with brightly colored gladioli. “We have a delivery for Ms. Fitzwilliam.”

  “Deliveries on the table,” she announces briskly. “Where do I sign?”

  “I don’t—”

  Her phone chirps, and she cuts him off with her hand before answering the call. “Ms. Reynolds.” Silence for a few seconds. “No, I’m her executive assistant. You talk to me.”

  Bennet waits and feels silly for waiting. He doesn’t need a signature, so there’s no reason to linger.

  Ms. Reynolds holds up a finger, indicating he should give her a minute. The doorbell rings and she marches to the door, which she opens while barking “Excuse me!” into the phone. On the step stands a wiry man with thick black glasses and a harried expression. She looks him up and down. “Inspector or insurer?” she demands.

  The table for deliveries is a small console already piled high with envelopes, and Bennet carefully places his package on the top of the neat stack. He listens patiently as the new arrival complains at length about traffic on the FDR.

  Only, Bennet isn’t really patient. He’s agitated
by the grandeur all around him, by the lavish display of wealth and privilege that are Darcy’s daily life, and every passing second is a fresh temptation to see just a little bit more. He cranes his neck to get a better view of the hallway; he tilts his head to get a better look at the staircase.

  “A parking lot,” the man says, still angry and anxious from the ordeal. “Like a fucking parking lot. Nothing moved for almost an hour. It was probably that goddamn U.N. Some foreign dignitary wants to go to lunch so they shut down the entire east side for his fucking motorcade.”

  While the man rants and Bennet gapes, his aunt shrewdly sizes up the situation. In the scowling visage of Ms. Reynolds, she sees the opportunity of a lifetime, and when yet another person presents herself at the door, Emily Gardiner seizes the moment. Without a word to her husband or nephew, without even a glance indicating her intentions, she darts across the large entry hall, dashes down the long corridor and disappears around the bend.

  Bennet is stunned. Unable to believe his eyes, he stares at the empty space, trying to convince himself he did not just see his sane and otherwise trustworthy aunt sneak into the house of one of the richest women in New York City. It’s so shocking, it takes his breath away, and he turns to his uncle to make sure he saw it, too. But his uncle is no longer there. No, his other formerly sane relative is making his own hurried sprint across the floor.

  Cursing silently, Bennet glances at Ms. Reynolds, confirms her attention is elsewhere and runs after them. He finds them a few seconds later in an elegant sitting room next to the kitchen, giggling like schoolchildren.

  “What in God’s name were you thinking?” he asks, his voice a low hush. For all he knows, there are dozens of people in the house—assistants, servants, pipe inspectors, Fitzwilliams! He can’t conceive of anything more embarrassing than to be caught wandering around the halls of Pemberley.

  Struggling for composure, his aunt chokes out a partially coherent explanation about the house calling to her. It was as if Pemberley wanted her to come in. “I’m sorry,” she says, noticing how upset her nephew is. “I really am.”