by Lynn Messina
Bennet is stubborn, but he’s not cruel, and in the face of such desperation, he can do nothing but agree. He accepts the last deal on the table—extra vacation, raise, discounts, free mugs—and switches out Arbor Day for Flag Day because the weather’s much better in June than April.
John, who would never have returned without Bennet, is relieved by the restoration of the status quo and shows up bright and early the next morning to pick up where he left off. Aside from the few personal effects Meryton had mailed to his apartment, his desk is eerily untouched. His bottom drawer, which he’d been looking through when Meryton broke the news about Lydon, is still open.
Bennet is not as eager as his brother and he arrives at the Longbourn several minutes after ten-thirty, then stops at the café to order four coffees with his new discount. Only one is for himself; he drops two off in special events, lingering just long enough to explain his munificence and to annoy Meryton by arriving a little before eleven. He gives the last coffee to John.
Although being back at the Longbourn isn’t as awful as Bennet expects, it’s not without its weirdness. Colleague after colleague drops by the office to assure him and John they never for a moment doubted their innocence. Smiling politely, he gets through every uncomfortable encounter and by the end of the week, everything has returned to normal. His aunt and uncle’s cruise arrives back in New York, and John and he have dinner with them near their hotel.
He hears nothing from Darcy. He doesn’t really expect her to get in touch, and yet as he leaves the Gardiners at the Sheraton, he realizes that a tiny sliver of him had been convinced she’d call out of the blue to invite them all to dinner. The expectation was patently absurd, of course—even if Darcy hadn’t been appalled by his family’s public disgrace, she still wouldn’t have known when his aunt and uncle’s ship would arrive back in New York Harbor.
Lydon returns on the same day the Gardiners leave, having decided to extend his stay in London by a few days, as the U.S. government had been so kind as to provide him with lodgings and a small stipend to cover transportation and food. Indeed, he explains as Bennet tries to talk to him about responsibility, it would have been rude to refuse the generosity.
During the next two days, Lydon explains many things about his recent sojourn to London, and although Bennet makes repeated attempts to get a word of sense out of him, he resists answering direct questions. Bennet is so exhausted from listening to him prattle on, he’s actually grateful to return to the peace and quiet of the office on Monday morning.
His respite lasts all of forty-two minutes, for at ten o’clock on the dot—on the dot!—Lydon arrives to take up his post as the development department’s new full-time associate. Immediately upon entering, he shakes his head and says, “Ah, John, I should take your desk now because I’m the returning hero.”
Bennet feels the bile rise in his throat, but John calmly points to the chair by the window and tells him that seat is reserved for all returning heroes. Lydon scowls, Bennet bites back a scathing remark, and Meryton strolls in to welcome the returning hero with a bouquet of flowers, which he places on the folding tray table that will serve as Lydon’s desk until a more permanent solution can be arranged.
“Maintenance,” Meryton quickly assures him, “will bring by a proper desk later in the day or early tomorrow. Definitely by the start of next week.”
The temporary workstation is quite lacking in comfort and practicality, which would have been a problem had Lydon actually sat at it, but he doesn’t. Rather, he darts around the building visiting every department, including maintenance, tucked in what used to be the root cellar, to make sure the members of each team are provided with the opportunity to offer their congratulations and gratitude. Having applauded Lydon individually, the staff is invited to the museum’s café at 3 p.m. to appreciate him collectively at a bash hosted by Henry Cortland Longbourn himself and covered by the Forest Hills Times.
Standing under a banner that says, “Welcome home, Lydon,” Meryton quiets the room and raises a plastic flute of sparkling white win. “On behalf of Henry, the board of directors, the entire staff and myself, I would like to thank Lydon Bethle for saving the Longbourn at the risk of great personal harm to himself. The nobility of character he has demonstrated is precisely the sort I’d expect from myself but rarely see in others. Bravo on a job very well done. To Lydon!”
The gathered crowd, whose debt to Lydon now includes alcohol in the middle of the workday, drinks happily, and the inevitable calls for a speech fill the room. The guest of honor, who doesn’t need to be asked once, let alone twice, immediately takes center stage. Lydon is Lydon still—untamed, unabashed, wild, noisy and fearless—and his ten-minute speech is a tribute to all these characteristics.
“No, seriously,” Lydon says after his line about the awfulness of the FBI’s coffee gets a big laugh, “if I needed a reason to stay on the straight and narrow, government-grade java would be it.”
Bennet can’t bear it any longer. He gets up and walks out of the room.
The next morning, as Bennet is working quietly at his desk, Lydon says with insufferable self-importance, “I never gave you an account of my heroism. You were not there yesterday when I told Meryton and the whole museum about it. Aren’t you curious to hear how it was managed?”
“No,” Bennet replies. “The less said the better.”
Naturally, Lydon, who rests his hip on the edge of John’s desk because his own has been found insufficiently grand, laughs at this deflating comment and launches into an explanation of how and when he’d discovered Georgia’s infamy. The story has so many twists and turns, so many unexpected reveals, Bennet can’t imagine how any intelligent person could believe it, let alone an intelligence organization such as the FBI, and after several minutes of listening silently to the nonsensical blather, he says, “Bullshit!”
Lydon is surprised, as is John, who looks up from his computer.
“I don’t know how you managed it, Lydon, I really don’t,” he says, more tired than angry. “You somehow convinced the FBI that you’re not a thief and a liar, and I’m happy for you because you’re my brother and I love you and I don’t want you to spend the rest of your life rotting in a cell. But I know you’re guilty and you better hope the FBI doesn’t figure it out anytime soon because the statute of limitation on theft is a decade.”
“Look,” Lydon says, dropping some of his swagger, “I am relieved and grateful. I am, truly. Do you have any idea how terrifying it is to have the London police bust down your door? I almost shit my pants. That was the moment, man. That’s when the shit became real and I looked at Georgie and she was as white as a ghost and I knew. I knew she’d been fronting the whole time and had no grand plan and my freak-outs had freak-outs. But it’s over and everything’s all right. Darcy swore it was.”
“Darcy!” Bennet repeats in utter amazement.
Horrified, Lydon throws his hand over his mouth. Now he looks guilty. “Shit. I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone that Darcy was at the FBI office in London. It’s meant to be a secret.”
“If it’s a secret,” John says, “then don’t say anything else about it. We won’t ask you any questions.”
Although Bennet is burning with curiosity, John has left him no recourse but to follow him onto the high road. “Oh, certainly. No questions.”
“Thank you,” Lydon says.
Bennet puts it out of his head by returning to the letter he’s writing, but putting it entirely out of his head is beyond his capability, and by the end of the day, he feels as if he’s about to go mad. To remain ignorant on such a point is impossible, or, at least, it’s impossible not to try to get more information. Darcy had been in the FBI office in London—the very last place on earth he’d expect her to be. Possible explanations why, rapid and wild, flit through his brain, but the one he most wants to believe seems the least probable.
Unable to bear the suspense, he presents himself at 26 Federal Plaza at nine o’clock the next morning a
nd settles in for another vigil.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
From the couch in the FBI reception area, Bennet fills out a Freedom of Information Act request, while Ida peppers him with questions about John. Although it’s been almost two weeks, she’s yet to forget his high cheekbones and bright blue eyes, and wanting to see more of both, she’s trying to nail down a strategy for future contact.
“Does he go on Facebook a lot?” she asks. “I liked a bunch of photos he posted from Cape Cod, but I haven’t seen anything recently. Does he respond to messages? Is that the best way to get in touch? Or should I post something on his feed? Does he like animal videos? I saw an adorable one with a hepped-up baby goat leaping over his brothers and sisters.”
He’s spared the indignity of giving her dating advice by the appearance of Special Agent Tompkins, who greets him warmly and invites him back to his office. Bennet takes a seat, thanks him for his time and immediately requests an explanation of what Lydon has let slip.
“There’s no logical reason for Darcy Fitzwilliam to be involved in this case,” Bennet states forthrightly. “She has no connection to Lydon or to the Longbourn. She’s practically a stranger to all of us, so I can’t comprehend why she would be present in the London office while this was being dealt with. If it doesn’t violate any security clearances—and I don’t see how it could—I’d very grateful if you would tell me how and why she was involved.”
Because it’s the FBI, Bennet expects pushback for the sake of pushback. What secretive governmental organization ever revealed information without coercion? But Tompkins nods easily and explains that Ms. Fitzwilliam’s involvement has been crucial to the success of the operation.
“Or I should say operations, plural, because Ms. Fitzwilliam was coordinating with the Washington office to apprehend and arrest Ms. Wickham in an operation entirely unrelated to ours in New York. Ms. Fitzwilliam had long suspected Ms. Wickham of illegal acts but had no proof, so she worked with Associate Deputy Director Miller to set up your brother as dupe for Ms. Wickham. She believed your brother’s lowly position at the museum made him a likely target, a supposition that proved correct. As my team was called in after the fact by the museum to investigate the theft, we were not aware of the investigation already in progress, which is why there was so much confusion initially.”
Tompkins leans forward, causing his chair to squeak, and says, “I’m sure you understand why this information has not been released. Ms. Fitzwilliam is a public figure who values her privacy and she doesn’t want her name associated with the matter in any way. As I understand it, she only involved herself because she felt guilty about not having made Ms. Wickham’s true nature more generally known. Apparently, earlier dealings had given her a clear idea as to the extent of Ms. Wickham’s immorality, but she felt disclosing those matters was beneath her.”
Bennet doesn’t doubt that all the official documents connected to the case relate the same story and he knows Tompkins believes he’s telling the truth, but he recognizes grade-A bullshit when it’s shoveled in his direction. Darcy’s motivation sounds legitimate. She probably did go to such extraordinary lengths to extricate Lydon out of a sense of guilt. But the rest is pure fiction and he wonders how she pulled it off. Wealth buys influence, and status gains access. Perhaps Associate Deputy Director Miller is an old family friend. Perhaps he owes the Fitzwilliams a favor. Perhaps the Fitzwilliams now owe him a favor.
However the thing was managed, Bennet is beyond grateful for Darcy’s making the effort—and it was, he acknowledges, a great deal of effort. It cannot be easy to convince one of the highest-ranking law-enforcement officials in the country to alter the facts of an investigation. How mortifying it must have been for Darcy, who holds the truth in such high esteem, to ask an FBI agent to lie and doctor records in order to make it appear as if an operation were already in progress. It must go against everything she believes, and yet she made these huge moral compromises for a young man she doesn’t know and couldn’t possibly respect.
Bennet wants to believe she did it for him. Given their history, it doesn’t seem entirely implausible that some lingering sentiment spurred her to do what she could to fix a situation that had deeply upset him. But his vanity isn’t great enough to allow himself the compliment. Whatever Darcy feels for him now, the man who harshly scorned her affection, it couldn’t be equal to a good deed of this magnitude. No, she did it for the reason stated in the official documents: to assuage her guilt. Feeling she’d been wrong, she’d used the considerable means at her disposal to rectify her mistake. That she did puts Bennet—and, indeed, his entire family—in her debt, and he can’t conceive how they would repay her.
Daunted by an obligation too immense to ever reconcile, Bennet rises from the chair and thanks Tompkins for his candor. Thoughtfully, he strolls down the corridor, but as soon as he sees the unoccupied reception desk—thank goodness for Ida’s soy latte addiction sparing the need for further dating advice—he picks up his pace and makes a beeline for the stairs. Out on the street, he heads north on Lafayette until he hits a small park with benches and, his mind racing, he sits down to make sense of his feelings.
He’s overwhelmed, to be sure, by the magnitude of the debt, for he owes Lydon’s freedom, his future, everything to Darcy. With fresh horror, he recalls the harsh words with which he’d rejected her proposal and regrets every one. For himself, he’s humbled, but he’s proud of her—proud that she was able to get over herself and do something so kind and compassionate.
Bennet doesn’t know how to proceed. Unfamiliar with the protocol for thanking a woman for saving your brother from doing ten to fifteen in a federal penitentiary, he has no idea what the proper response is. Would a card be appropriate? Flowers? Should he send her a super casual email that only alludes to her remarkable kindness? That Darcy doesn’t want anyone to know about her actions has been made clear by Lydon and Tompkins, and yet he can’t simply let it slide. Something is required of him. If only he could figure out what.
He’s still considering the problem when he arrives at the office two hours later, but the news that Bingley is returning to the Netherfield immediately supplants it as the most consuming thought of the day. Meryton, quite in the fidgets, looks at John as he announces the news. Smiling, he explains that she’ll be in town shooting for several weeks.
“Shooting?” Bennet asks, not sure if he’s more amused or puzzled by the image of Bingley aiming a rifle at a flock of grouse.
“A movie,” Meryton says. “A minor part only and she’ll be playing a version of herself. I read about it on Deadline. She’ll be staying at the Netherfield. I’ve already confirmed it with the head of housekeeping. Mrs. Nicholls says she’ll be here on Thursday at the latest, very likely on Wednesday.”
John isn’t able to hear of her coming without changing color. It’s been many months since he has mentioned her name to Bennet, but now, as soon as they’re alone together, he says, “I saw you look at me when Meryton told us the news, and I know I seemed upset. But I wasn’t. I was just self-conscious because I knew you and Meryton and Lydon would look at me. I promise you, Bingley’s impending arrival doesn’t affect me in the least. I’m over it. Entirely. In fact, I was just emailing with Ida about rambunctious baby goats and I think I’ll ask her out for coffee. You remember Ida from the FBI office?”
“I do, yes,” Bennet says. “She was nice and we know she loves coffee.”
“Three soy lattes a day,” John says, laughing nervously as he looks down at his keyboard and returns to the report he’s writing.
Although John is trying to appear unruffled by the news, Bennet can easily perceive much ruffledness in the crease of his brow and the stilted way his fingers tap the keys. In his anxiety, he’s deleting more characters than he’s keeping. Bennet himself is unsure of what to make of Bingley’s return. He wants to attribute it to a desire to see John—either with her friend’s permission or in bold defiance of it—but the explanation of filming a movie is
a little too concrete to be just a pretext. Unwilling to embarrass his brother, he remains silent on the topic for the rest of the day, but at six o’clock, just as they’re about to walk out the door, Meryton pops into their office to remind John to send a gift basket to the Netherfield as soon as Bingley comes. “Our favorite committee chair must get a Gold Patrons Diamond welcome.”
With a darting glance at John, Bennet suggests it would be more prudent to give Bingley some time to get comfortable before they harass her with museum business. Naturally, harass isn’t the most prudent word to describe the enthusiastic and well-meaning contact of an esteemed institution such as the Longbourn, and Meryton settles into a twenty-minute lecture on etiquette, fundraising and abominable rudeness and ends on a trembling high note in which he resolves to invite her to dine there, in the trustees’ dining room.
“We must have Mrs. Long and the Gouldings soon,” he says, listing several high-value donors whom he hasn’t heard from in a while.
Consoled by this resolution, Meryton is better able to bear his staff’s stubborn refusal to agree unthinkingly with his every thought and notion and returns to his office to plan the menu.
He’s still planning the menu the next day. The simple meal has been become an elegant dinner party, with Henry bringing along his youngest grandson, the first of his generation to consent to visit the museum. Although Xavier Trunbull Longbourn has no more affection for the collection than his seven cousins, he has had, ever since the Netherfield ball, a mad crush on Bingley, and this alliance of well-connected, deep-pocketed young people strikes Meryton as the ideal solution to their problems. Now, whenever he mentions the returning heiress, he does so in tandem with Henry’s grandson, a development that has had the unfortunate side effect of slowly turning John ashen.